Chapter 24 #2
“Forget the flowers. Come here.”
I walk over slowly, wondering what new demand he’s going to make today. Yesterday, there were questions about my herb preparations. The day before, he insisted I explain the entire cultivation process for nightshade while he took notes.
“Sit,” he orders, gesturing to a second chair that definitely wasn’t here this morning.
I perch on the edge of the seat, my spine straight. Lady Cordelia’s voice echoes in my head: “A lady never slouches.”
“Now,” King Alaric says, fixing me with those sharp, gray eyes. “Tell me about your tutors.”
“They’re...thorough, Your Majesty.”
“That’s not what I asked. Are they making progress with you?”
I consider lying, telling him what he wants to hear. But something about his direct gaze makes honesty spill out instead.
“Lady Cordelia says I walk like a peasant and speak like an uneducated farm girl. Master Thorne thinks my accent in the Old Tongue is ‘appallingly provincial.’ Lady Penrose...Well, she hasn’t said anything directly insulting, but she keeps sighing every time I ask a question.”
King Alaric’s face darkens. “Is that so?”
“I’m sure they’re just trying to help,” I add quickly, not wanting to get anyone in trouble. “It’s a lot to learn, and I’m—I’m not exactly starting from an ideal position.”
“Hmm.” He strokes Luna’s fur thoughtfully. “And my son? How often do you see him?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Not very often, Your Majesty.”
The truth is, I barely see Lucian at all anymore. He leaves before I wake up and returns long after I’ve gone to bed. The most I hear from him is when he thinks I’m asleep—the soft rustle of papers, the scratch of his quill, the quiet murmur of his voice when he talks to himself while he’s working.
I miss him. I miss him so much, it’s like a physical ache in my chest.
“He’s very busy,” I continue, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Important, princely duties.”
King Alaric snorts. “Princely duties. Is that what he calls avoiding his mate?”
Before I can respond to that pointed comment, King Alaric places Luna on the ground, stands up, and stretches. “Well,” he says, “I have matters to attend to. Come along, Luna.”
At the sound of her name, Luna immediately perks up and trots over to him like an obedient dog, winding around his legs with obvious affection.
She glances at me briefly, then back at King Alaric, and her choice is clear. She follows him toward the door without a backward look. I watch with a pang of betrayal as my cat chooses him over me with no hesitation.
“She’ll be back eventually,” King Alaric says with what might be amusement. “She seems to enjoy our afternoon walks through the palace.”
And then they’re gone, leaving me alone in the sanctuary that no longer feels like my own.
This has been happening every day for the past week. Luna, my one constant companion, completely abandons me for the King. They disappear together for hours, and when she finally returns, she’s usually well-fed and happy, clearly having had a far better time than she would have had staying with me.
It’s not just Lucian; even my cat doesn’t want to spend time with me.
I sink into my chair and stare at the moonbell plants, feeling utterly alone. The herbs don’t judge me or find me lacking, but they’re poor conversationalists.
Tonight, I’m on my own again. Completely alone.
I lie in our massive bed, staring at the ceiling and listening for the sound of Lucian’s footsteps in the corridor. The sheets smell like him—cedar and something dark and masculine—but they’re cold without his warmth.
Luna is gone, too, probably sleeping in King Alaric’s chambers. She clearly prefers him over me, and honestly, I can’t even blame her. He feeds her treats and lets her nap on silk cushions while I can only offer her an herb-scented laboratory and my own restless energy.
I must drift off eventually, because suddenly, I’m not in the palace bedroom anymore.
I’m in my cottage, the one where I lived until just a few months ago.
But everything looks different—brighter somehow, more vibrant.
The walls are freshly painted, and herbs hang from the rafters in neat bundles that seem fuller and more colorful than they used to be.
My mother is there, looking exactly as I remember her. Her long, brown hair falls in waves around her shoulders, but her green eyes—so like mine—are bright with pain and fear.
She’s on the floor in the corner of the room, her back against the wall, and her stomach is huge, swollen with pregnancy. Her face is twisted in agony, and there’s blood. So much blood. She is crying, tears streaming down her face as she looks up at the front door.
“Please,” she gasps, her voice broken with desperation. “Please don’t do this. I’m begging you.”
A shadow falls across the room, and I turn to see a figure in the doorway. But the face is obscured, hidden in darkness that seems to shift and move.
“Choose,” the figure says, and there is something familiar about the voice, something that tugs at the edges of my memory, but I can’t quite place it.
Suddenly, rough hands grab my shoulders and shake me violently. I try to scream, try to run to my mother, but the darkness is pulling me down, down, down—
“Astra!”
My eyes fly open, and I’m gasping, my heart hammering against my ribs. Strong hands are gripping my shoulders, and concerned, blue eyes are staring at me.
Lucian.
The dream refuses to fade, clinging to me like a cobweb. My mother’s face, twisted in pain and fear. The blood. That familiar voice I couldn’t identify. The desperate begging.
“Sorry,” I manage, my voice hoarse and shaky. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”
His grip tightens slightly. “You were thrashing around like you were fighting someone. And you kept saying ‘choose’ over and over.” His brow furrows with concern. “And ‘please don’t.’”
I try to sit up, to pull away from him, but his hands don’t let me go. The images from the dream are still so vivid, so real. My mother, pregnant and terrified. Someone forcing her to make an impossible choice.
“It was just a nightmare. I’m fine.”
“Like hell you’re fine.” His eyes search my face in the dim light. “You’re shaking, and you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
It’s true; I am shaking. My whole body is trembling with residual terror from the dream that felt far too real. Too much like a memory rather than just my imagination. What did it mean? Was it real or just my mind creating nightmares from fragments of fear?
“I’ll get you some water,” Lucian says, finally releasing me.
As he moves to get up, I catch a glimpse of his bedside table. Papers are scattered across the surface, some covered in his neat handwriting, others bearing official seals. He’s been working late again, probably until just before I startled him with my nightmare.
The moment he’s gone, I slip out of bed and walk around to his side. The papers call to me like they have secrets to tell. Most of them are reports, correspondence with various lords and officials. But one catches my eye—a thick document with an unfamiliar seal.
I pick it up, squinting in the dim light to make out the text. Most of it is bureaucratic language I don’t understand, but one phrase jumps out at me, written in bold script across the top:
Eclipse Born Investigation – Confidential
My blood turns to ice.
Eclipse Born… I heard Leon mention that term to Lucian, but what does it mean? Why does it sound so familiar?
I scan the document quickly, my heart racing. Most of it is beyond my comprehension—references to “bloodline purges” and “systematic eradication” and “Council directive 958.” But one line near the bottom is written in simpler language:
No living descendants confirmed. Bloodline considered extinct as of 1847.
When Lucian returns with a glass of water, my hands are shaking so badly, I can barely hold the paper. He stops in the doorway, his gaze immediately going to the document in my grasp.
“Astra.” His voice is carefully neutral. “Put that down.”
“What is ‘Eclipse Born’?” I ask, not moving.
He sets the water glass on the dresser and walks over slowly, like he’s approaching a spooked animal. “Give me the papers, and I’ll explain.”
“Explain now.”
For a moment, we stare at each other in tense silence. Then, he sighs and holds out his hand.
“Please, Astra. Let me have the document.”
Reluctantly, I place it in his palm. He puts it on the bedside table and guides me back to my side of the bed, picking up the water glass on the way and then pressing it into my hands.
“Drink,” he orders.
I take a sip, the cool water soothing my dry throat. “What is ‘Eclipse Born,’ Lucian?”
He sits on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t know much,” he admits. “Ever since you arrived at the palace, the Umbra Council has been investigating references to it in the old texts.”
“What kind of references?”
“Fragments, mostly. My understanding is that Eclipse Born was an old bloodline of shifters. Powerful ones, from what we can gather.”
“But the document says they’re extinct.”
“According to official records, yes. The bloodline was apparently eliminated about one hundred seventy-five years ago.” His jaw tightens. “What’s strange is that there’s almost no mention of these shifters in the royal archives. It’s as if someone deliberately removed all evidence of them.”
“Why are you investigating them now?” I ask.
Lucian’s eyes meet mine, and there’s something troubled in their depths. “The Council seems particularly interested in this bloodline. They’ve been pushing for more information.” He pauses, studying my face. “Why? Do you know something about it?”
The question catches me off guard. “I’m not sure. Maybe. From when I was very young. But I don’t remember the context.”
His expression sharpens with interest. “You’ve heard the term before?”
“I think so. Eclipse Born…” The words feel strange on my tongue, familiar yet foreign. “I think my mother mentioned it once. But I can’t remember what she said.”
Lucian leans forward. “Anything else? Any other details?”
I shake my head, frustrated. “It’s like trying to catch smoke. The memory’s there, but I can’t quite grasp it.” I pause, thinking. “Gareth might know something. The older alphas sometimes keep oral histories that aren’t recorded in official documents.”
“Gareth?” His expression darkens at the mention of my former alpha. “He is in prison, along with his daughter. But I could arrange to speak with him.”
I set the water glass aside and reach for the energy tonics I’ve been perfecting. “Here,” I say, pressing two small vials into his hands. “I know you’ve been working late every night. These should help with any fatigue.”
Lucian examines the amber liquid. “You made these for me?”
“I know you’re busy with...whatever crisis is keeping you away from bed until all hours. I thought maybe I could help.”
Something shifts in his expression, his eyes darkening. “Is this your way of telling me I’m neglecting you?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I’m not telling you anything. I’m just—”
But he’s already setting the vials aside and rising from the bed, that sublime grace I know so well evident in his every movement.
“Because if you wanted my attention, Astra,” he says, his voice dropping to a low rumble that makes my pulse skip, “all you had to do was ask.”
I scramble backward across the bed, but he follows, his hands braced on either side of my hips as he leans over me.
“Lucian, I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” He lowers his head, brushing his nose along my jaw, and I shiver at the contact.
“And you’re right. I’ve been working myself to exhaustion thinking about how to keep you safe, how to navigate the political mess your presence has created, how to protect you from threats I can’t even name yet. ”
His confession makes my chest tight with emotion. “I didn’t know—”
“And every night, I come back to this bed, where you’re curled up in one of my shirts, smelling like my soap, looking so perfectly mine that it takes everything I’ve got not to wake you up and remind you exactly whom you belong to.”
The heat in his voice sets my skin on fire. “Lucian—”
“So, tell me, my future queen,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my ear, “do you really think I’m neglecting you? Or are you just missing me as much as I’ve been missing you?”
I’m trapped between his arms, between the solid warmth of his body and the soft mattress, and every rational thought in my head dissolves under the intensity of his gaze.
“I miss you,” I whisper, the admission torn from somewhere deep in my chest.
His smile is pure satisfaction and dark promise. “Good,” he says, and then his mouth is on mine, claiming me with a hunger that makes my toes curl.
This kiss is different from the others we’ve shared.
This one is demanding and possessive, full of two weeks’ worth of restraint finally snapping.
One of his hands tangles in my hair, angling my head so he can deepen the kiss, and I melt against him with a soft sound that makes him growl low in his throat.
When he finally lets me breathe, I manage to say, “No more working until all hours.”
“No more sleeping in my shirts unless you want me to rip them off you,” he counters, his voice rough with desire.
I flush deeper, suddenly very aware that I am, in fact, wearing one of his shirts and pretty much nothing else.
“Deal,” I whisper.
His lips curve in a wicked smile. “Good. Now, stand up and take it off.”
Liquid heat pools between my legs at his command.