IRIS
The days that followed were a strange, fragile peace. The world outside our chambers was a maelstrom of preparation—Ronan coordinating patrols, messengers coming and going with sealed reports, the entire stronghold buzzing with the tense energy of a kingdom on the brink of war. But inside our rooms, a new, quiet world was being built. It was a world built on shared meals, easy silences, and the simple, profound comfort of waking up in his arms. We were learning each other, not as captor and captive, or as a king and his asset, but as two people. Two flawed, broken people who were finding, in each other, a way to be whole.
My side was healing, the angry red gash now a faint, silver line, a mirror to the mark on his back. My magic was returning, not as a wild, untamed thing, but as a quiet, steady river of power that I was slowly learning to navigate. Kaelen was my anchor in that learning, his Lycan presence a grounding force that helped me focus the moon energy instead of being swept away by it.
I was in the library, a vast, cavernous room that smelled of old leather, dust, and the faint, sharp scent of Kaelen that clung to everything he owned. I was tracing the lines of an ancient map of the supernatural territories, my mind trying to piece together the puzzle of the Sepulcher of the First Blood, when the scent hit me. It was a cloying, overly sweet perfume of night-blooming jasmine, a scent that was instantly, poisonously familiar. Isolde.
I didn't turn around. I kept my eyes fixed on the map, my body tensing, a silent, instinctual preparation for a battle. "If you're looking for Kaelen, he's in a strategy meeting with Ronan," I said, my voice cool and level, betraying none of the sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline that shot through me.
"Oh, I'm well aware of where the King is," a silken, venomous voice purred from behind me. "I'm not here for him. I'm here for you."
I finally turned. Isolde was leaning against the doorframe, the very picture of languid, Fae grace. She wore a gown of deep emerald silk that clung to her slender form, her dark hair cascading in perfect waves over one shoulder. Her beauty was a weapon, sharp and dazzling, and her amber eyes were fixed on me with a look of pitying contempt.
"How... touching," she said, pushing herself off the doorframe and gliding further into the room. Her movements were silent, a predator's grace. "The little hedge witch, playing queen. Pretending to understand the maps and the machinations of a world that is far too big for her."
"Is there a reason you're here, Isolde?" I asked, my voice still dangerously calm. I leaned back against the heavy oak table, crossing my arms over my chest. A defensive posture, but it was also one of casual dismissal. I would not let her see me flinch. "Or are you just lost on your way back to your… accustomed quarters?"
A thin, sharp smile touched her lips. "You mean the quarters I shared with Kaelen for a decade? The ones that still smell of him? Of him, and me?" She took another step closer, her gaze raking over me, a slow, dismissive appraisal. "He must be so… bored with you. All this earnestness. This desperate, clumsy grab at power. Kaelen enjoys a challenge, yes, but he also enjoys beauty. And wit. And a partner who understands his… appetites."
The words were designed to be barbs, each one aimed at a specific insecurity. But they glanced off me, their power dulled by the new, unshakeable foundation I had built with Kaelen. She was talking about a ghost. A man I was just beginning to know, but who was already, irrevocably, mine.
"He seems to find my appetites just fine," I said, my voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur, a small, deliberate smile touching my lips. "In fact, he was just lamenting this morning how he'll have to suffer through a long meeting when all he wants is to be back here. With me."
The flicker in her eyes was gratifying. A crack in the perfect porcelain of her composure. "You think this is real?" she hissed, the silken purr in her voice dissolving into a sharp, acidic tone. "You think what you have is love? It's a curse, little witch. A magical leash. He's rutting you because the bond demands it. It's a biological imperative, an itch he has to scratch."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, a shared secret between two women. "He told me once, after a particularly vigorous... evening, that a bond was the only thing he feared more than a silver bullet. Because it robs you of choice. It makes you a slave to your own body. He doesn't want you, Iris. He's a victim, just like you. And the moment this Sepulcher mess is over, the moment the political necessity of your… union… is gone, he will cast you aside. And he will come back to me. To someone who understands him. Someone who doesn't need a magical contract to tie him down."
She was good. Very good. She was weaving a tapestry of half-truths and cruel assumptions, designed to plant seeds of doubt, to poison the well of my newfound confidence. She was trying to isolate me, to make me believe that the connection I felt with Kaelen was a lie, a chemical reaction, not a meeting of souls.
I looked at her, truly looked at her. I saw the desperation beneath the beautiful, cruel facade. I saw the frantic, clawing fear of a woman who was losing her power, her identity, her reason for being. And I felt a pang of something that was almost, but not quite, pity. It must be a small, cold world, to have your entire worth tied to the affection of a man who was never truly yours.
"You're right," I said, my voice quiet, thoughtful.
A triumphant, vicious smile bloomed on her face. "Of course I am. Deep down, you know it. You can feel it, can't you? The emptiness when he's not touching you? The desperation? That's not love, little witch. That's withdrawal."
"No," I said, shaking my head slowly. "You're right about one thing. He did tell me he feared a bond. He told me he feared losing control, being a slave to his instincts." I met her venomous gaze, my own clear and steady. "But that was before. Before me. You see, Isolde, you're forgetting one crucial detail."
"And what is that?" she sneered, her hands on her hips, the picture of a queen confronting a challenger.
"I'm not just any witch," I said, my voice gaining a quiet, steely strength. "I'm a Moon Witch. My magic doesn't just react to emotions. It amplifies them. And his Lycan nature… it's the same. The bond doesn't just force us together. It forces what's already there out into the open. All the secret, hidden feelings. All the buried wants." I took a slow step toward her, my movements fluid and confident. "He's not with me because of the bond. The bond is so intense, so overwhelming, *because* of what's already between us. You think it's a curse? It's a bonfire. And you're just angry because you're not the one he's burning with."
The silence in the library was absolute. Her face was a mask of shock, her perfect composure shattered. She had expected fear, insecurity, a tearful breakdown. She had not expected a calm, confident declaration of power. Of partnership.
"You're lying," she whispered, the words a brittle, desperate sound.
"Am I?" I asked softly. I reached out, not to touch her, but to gently straighten a stack of books on the table, a casual, dismissive movement that showed her how little she affected me. "Ask him. Ask him about the morning after the Tribunal. Ask him if he felt like he was scratching an itch, or if he felt like he was finally home. Ask him if his touch feels like a compulsion, or if it feels like a choice. I think you'll find the answers… surprising."
I looked at her one last time, a woman who was suddenly, tragically small in the vast, dusty room. "He's not coming back to you, Isolde. Not because of a curse or a contract. But because he chose me. And I chose him. And that's a power your poison and your pretty gowns can't ever hope to break."
With that, I turned my back on her, dismissing her utterly, and returned my attention to the map. I could feel her standing there for a long, silent moment, the air thick with her impotent rage. I didn't hear her leave, but a few minutes later, the cloying scent of her perfume was gone, replaced by the clean, familiar smell of old paper and Kaelen.
A slow, real smile touched my lips. She had tried to poison me, to turn my own strength against me. But she had failed. Because for the first time, I wasn't just surviving Kaelen's world. I was ruling it with him. And a queen does not bow to a discarded consort. She doesn't even turn to watch her go.