Chapter Thirteen
Raina POV
I've never felt more nervous in my life.
I stand in front of the building, shoes clicking softly against the old stone pavement. The structure before me doesn't fit into the glass-and-steel cityscape of Berlin. No, Alden buildings never do. There's something surreal about them—twisting vines over gothic balconies, enchanted lanterns that glow even in sunlight, architecture that belongs in some enchanted forest rather than a European capital.
It looks like a fairytale house someone dragged into reality. A fairytale with bite.
This is the Alden Headquarters in Europe.
Mirelle Alden is rumored to be here, which is rare. She's a phantom, never staying in one place long. Her office changes by the week. No fixed address. No digital trail. The only consistency is that she leaves fire in her wake—figuratively and sometimes literally.
I walk up to the grand wooden doors. As they swing open, I'm greeted by the front desk—and the woman manning it.
An elf. No doubt. Sharp, unearthly beauty. High cheekbones, pointed ears, silver eyes that flick to mine and then narrow.
"Hello," I say with measured politeness.
Her lips curl into something polite.
"Welcome to Alden Europe. How may I assist—" She pauses, registering my face. Her expression falters. Eyes narrow. Her voice loses its warmth.
"Ms. Langston."
The pause is expected. Understandable, even.
"I'm here to see Mirelle Alden," I say, standing straighter.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asks, already knowing the answer.
"I don't."
Her lips twitch. "Then I'm afraid—"
"Trust me," I say, lowering my voice.
"I wouldn't want to be here either. But it's important. Please call her."
I hate how it sounds. Like a threat. Like him.
The receptionist holds my gaze, then picks up the phone. A hushed conversation. A pause.
"She'll see you," she says, not hiding her surprise.
"Follow me."
She leads me past carved wooden halls and a wall of stained glass windows that throw strange colored light across the floor. We stop in front of a tall bookshelf. She presses her hand to a rune carved into the wood. The bookshelf clicks and opens—an elevator hidden inside.
Of course it is.
We ascend in silence. The elf doesn't say another word.
At the top floor, the elevator opens into a hallway lined with sconces and paintings. She walks ahead and stops before two polished mahogany doors. She knocks once, opens them slightly, and gestures me through.
The office is breathtaking. Bookshelves stretch to the ceiling, walls lined with old maps and magical charts. A fire crackles in the hearth. In the center of the room is a long polished table covered in neatly arranged documents and a crystal decanter of deep red wine.
But it's the figure at the window who makes my breath catch.
Mirelle Alden.
She turns slowly. Wearing a fitted pinstripe suit, black on black, with subtle gold detailing. Her long dark hair is tied back, sleek and efficient. Blue eyes like cold flame glance over me, unimpressed.
"Thank you for seeing me," I manage, trying to keep my voice even.
"You didn't give me much choice," she replies smoothly.
"You show up unannounced. You're not exactly a welcome figure among my people."
"I know," I say.
"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."
"Oh? So what urgent policy does the Hunter Association want to shove down our throats this time?" Her lips curl.
"Another restriction on mana weapon ownership? A new tax on our territory?"
I take a breath.
"I'm not here on behalf of the Association. This is personal."
Her eyebrow lifts. She walks to the table, leans against it, arms crossed. Her entire energy shifts—no longer the professional public figure.
This is the real Mirelle Alden: arrogant, narcissistic,smug, sharp, and absolutely insufferable.
"But we don't have anything personal to talk about, little Miss Puppet."
I clench my fists. I want to snap. I bite my tongue instead.
"Nothing to say?" she taunts.
"Then I suppose we're done here."
"I need your help," I say quickly.
She snorts.
"You need my help. That's funny. Last time we spoke, you accused me of endangering civilians in Prague. Before that, you tried to block our funding in Geneva."
"I was doing my job."
"Were you? Or were you parroting your uncle's talking points?"
My hand clenches tighter.
She sees it. Smiles. Not kindly.
"Tell me, Raina Langston, when exactly did you grow a conscience?"
I flinch. I have done some unsavory things under my uncle's orders.
"This is personal," I repeat.
She tilts her head.
"Concerning… that night."
For the third time, her demeanor changes. Now she's curious.
"Ah," she says, sauntering closer. "That night."
She's taller. She always has been. She toys with one of my braids between her fingers, then lets it drop.
"Last thing I remember, you said something like, 'It was a mistake,' something something, 'never again,' something something, 'pretend it never happened.'"
My throat tightens.
"So what's this?" she asks, too close.
"Marry me."
She blinks. Actually steps back.
She laughs.
"I know I rocked your world and ruined you for other lovers but marriage? Come on. I'm twenty-two."
"I'm pregnant."