Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Kieran
I stare at the intelligence reports spread across my desk, trying to focus on the information I received last night about movement among the gypsy witches.
With no allegiance to anyone, the witches have occupied a portion of my territory for centuries now.
We don’t cross paths, and they usually keep to themselves.
I have a weak spot for them, so I let them be.
But for them to be this agitated is unprecedented. Something is happening.
My eyes wander toward Daciana where she’s sitting with Artisem, the two of them going over the heaps of proposals sent to me this morning.
She’s frowning at a piece of parchment, her nose slightly wrinkled, lips pressed into a thin line.
She can’t hide her emotions worth a damn, and despite everything—the Council’s machinations, the witches’ movements, the mounting pressure—I find myself watching her instead of reading about potential threats.
She’s so much younger this time.
The thought surfaces unbidden, and I shove it down before it can take root.
I force my attention back to the report, but the words about territorial boundaries and unusual gatherings blur together.
I’m far too aware of every rustle of parchment from her direction, every quiet comment she makes to Artisem.
A restless impulse takes hold. Maybe it’s the frustration of being cornered. Maybe it’s the unsettling news about the witches. Maybe it’s something else entirely—something I refuse to examine too closely. In any case, I find myself wanting to provoke a reaction from her.
“Find any suitable ones?” I ask, keeping my tone casual as I pretend to study a passage in the report.
Artisem’s head snaps up so fast I hear his neck crack. He stares at me with an expression of pure horror, like I’ve just suggested stepping down as alpha and joining a traveling circus.
Daciana’s spine goes rigid. “They’re all noble ladies,” she says stiffly. Then, I hear her mutter under her breath, “This is not part of my job.”
I feel the corner of my mouth want to twitch. I set down the report, finally allowing myself to look at her properly. She is gripping a proposal hard enough that the parchment crinkles, deliberately not meeting my eyes. Her jaw is set in that stubborn way that makes warmth unfurl in my chest.
“I need your help figuring out who could be a potential spy,” I say.
Her gaze snaps to mine, and the force of it hits me as if it were a physical object. “What are you going to do with that information?”
I let a slow smile form. “They could be considered.”
It’s a lie. Complete fiction. I have no intention of considering anyone, spy or otherwise. But watching the color rise in her cheeks, seeing that flash in her eyes—of anger, maybe, or something more complicated—is addictive.
Her hand tightens even more around the parchment, knuckles going white. For a heartbeat, I think she might tear it in half, might even throw it at me, and part of me wants her to. Wants to see the fire that I know burns inside her unleashed in my direction.
But then, her shoulders droop, and guilt slams into me.
“I need to get some air,” she says quietly, already pushing back from the table.
The sense of satisfaction drains away instantly, replaced by an uncomfortable sharpness lodging itself between my ribs.
“Was that really necessary?” Artisem hisses the moment the door closes behind Daciana.
I stare at the intelligence report I’m no longer reading. “I was just…” Just what? Baiting her? Testing her? Watching for reactions I have no right to want? The words die in my throat. “I don’t know.”
I’m too old for this. Too old to be playing games like some foolish youth desperate for attention.
Even with the fated mate bond muted between us—something I did deliberately, carefully, with magic that cost more than I like to remember—she might still feel some of the lingering effects.
It would explain certain things, such as the way she sometimes catches her breath when I walk into a room or the flush that creeps up her neck when I stand too close.
I shouldn’t encourage it. Shouldn’t want it.
But gods help me, I do.
I force myself to wait. To give her space. Not to chase after her like some desperate fool. I pick up the report again, pretending to read about witch movements and territorial violations. The words may as well be written in a foreign language for all the sense they make.
Five minutes. I’ll give her five minutes.
Each second feels like an eternity. I’m aware of every tick of the clock on the mantle, every breath I take, every too-fast beat of my heart. Artisem has gone back to the proposals, but I can feel his occasional glances in my direction.
Finally, I stand. “I’ll go apologize.”
Artisem makes a sound somewhere between approval and exasperation. I don’t wait to find out which.
I step into the corridor, searching for her dark hair, her familiar silhouette—and I freeze.
She is far down the hall, her back to me.
She’s with a man. I recognize him immediately, even from this distance: Leon, one of Lucian’s inner circle.
He’s leaning against the stone wall, and I can see he’s smiling at her.
Daciana is clearly talking, her hands moving as she speaks, animated in a way she rarely is around me.
Something cold and lethal unfurls in my chest.
My wolf surges forward, slamming against the cage of my control. The rage isn’t hot—it’s icy, spreading through my veins like winter frost. Deadly. Absolute. The kind of cold that kills silently, efficiently.
I start walking toward them, my footsteps silent on the stone floor. As I get closer, I hear her laugh—a sound I realize with sudden, brutal clarity that I want directed at me. Leon’s eyes track over her face with unmistakable interest, lingering too long.
He reaches forward and tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear.
I’m beside them in an instant, my hand locked around Leon’s wrist before his gesture is complete. They both startle—Daciana whirling around, her eyes going wide, and Leon freezing mid-movement.
I lower his hand slowly, deliberately, keeping my grip just shy of painful, restraining myself from breaking his wrist. “What are you doing?”
My voice comes out low, controlled, but I can hear the edge beneath it. So can Leon, if the way he pales is any indication.
“Alpha Kieran. I was just—”
“Just?” I repeat, not releasing him. My wolf is a snarling presence in my mind, demanding I make it absolutely clear that she’s…
That she’s what? Mine? She’s not. I made sure of that.
“Alpha Kieran…” Daciana starts, her voice carrying a note I can’t quite interpret. Warning? Confusion?
I don’t look at her. Can’t. Because if I do, I might see her defending him, choosing him, and my wolf is already straining against my control so hard that my bones ache with the effort of holding him back.
“He was just being friendly,” Daciana continues, and now there’s definitely an edge to her tone. “Is that a crime?”
Friendly. The word scrapes against the rawness inside me.
I finally let go of Leon’s wrist and take a measured step back, though everything in me screams to do the opposite.
To move closer. To position myself between her and this man who has no right to touch her hair, to make her smile like that, to look at her like she’s something he could have.
“My apologies,” I say, the words tasting like ash and lies. “I didn’t realize you two were…acquainted.”
Leon straightens his jacket, eyeing me with the wariness of a man who has just glimpsed a predator. Smart. “I should go. Duty calls.”
He nods to Daciana in a way that is too familiar, too warm, and I watch him retreat with a savage satisfaction that does nothing to ease the tension coiling tighter and tighter in my chest.
When he’s gone, Daciana turns to me, and I finally meet her eyes. There’s color high on her cheeks, but whether from embarrassment or anger, I cannot tell. Both, maybe.
“What was that?” she demands.
What was it? Jealousy. Possession. The echo of a bond I tried to sever but can’t seem to kill completely, no matter how much magic I throw at it.
“Nothing,” I lie.
I watch her face shift from anger to a sharper, more wounded expression.
“I was talking about my studies with Leon,” she snaps. “You had no right to interfere.”
My mind catches on the word. “What studies?”
A flush creeps up her neck. “It’s not important.”
She turns to leave, but my hand moves before I can think better of it, fingers closing gently around her wrist. She stops, going still in a way that makes my pulse spike.
“What is he teaching you?”
“None of your business.” Her voice is ice.
“You’re acting as my liaison.” I keep my tone even, controlled. “Therefore, I need to know.”
Her face drains of color. The change is so sudden, so complete, that alarm cuts through my possessiveness. She yanks her arm away like I’ve burned her, rubbing her wrist even though I know I was only just holding her back.
“I was never given any formal education,” she says harshly, the words coming quickly and defensively. “I can only read and write. Leon has been teaching me the education that nearly every soldier or common wolf shifter has. About the Kingdom. History. All that stuff.”
The admission stuns me. I stare at her, trying to reconcile this news with the sharp, observant woman I’ve been watching these past weeks. “Why didn’t you learn it as a child?”
Her jaw clenches. “I’m the first-born daughter.
My parents wanted sons.” Each word is bitten off, laced with old humiliation.
“They chose not to educate me apart from the basics and forced me to be a warrior instead. I’m good at fighting but nothing else.
I’m not smart. Leon is teaching Astra, and I was trying to learn while I was guarding her.
He noticed and said he could help me while I’m acting as your liaison. ”