IRIS
The days that followed were a blur of tense strategy sessions and a fragile, unspoken truce with Kaelen. The information from Valerius and the offer of aid from Elena Sterling had shifted the dynamic irrevocably. We were no longer just a king and his problematic bond-mate; we were a strategic unit. The war room, with its sprawling maps and grim-faced Lycan commanders, had become our neutral ground. Here, we were not a man and a woman tangled in a web of desire and betrayal, but a commander and his most powerful, if volatile, asset. And I found, to my own surprise, that I was good at it. My mind, which had once been focused on the delicate balance of botanical ingredients, now reveled in the intricate dance of troop movements and political leverage.
But the personal space between us remained a minefield. We ate together, we planned together, we lived in the same chambers, a constant, simmering awareness of each other a thrumming undercurrent to everything. The memory of the kiss in the negotiation cage was a ghost in the room, a heat that never truly dissipated. We never spoke of it. He never tried to touch me again, and I never encouraged him. It was a silent, mutual agreement to ignore the proverbial elephant in the room—an elephant that smelled of ozone, desire, and raw, untamed magic.
Isolde’s name was never mentioned. Her presence, however, lingered like a foul perfume. I knew she was still in the stronghold, a venomous snake waiting in the shadows. And I knew, with a cold, certain dread, that she would not simply disappear. She would not accept her banishment with quiet dignity. It wasn't in her nature.
My opportunity for a quiet, private conversation with Elara never came. The connection to the scrying stone felt blocked, not by Kaelen, but by a strange, oppressive energy that seemed to hang over the entire stronghold like a shroud. It was the weight of the coming battle, a prelude to the storm that was about to break. I was on my own.
And so, when the invitation arrived for the first formal Council dinner since my binding, I saw it for what it was: a stage. A battlefield of a different sort. The heavy, cream-colored parchment was embossed with the sigil of the Triumvirate, a symbol of the very order Marius sought to destroy. It was a command performance. A chance for everyone to see the Lycan King and his Moon Witch, to assess our strength, our unity, our weakness.
I found the dress laid out on my bed. It was not one of my practical wool tunics or the comfortable leathers I had adopted. It was a gown. A creation of deep emerald silk that clung to the body before falling in a soft pool to the floor. It was beautiful, elegant, and felt like a costume designed to strip me of my identity and turn me into a decorative asset. It was Isolde’s influence, I was sure of it. A final, petty act of spite.
I stared at it, a cold, hard knot of defiance tightening in my gut. I would not be her puppet. I would not be paraded in a dress she had likely chosen to make me feel like a pale imitation of a Fae noblewoman. My gaze fell on the heap of Kaelen’s training clothes in the corner, the dark, durable fabrics a stark contrast to the shimmering silk on the bed. An idea, reckless and dangerous, began to form in my mind. It was a declaration of war. A personal, intimate, and utterly public declaration.
I bathed, the scent of lavender and soap a familiar comfort, but my mind was racing. I wasn’t just getting ready for a dinner. I was arming myself. I dressed not in the emerald gown, but in my own leather trousers and a simple, black silk tunic. It was elegant in its own right, but it was my style. It was practical, strong, and unapologetically me. Then, I walked to the corner and picked up the shirt from the top of the pile. It was a simple, black training shirt, made of a soft, worn cotton. It smelled of him—of pine, of sweat, of the clean, masculine scent that was both a torment and an anchor.
I pulled it on over my silk tunic. The fabric was soft against my skin, but it felt like wearing a suit of armor. It was too big, the sleeves falling past my hands, the hem hiding the top of my trousers. I rolled the cuffs up, a deliberate, casual gesture. Then, I lifted the collar and buried my nose in it, inhaling his scent deeply. It was a bold, brazen act of scent-marking. I was covering myself in his smell, erasing Isolde’s phantom presence, claiming him in a way that was far more intimate, and far more defiant, than any public claiming bite.
When I walked into the main chamber, Kaelen was standing by the hearth, already dressed in formal black attire that was severe and breathtakingly regal. He turned as I entered, and his eyes, the color of a winter storm, widened almost imperceptibly. His gaze swept over me, taking in the leather trousers, the black tunic, and finally, his own shirt layered over the top. His jaw tightened, a muscle feathering in his cheek. He didn’t say a word, but I could feel the shock through the bond, a sharp, electric jolt that was quickly followed by a low, dark, and intensely possessive thrum of approval.
“Isolde will be furious,” I said, my voice cool and calm, belying the frantic beating of my own heart.
“Let her be,” he growled, his voice a low, rough rumble. His eyes were locked on the collar of his shirt, where it rested against my neck. The possessiveness rolling off him was a palpable force, a dark, primal wave that made my own body respond with a traitorous, aching heat. “You wear it better than she ever did.”
The statement, so simple, so direct, was a victory more profound than any argument I could have won. He hadn’t just accepted my defiance; he had endorsed it.
The Council Hall was a spectacle of light and power. The cavernous room was filled with representatives from every faction, their rich robes and sharp uniforms a sea of color against the ancient stone. The air hummed with a hundred different conversations, with the crackle of political tension and the subtle, dangerous scent of magic. We made our entrance, and a hush, immediate and absolute, fell over the crowd. All eyes turned to us.
Kaelen’s hand was a firm, warm brand at the small of my back, a proprietary touch that was both a cage and a shield. He guided me not to the main head table, but to a slightly smaller, yet equally prominent, one at the front. It was a statement. We were a unit, a power bloc of our own.
And then I saw her. Isolde.
She was seated at a table with other Fae nobles, a vision of ethereal, venomous beauty. She was wearing a gown of shimmering silver, and her blonde hair was braided with tiny, glowing crystals. But it was what she was wearing over the gown that made my blood run cold. It was a shirt. A man’s training shirt. It was identical in style to the one I was wearing, a dark, masculine garment that was artfully, and very publicly, draped over her shoulders like a sash. It was his. I knew it with a certainty that was as instinctive as breathing. And she had clearly planned this, a direct, provocative counter to whatever she might have heard I was planning.
Her amber eyes met mine across the crowded room, and a slow, triumphant smile touched her lips. She raised a glass of ruby liquid in a silent, mocking toast. The challenge was thrown. A public battle of who held the king’s favor, waged with his own discarded clothing.
I felt Kaelen’s entire body go rigid beside me. His hand, which had been resting on my back, tightened, his fingers digging into my silk tunic. A low, dangerous growl rumbled in his chest, a sound that was felt more than heard. He had seen. And he was not pleased.
I didn’t look at him. My gaze was locked on Isolde. I felt a surge of wild, reckless power rise up in me, the cool, silver energy of the moon magic that was now a part of my very blood. I wanted to incinerate that smug smile from her face. I wanted to make her regret ever touching what was mine.
But I didn’t. I took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing the power down. I would not give her the satisfaction of a public magical outburst. I would fight her on her own terms. On the field of public perception.
I turned my head, my movements slow and deliberate, and looked up at Kaelen. His face was a cold, hard mask of fury, his silver eyes burning with a possessive rage that was a terrifying, beautiful sight. But he wasn’t looking at Isolde. His gaze was locked on me, on the collar of his shirt against my skin.
I reached up and slowly, deliberately, adjusted the collar. My fingers brushed against the sensitive skin of my neck, right over the mark of his claiming bite. The gesture was small, intimate, and screamed of ownership. It was a silent, public acknowledgment of his claim on me.
His gaze met mine. The air between us, across the crowded hall, crackled. It was a combustible, charged silence that was more intimate, more intense, than any kiss. It was a silent conversation, a battle of wills waged with nothing but a look.
His eyes darkened, the silver swallowed by a black, feral heat. His lips parted slightly, and I saw the tip of his tongue trace his lower lip, a subconscious, primal gesture. He wasn’t just looking at me. He was devouring me with his eyes. He was imagining peeling that shirt from my body, layer by layer, right here in front of everyone. The thought was so clear, so potent through the bond, that a hot, aching flush spread through my entire body.
I held his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. Let her watch. Let the entire Council watch. Let them see that this was not a political bond. This was a primal, territorial claim. The shirt I wore was not a costume; it was a banner. And I was waving it with pride.
A slow, dangerous smile touched Kaelen’s lips. It was not a smile of amusement. It was the smile of a predator who had just seen his mate challenge a rival and win. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. A gesture of profound, soul-deep approval. It was a promise. A promise that tonight, after the politics, after the posturing, there would only be us. Only the shirt, the scent, and the raw, untamed need that simmered between us like a volcano ready to erupt.
Finally, I broke the stare-down and turned my gaze back to Isolde. Her triumphant smile had vanished. It had been replaced by a look of cold, shocked fury. She had expected me to be humiliated, to run from the room in tears. She had not expected this. She had not expected me to turn her own weapon against her, to claim his scent so publicly, so boldly. She had not expected his reaction, his utter, public dismissal of her in favor of me.
I gave her a small, sweet, and utterly venomous smile of my own. A silent, clear message: *He is mine. And you are nothing.*
Kaelen’s hand moved from my back to my shoulder, his grip firm and possessive. He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice a low, intimate rumble that was for me alone. “You have no idea what that look just did to me.”
A shiver, pure and undiluted, traced its way down my spine. “I think I have some idea,” I whispered back, my voice a husky, breathless sound I barely recognized.
He straightened up, but his hand remained on my shoulder, a public brand of ownership. The hall was still buzzing, but it was a different kind of buzz now. It was the sound of a new power dynamic being forged in the fires of public desire and possessive rage. The rival’s shirt was a forgotten rag. My shirt was a banner. And tonight, for the first time, I felt less like a captive in a gilded cage and more like a queen standing beside her king, ready to burn the world down around them.