"Where's Mia?" Her voice lashes at him, sharp and
demanding.
John smirks, lips curling as his gaze flicks to her
trembling eyes. "She's safe. Don't worry about her." His tone is slick,
confident, but the twitch in his jaw betrays the strain beneath it. If he'd
known a forced shift could break her spirit, he would have tried it long before
the blade and the bruises.
"You tortured me," she breathes, voice cracking as
anger bleeds through her fear. "You stabbed me. You, attacked me."
A sudden weight presses into the air. King Steffen's
eyes, black and unyielding, lock onto John. The dark glare strikes like iron,
and John falters, knees buckling under its invisible force.
She might be unwanted, unremarkable, a question he
hasn't yet answered, but she is bound to him. His mate. And that bond demands
protection, whether he wishes it or not.
"I, I'm sorry," John stammers, sweat prickling at
his temples as he scrambles for release. His hands tremble at his sides. "I
didn't know. I swear I didn't know she was your mate. I,I even had her
healed.."
The excuse tumbles out, thin and desperate, while
Steffen's gaze remains fixed, cold as stone.
'Healed?' The word scratches
at her thoughts, sharp and mocking.
' How can that be?' Wounds
like the ones he inflicted on me don't fade overnight. A stab like that… only a
miracle could've saved me. So how, how am I even alive?'
Her breath quickens. She presses her palm to her
stomach as if expecting to feel the tear, the ache, the raw sting of pain. But
there's nothing. No throb, no burn. Just silence beneath her skin.
Disbelief surges, and she yanks up the hem of her
top. Her eyes widen. Smooth flesh stares back at her, untouched, flawless, as
if his blade had never kissed her at all. Not even a scar. Not even a shadow.
Perfect.
"But… how?" Her voice cracks, panic swelling in her
chest. "I was gutted by you. What the freak is going on here?"
No. She felt it.She know she did. The fire of the
steel, the tearing, the scream caught in her throat, she didn't imagine that. She couldn't have
imagined that.
Her mind
spins, frantic. 'So why… why does my body look untouched,
like none of it ever happened?'
"Count yourself lucky." John's voice drips with
pride. "You're one of the few I've ever used my moon water on."
He straightens, shoulders lifting as though the
words themselves are a crown. "As famous as it is, only a handful have ever
tasted its power. Even my pack hasn't seen it. Only the important ones. The
chosen."
Her head snaps up, fury cutting through her haze.
"Don't speak like you did me a favor," she spits, voice trembling but fierce.
"You inflicted those wounds on me. You don't get to act like a savior. And what
even is moon water?"
As much as her body screams to run, her mind claws
for answers. What kind of water erases wounds like hers? .
He had carved into her skin, stabbed her. She should
be broken, bleeding, scarred… not whole
Her fingers
twitch at her side, aching to touch her skin again, to confirm the
impossibility of it. Whatever this "moon water" is, it
isn't a blessing, it's a chain.
One thing is for sure, the men in front of her are
anything but ordinary, a fact she knows with cold certainty. She wants nothing
more than to untangle herself from them, from this place. The thought alone
fuels her. She just needs an opening, a chance to find Mia, to get them both
out, to finally be free.
The heavy creak of leather boots pulls her attention
back. A man enters, bowing low, his voice crisp. "Your Majesty, the elders are
here."
Steffen doesn't spare her a glance. His cloak sweeps
behind him as he strides toward the towering doors, John trailing at his side.
The massive slabs of ironwood shudder before
groaning open, pulled apart by giants posted at each side. The doors swallow
them whole, closing with a thunderous echo that leaves her in silence, small
and alone in the vast chamber.
The hall stretches wide, its floor etched with eight
great chairs, each carved to mimic the jagged grace of meteor rock. Shadows
dance across the stone, cast by the faint blue glow seeping from crystal
sconces along the walls.
On one side, Lady Mas reclines elegantly, her sharp
eyes glinting beneath a veil of midnight silk. Across from her sits Mistress Lily's
and Lucy to those daring enough to test her temper. Time has touched neither
woman harshly; their beauty, burnished by decades, gleams as though age itself
has bent to their potions and bloodlines.
"Lady Mas," John croons, sweeping low before her and
pressing a gallant kiss to her hand. His grin hooks sly at the corner of his
mouth as he rises. "Radiant, as always."
He pivots smoothly, his charm flowing as easily as
wine. "And Lucy, my Lucy, still not a day over twenty." His wink is quick, his
voice coated in mischief as he saunters toward his seat.
"Oh, please, Johnny boy," Lady Mas scoffs, her
laughter sharp enough to slice through the tension in the room. "That must be a
sick joke. She knows she's anything but a beauty under twenty. With that face,
she could pass for someone's grandmother."
The insult lands,exactly as she intended.
Gasps ripple across the table. Lucy's lips tighten,
her knuckles whitening around her chair arm.
"I could say the same to you," Lucy shoots back,
tilting her chin, eyes glinting with defiance. "Strip away the spells and
potions, and you'd look like a stray dog in winter. My beauty's natural, yours
is a bargain at best."
A few of the others shift uncomfortably, torn
between amusement and fear. Lucy's red dress clings to her like a flame
refusing to die. The high slit reveals long, toned legs, a reminder that for a
woman well past her first century, she wore her years like a secret.
Lady Mas's nostrils flare. "You old hag!" she spits, hand rising as whispers of
ancient words coil beneath her breath.
But before the air can thicken with power, a voice
slices through it.
"Enough."
The word strikes like thunder.
All heads turn toward Steffen, seated at the head of the obsidian table. His expression is carved
from stone, cold, unreadable. Even the candles seem to shrink before his gaze.
He folds his hands. "You all must know by now," he
says, voice low but carrying, "a girl bears my mark."
A collective hush sweeps through the room.
Paul clears his throat. "We've heard," he admits,
his gaze flicking to his wife beside him. She sits motionless in her
wheelchair, her once-commanding aura dimmed. The battle with the prophecy child
had stolen more than her legs, it had stolen her laughter. No spell, no witch,
no healer could return what was taken. Yet Paul's hand rests gently on hers,
his devotion unwavering.
"Have you interrogated her?" a new voice asks,
smooth and measured.
All eyes drift to the man in the tailored black
suit. He doesn't need to speak his lineage, it hums in the air around him. A
mortal by scent, divine by blood. Suleiman the Eighth, last of the great king's descendants. Power clings to him like
perfume, ancient and expensive.
Steffen's gaze hardens. "Not yet."
"Never in recorded history has anything like this
happened," Lady Mas says, her voice trembling between curiosity and disbelief.
Her eyes narrow at Steffen. "Are you certain you didn't mark her…
unintentionally?"
The words barely leave her lips before the air
thickens.
A force, silent but merciless, slams into her chest.
Her breath catches. Blue sparks dance across her skin as if lightning has
chosen her veins for a home. She claws at her throat, choking on air that won't
come.
"Or she's wrong," John cuts in quickly, breaking the
invisible hold. His tone is calm, but his pulse hammers. He knows too well the
danger of that gaze, the king's darkness burns through flesh and thought alike,
crushing all that defies him.
Lady Mas collapses back into her seat, gasping,
color draining from her face. She coughs once, twice, and finally manages, "I, was
wrong." The words taste like ash.
No one laughs this time.
Mistress Lily leans forward, her silver rings
glinting under the candlelight. "This girl," she says softly. "Is she… human?"
"Of course she's human," John replies. His jaw
tightens. "And a stubborn one."
For a fleeting moment, the image of Ella flashes before him, her defiance, her fire,
but he buries it fast. She's the king's mate. Nothing
more.
"That's impossible," Rose snaps, disbelief curling
her lip. "Our ancestors never took human mates. The bloodlines of the first
wolves were sacred, pure. And you expect us to believe a mortal girl bears his
mark?"
John exhales, rubbing his temple. "Believe whatever
helps you sleep. But I saw it. With my own eyes." He glances toward Steffen.
"She touched the moonstone. And she lived."
A wave of shock rolls through the table. Even the
fire seems to falter.
Lady Mas's eyes widen. "The moonstone?" she
whispers. "That's not possible. Even we, witches, sorcerers,can't touch it
without blistering to the bone."
Her envy flickers like heat beneath her words. For
years, she'd craved the stone's power. And now, a human
girl had done what centuries of magic could not.
"If that's true," Paul says grimly, voice low and
heavy, "then she's more dangerous than you realize. Before she becomes a
threat, we should end her."
The statement drops like a blade on marble.
Silence follows, cold, accusing.
"We can't just kill her," Mistress Lily protests.
"She's done nothing."
Paul's gaze snaps toward her. "Nothing? She's
already broken laws of nature itself! No human touches the moonstone and lives.
That power doesn't belong to her."
Lady Mas lets out a humorless laugh. "So your grand
plan is to kill her because you're afraid? Tell me, Paul, how will you find
your answers if the girl's in the ground?"
He grits his teeth. "And if she's not just an
accident? If she's something else, something made to destroy us?"
"Then we deal with her when that time comes," Lady
Mas counters. "But not before."
The argument simmers, power sparking faintly between
them, until Steffen rises.
"Enough."
The command hums through the air, heavy with
dominance. The room obeys instantly.
"She will not be killed," he says, voice calm but
final. "She stays with me. Until I know how she carries my mark, she's under my
protection."
The fire in the hearth flares as if in agreement. No
one dares to breathe too loud.
Across the table, Suleiman stands, adjusting his
cufflinks. "Since the matter's settled," he murmurs, "I'll take my leave."
He exits without another word.
Outside, the night air greets him like a silent
accomplice. He slips into his sleek black car, dials a number, no name saved,
only digits memorized.
"She's alive," he says quietly, eyes fixed on the
dark horizon. "And she's been caught."
A pause.
Then, faintly, a woman's voice crackles through the
line. "Good. Don't lose her again."
Suleiman's lips curl into a faint smile as the
convoy's engines roar to life.
The hunt, it seems, has only just begun.