Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Daciana
I stare at the history book before me, tracing the faded ink with my fingertip. The dates blur together, but one thing stands out clearly.
“So, the Kingdom changed hands?” I glance up at Kieran, seated across from me.
He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens, eyes fixed on something beyond the window.
“Yes.” Artisem’s voice cuts through the tension. He leans against the bookshelf, arms crossed. “About seven hundred years ago.”
“Isn’t that common?” I flip a page, scanning the names of rulers. “Even alpha leadership changes hands. Packs merge, new bloodlines rise.”
“Not in this case.” Artisem’s expression darkens. “It was the Snow Mountain Pack that controlled the throne. Then, Lucian’s ancestors seized power. They were purists.”
My head snaps up. “Really? But Lucian isn’t a purist, and neither was his father.”
“No.” Artisem shakes his head. “That’s why there’s such a divide in the Umbra Council now.”
Kieran finally speaks, his voice low and rough.
“Yes. But back then, they were determined to eradicate every shifter who wasn’t a pureblood.
” His fingers drum against the table, a rare sign of agitation.
“Witches were persecuted. Forced to swear allegiance to the new Wolf Kingdom. Those who refused were killed.” He pauses. “Or they escaped.”
His tone makes my chest tighten. I watch the way his shoulders carry the weight of this history, how his hands curl into fists before he forces them flat again.
“My family had been the ruling one,” he continues. “We were forced to flee into the mountains with our most loyal followers. That’s when we established our pack there.”
The pieces start to click together. “Were you hunted because of your claim to the throne, or because you had the ability to practice magic?”
His eyes meet mine, and the intensity there steals my breath. “Both.”
The single word lands heavy between us.
“We were proof,” he says, “that wolf shifters could peacefully coexist with others. That pureblood superiority was a lie. It’s the same issue the Umbra Council has with us now—the purist faction, at least. We’ve survived.
Lived in harmony for centuries.” His voice drops. “We are the proof they want to erase.”
My stomach twists. I think of the arrows that came from nowhere. “That attack on you…Was that the purist faction?”
“We haven’t been able to find anything out about that.” Frustration bleeds into his words. “Whoever sent those assassins covered their tracks well.”
I reach for another book, this one smaller, leather-bound. The title catches my eye: A Compendium of Magical Bloodlines. I flip it open and skim the pages until two words jump out at me.
Gypsy witches.
Suddenly, there’s a stirring deep in my chest, spreading through my veins like liquid fire. Sadness crashes over me—a profound, crushing sadness that I don’t understand. And longing. Such fierce longing, it brings tears to my eyes.
“Daciana?” Artisem’s voice sounds distant. “Are you okay?”
Kieran jumps to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
I blink rapidly, forcing the strange emotions down. “I’m fine.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. I focus on the text, determined to push through whatever that was. “Who were the gypsy witches?”
Kieran goes rigid.
I look up, confused by his reaction. His gaze locks onto the book in my hands, and a dark look flashes across his face—pain, perhaps, or fear. I can’t tell.
He moves so fast, I barely register it. One moment the book is in my hands, the next he has ripped it away.
“What—”
“No more lessons today.” His voice is cold, clipped.
I stare at him, taken completely aback. Heat floods my cheeks—part embarrassment, part anger. “Excuse me?”
“We’re done.” He won’t look at me. Just holds that book like it might bite him.
“Fine.” I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the stone floor. “You don’t have to be a jerk about it.”
I mutter it under my breath, but I know he hears me. Enhanced hearing and all that.
He turns his head slightly, his eyes finding mine. There’s something in his expression I can’t read—regret, maybe? But it’s gone too fast.
I don’t give him a chance to explain. I spin on my heel and march toward the door, aware of both their gazes following me. My heart pounds, a confusing mix of hurt and anger and something else. Something that feels precariously like disappointment.
Because for a moment there, when he was sharing his family’s history, I saw vulnerability in him. Real emotion beneath all that stoic control.
And I wanted more of it.
I toss onto my side for the hundredth time, bunching the pillow beneath my head. The sheets twist around my legs, suddenly too hot, too confining. I kick them off and stare at the ceiling, watching shadows dance across the ornate molding.
Sleep refuses to come.
Tomorrow, Kieran will meet with two of the candidates whose profiles I reviewed. Women from noble houses, educated, cultured. Everything I’m not. The thought sits like a stone in my chest.
Is that why he was so snappy today? Distracted by the prospect of choosing a mate?
I roll onto my side, pressing my palms against my eyes. He’s in his forties—or late thirties at least. Males that age are usually mated already, settled with their desired partners and building their futures. Why hasn’t he chosen anyone?
The question gnaws at me, and I hate that it does. Hate that I care.
Unable to bear the restless tossing and turning any longer, I slip from my bed and pad across the cold, stone floor to the small drawer where I keep the herbs Selene gave me.
I think about the time when the nightmares had gotten bad enough that I couldn’t hide the exhaustion anymore.
I asked her for something to help me sleep without dreaming, and she pressed this pouch into my hands with careful instructions.
But I haven’t been able to bring myself to use them. Haven’t wanted to admit I need help, that I’m weak enough to require herbs just to get through the night.
Tonight, though, my thoughts won’t stop spinning. It’s not nightmares keeping me awake this time, but it doesn’t matter. I need sleep.
I open the pouch and pull out a handful of dried leaves.
Selene said something about the amount, but I can’t remember what.
This looks about right. I brew myself a cup of tea, the familiar ritual soothing even as I wait for the water to heat.
The scent is pleasant—chamomile and something earthier I can’t identify.
When it’s ready, I carry the steaming cup to my window seat, curling up there in just my shirt and underwear. The stone is cool against my bare legs as I tuck them beneath me.
Steam rises from the cup as I sip, staring out at the darkened grounds. The tea is slightly bitter but not unpleasant. My thoughts inevitably drift back to Kieran.
He never interacts with any woman aside from me. The realization settles over me slowly. The only women he brought with the delegation are servants, and Artisem handles them. Not once have I seen him engage in conversation with any female at court beyond basic courtesy.
But he talks to me. Really talks to me.
He has expensive fruits waiting for me when I come for tutoring. Exotic things I’ve never tasted before, arranged on a plate like an offering. Sometimes he’ll peel an apple while I’m reading, his knife moving in smooth, sure strokes, and then he’ll hand me the slices without a word.
It’s all so intimate, these small gestures that mean nothing and everything at once.
I don’t understand his intentions. Maybe he’s just being kind. Maybe this is how he treats everyone under his protection, and I’m reading too much into simple courtesy. He is meeting with those candidates tomorrow, after all. Women who actually belong in his world.
I’ve had lovers. A few, scattered across the years. Brief flings that meant nothing, made me feel nothing. Bodies in the dark that filled a temporary need and left no lasting impression. I never cared about any of them, and they never cared about me.
Ever since I came to the capital, I’ve been focused on fitting in, on proving my worth as a guard. I’ve never really looked for anything more.
Leon has always been nice to me. Sweet, even. I know Astra wants us together—she has dropped enough hints, given me enough meaningful looks. But I can’t seem to explain to my friend that my heart feels dead. Dormant. I’m just not interested in any emotional connection with a man.
Except…
Except with Kieran, a man probably over a decade older than me. I’m always thinking about him. He slips into my mind at the strangest moments. During training. While I’m walking the palace corridors. In the quiet hours before dawn when I should be sleeping.
He makes me feel comfortable in a way I’ve never experienced before. Safe, despite his power. Seen, despite my inadequacies.
When he stopped Leon from touching me the other day, I felt a strange sense of satisfaction—as if this was right, as if his protection over me was exactly how things should be. My wolf was pleased, practically preening under his attention.
My wolf adores being in Kieran’s presence. That’s another thing I don’t understand. She has never responded to anyone like this, not even during my brief affairs. But around him, she’s alert, eager, constantly pushing me closer.
I take another sip of tea, and all of a sudden, my eyelids feel heavy. The herbs are working faster than I expected, pulling me toward sleep with surprising insistence. My limbs grow pleasantly warm and loose.
Yawning, I set the empty cup on the windowsill with clumsy fingers and move back to my bed. The sheets feel impossibly soft now, welcoming as I slide between them.
My thoughts drift, growing hazy and disconnected. Images of Kieran fill my mind—the way he looked when I saw him naked that day, water streaming down his chest and stomach. I keep wanting to touch him, to feel those muscles beneath my palms. I want his hands around my waist, pulling me close.