Chapter 7
Kieran
Merrit’s blush burned hotter than the firelight, and gods help me, I felt it in my teeth. The distinct ache of fangs pressing to drop, the coil of hunger tightening low and insistent. One step closer and I’d taste her blood, find out if the heat in her pulse was fear or something darker.
It was a siren call, threaded through the silence she carried like armor.
Her heart thundered; the scent of her desire sweetened.
Not submission, not exactly, but something that dragged at every instinct I had.
I wanted to push her further, to see if she’d break—or to see what she’d become if she didn’t.
My hand lingered at her throat a moment too long. I should have stepped back already, but the heat of her pulse beat against my palm like a drum, and every instinct in me ached to sink fang to skin.
I pulled in a breath that did nothing to steady me. “Serenya will see you dressed,” I murmured, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “Solis will show you the exits and the faces worth remembering.”
The words came out clipped, too harsh, as if the hunger in my teeth had eaten their polish.
I let my hand fall away and forced myself to turn before I did something reckless.
“They’ll make you look the part,” I added, each word ground past the ache, “but no one here can teach you how to stop your body from betraying you. That’s on you. ”
The silence stretched, thick with firelight and her scent. I couldn’t stay in it. Couldn’t stand the thought of hearing her heart trip one more beat for me.
I tore my coat from the chair, swung it over my shoulders, and strode for the door. The wood shut heavy at my back, sealing her in with the fire while I bled into the cooler hush of the corridor, every muscle wound tight against the pull to turn around.
My chest felt too tight, my body wound like a bowstring. The wards in the stone thrummed against me as I dragged in a breath, but it didn’t clear her scent. Smoke and copper and that elusive warmth—hers—still clung, crawling under my skin as if she’d followed me out.
Gods damn her.
She should have shattered under my hands, but she hadn’t. She had stood there, a spine of steel, those glittering green eyes keen as her heart pounded so loud I could feel it in my teeth. That sound haunted me as much as her silence.
I’d told her someone would come to prepare her for tonight, and they would.
My household knew their roles—Serenya would see her dressed and schooled in the bare minimum of etiquette.
But none of them could coach her in what really mattered.
How to walk into a pit of vipers and make every bastard believe she wanted to be there.
I strode through the castle corridors, restless.
My thoughts circled her—the pulse beneath my palm, the way she froze when I leaned close, the scent of her body betraying her, even as she lifted her chin.
Useful, I told myself. That kind of reaction would make her convincing.
A consort who didn’t blush at her prince’s touch would be nothing but another prop.
She could play the game. I could make her play it.
But underneath that logic, hunger gnawed. What would she taste like? Who had carved that scar into her throat? Why hadn’t she told me? Questions with no answers, and the need to press closer to her, to wring them out of her, clawed at me until I forced my mind elsewhere.
Elias’ words at the castle steps scraped back next.
He hadn’t ordered Merrit into the Hunt, not outright—but he’d left no room for refusal.
A maneuver dressed as suggestion, backed by enough eyes to make defiance look like weakness.
That son of a bitch knew exactly what he was doing—testing me, testing her.
Elias never moved without an angle. Once, he’d advised my father with that same smooth tongue, and I’d learned young that nothing he gave came without a hook.
Tonight, he’d be watching for cracks, hoping to see me stumble.
And I couldn’t stumble. Not with enemies circling closer every day. Not with Tobias still recovering in the infirmary.
The thought drove me down the servants’ staircase and across the keep to the healing wing. The air here was crisper, cleaner, heavy with sage and salt. Wards thrummed low and steady, muffling sound so no one outside these halls would hear what happened within.
I found him where I knew he’d be: on a narrow bed, tunic gaping at the throat, face pale from the poison’s burn.
The toxin had unstitched his body—he’d bled where no blade touched—through mouth, nose, eyes—until the healers had purged it and feeding began to knit him back together.
Feeding was the only thing that would restore him.
A donor sat beside him, neck arched, eyes glassy as Tobias drank. Not hungrily—never hungrily—but with measured care, each swallow deliberate. His hand cupped the man’s jaw, thumb brushing slow and absent, as if to remind him he was safe even with fangs at his throat.
I waited until Tobias drew back, licking the punctures closed with a neatness that almost looked tender. The donor sagged, pale but steady, and Tobias murmured, “Thanks” before sending him away. Only then did his gaze lift to me.
Tobias looked young, as we all did—smooth skin, lean muscle, fangs gleaming white in the firelight.
But the centuries showed in quieter ways: silver threaded through the dark at his temples, pale-gray eyes that missed nothing, a patience honed sharp as steel.
Next to him I always felt reckless, a match struck too close to kindling.
“You shouldn’t be walking the halls without a guard,” he said, voice roughened by thirst. His faint smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But then again, you never listen when I tell you things like that.”
I caught myself watching the trace of red at the corner of his mouth, the precision of his restraint.
It should have calmed me. Instead, it made the memory of Merrit’s pulse slam back into my teeth.
Tobias had fed like a priest at an altar—gentle, reverent.
And I? Gods help me, I wanted to drag her head back and drink until her heart stuttered.
“You’d think you’d stop wasting your breath by now,” I muttered, dragging a chair beside his bed.
“I’ve had centuries to practice,” Tobias said, dry as dust.
I should have laughed. Instead, guilt coiled tighter. “I’m sorry,” I said before I could stop myself.
His brows rose faintly. “For what? For being attacked? For dragging me into the middle of your mess? Or for the fact you think you can carry this little rebellion on your back and never bleed for it?”
The words struck, but not cruelly. They landed the way his counsel always did: honest, tempered, steady.
“I should have seen it coming,” I ground out. “Whoever planted that poison—”
“—wants you dead.” Tobias leaned back, pale-gray eyes sharp, even as he closed them briefly. “Yes. And they nearly had me instead. That’s not your sin, Kieran. That’s theirs.”
He opened his eyes again, gaze steady. “But you need to ask yourself who stands to gain. Your father would rather see you stumble than shine, and you know it. And your brothers…” He let the words hang, deceptively mild.
“Proximity is power. The nearer provinces have much to gain if Morathen is weakened. Lorenzo especially—too rigid for his own good. He’d rather inherit ashes than see you take root. ”
He shook his head, voice softening again, all concern and no malice. “I don’t say this to drive you against them. But if you don’t start asking yourself the hard questions, you’ll miss the answer standing right in front of you.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face, suspicion coiling like smoke.
Tobias’ words slid too neatly into place, feeding fears I didn’t want to name.
But no. Not Lorenzo. My brother was stubborn, disciplined to a fault, but treachery?
That wasn’t in his marrow. He’d bleed for the Crown before he’d betray it.
“You’re chasing shadows,” I muttered, voice flat, though the unease Tobias had planted stayed lodged beneath my ribs.
He only watched me, calm as ever, as though he knew I’d come around to his point in time.
“I’ve got an ace in the hole,” I said at last, low, as much to convince myself as him.
His brow arched slightly. “Do you now?”
I let the silence carry, offering him nothing. No mention of Merrit. Not yet. Not until I knew the truth of what she could do—and whether I could trust her with it.
Tobias smirked, though the faint tightness at his mouth betrayed lingering strain. “Keep your secrets, then,” Tobias murmured, settling back against the pillows. His voice was calm, steady, almost indulgent. “But don’t let your brothers scent weakness. Lorenzo least of all.”
His eyes closed again, the picture of exhaustion, and the words might have been nothing more than counsel from a wounded friend. But they clung sharp as burrs as I left him, lodging under my ribs where doubt already lived.
His words lingered long after I left him, sinking hooks I couldn’t shake.
The halls swallowed me again, ward-lines humming steady in the stone.
My stone. My wards. My power. Yet every turn of the keep felt tighter, every rune another bar on a cage I’d built with my own hands.
Morathen bowed to me, yes—but it watched me, too, every servant’s thought a whisper of judgment, every courtier’s glance another test.
And tonight, with Merrit at my side, that cage would close a little tighter.
Their laughter reached me before their faces did. Two courtiers, all lace and polish, lounged against the stone arch as if the corridor itself were their stage. They straightened when they saw me, but the bows they offered were shallow enough to sting.
“Your Highness,” one crooned, voice sticky with false deference. “Whispers run wild already. A new consort from the Divide, is it? Bold.” His gaze slid toward me like a predator testing for weakness. “One might think Morathen’s noble daughters no longer hold your attention.”
The other’s smile was thinner, crueler. “The Divide breeds gutter rats and tavern trash, not consorts. Best keep her leashed before she mistakes your bed for your throat.”
The words landed like steel driven into old bone. For a heartbeat, all I saw was Merrit’s scar—raw, puckered, the proof of someone else’s knife. My jaw locked, fangs biting the inside of my lip until I tasted blood.
I smiled anyway but it was all fang. “Careful. Say one more word about my consort’s throat, and I’ll rip yours from your pathetic little body and watch you bleed out on this stone.”
The air thickened, heavy with the promise of violence. Their grins faltered, but pride made one of them push anyway. “Perhaps you’ll parade her tonight, then? Let the Hunt see what prize you’ve dragged home. We do so love a spectacle.”
“Perhaps I will.” I stepped forward, close enough that torchlight carved harsh shadows in the folds of their masks. “So you and your ilk can all see who I claim as mine.”
Their smiles turned simpering, the fake upturn to their mouths eating at me just like every single stone in this gods-forsaken fucking cage. I wanted to wipe it all away.
“Remember, your lands, your titles, your pretty little privileges exist only because I allow them. Step out of line again, and I’ll rip it all away: your power, your wealth, everything down to your fucking names.
I’ll watch you claw at empty air while everything you used to own rots with you alongside it. ”
A hiss of movement answered me from the dark.
Solis stepped forward from the shadows like a priest of Tharos.
“Because what I see,” he said, voice flat and amused, “is two pampered fops loitering where they’re not wanted.
Unless you’d like me to teach you the polite way out, I suggest you find somewhere else to wag your tongues. ”
The courtiers blanched, their bows suddenly deep enough to scrape the floor. “Of course, my lord,” one stammered, tugging the other back. They slithered down the corridor, whispers trailing like shadows.
Solis spat after them, contempt thick in his voice. “Vermin.”
My hands still itched for their throats. I exhaled once, a slow drag of air through clenched teeth. “They’ll spread their filth anyway,” I muttered.
His grin widened, teeth flashing. “Let them. I hope they choke on it.”
I watched the two courtiers slither away and the corridor settle like a beast that had been prodded. Solis lingered, arms folded, waiting. A pageboy in house colors hovered at the far end, wide-eyed, and trying not to breathe too loud.
“Bring Serenya to my chambers,” I said, voice flat. “Four trunks. No nonsense—one for day-to-day garments, one for formal court attire, one for practical riding and travel, and one for jewels.” The words were a promise and a threat stitched into one.
The boy blinked, then bowed, already calculating which trunks would fit where. “From the vault?” he asked, his shoulders nearly vibrating.
“Yes. From my vault.” I let the sentence land. My house had more than enough glitter to drown a rumor before it started. She’d be dressed properly, and if the gossips wanted to sneer, let them choke on silk instead.
The boy nearly tripped over his bow before bolting. Good.
Then I turned to Solis. “Double the watch on the south lane. Shift the mounts and put eyes on the gates. No one I don’t know comes within sniffing distance of my chambers. And find a woman who can school her in the posture and smiles this snake pit feeds on.”
Solis’ grin was the kind that warned other men to breathe carefully. “On it.”
When he disappeared into the dark, the corridor finally fell quiet.
The smell of her didn’t need to follow; the thought of it had already braided into the muscle memory of my hands.
It stayed with me in the small, private places—the press of my palm against stone, the drag of boots on flagging—and no ward in the keep could scrub it out.
I had dragged a woman from the Divide into the center of a beast’s feast. Now I meant to make sure she looked like the prize I’d claimed.
Tonight, the Court would watch.
Tonight, the Hunt would begin.
And gods help me, I wanted their eyes on her when I sank my fangs in.