Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
AURELIA
Initially, Dalek fought me tooth and nail with therapy, refusing to open up, which left us both screaming and frustrated with one another.
Over the following weeks, our sessions shifted, subtly at first, then undeniably. Conversations stretched longer than scheduled. Laughter slipped in where formality once ruled. It began to feel less like therapy and far too much like familiarity.
I told myself it was professional rapport. My pulse told a different story.
Each morning, we spent hours unraveling his relationship with his mother. Her shadow loomed over every nightmare, every fractured memory. Understanding her was the only way to help him heal. At least, that’s what I told myself.
What I hadn’t expected was the truth.
“She wanted the crown,” Dalek said quietly. “And my father was her means to get it.”
I stilled. “She married him for power?”
He nodded. “She believed becoming queen was inevitable. What she failed to understand was that my father never wanted the throne and that royal lineage mattered. He was born minutes before his twin, but leadership was never in him. My uncle embraced it, so my father abdicated, letting Aleksandar became king.”
The bitterness beneath his calm was unmistakable.
“And your mother?” I prompted.
“She should have left,” he said flatly. “Instead, she doubled down.”
His mouth curved into a humorless smirk. “She launched smear campaigns against my uncle. Tried to dismantle him publicly. But his integrity and loyalty to his people held. The kingdom saw her for what she was—petty, power-hungry, cruel.”
I absorbed that in silence.
Another month passed. The nightmares didn’t ease. If anything, they worsened.
Dalek arrived at sessions more restless, his edges sharper, dark circles shadowing his eyes. Normally, by now, I would have seen progress, something. Instead, he looked like a man bracing for impact.
My own research into Duchess Yvanka Devlin had been… obstructed. Entire records were sealed. Others heavily redacted.
When I finally voiced what I’d uncovered, I kept my tone measured. “Forgive me if this is inappropriate, sire, but didn’t your mother attempt to stage a coup?”
His jaw hardened instantly. “Do not call her my mother.” The contempt in his voice sent a chill down my spine.
“I apologize,” I said softly. “Please, explain.”
He laughed once. “I was nothing more than a pawn.” His gaze drifted past me. “I was raised by staff and my father. She only acknowledged me when it served her agenda—usually as a way to get close to my cousin or my uncle.”
My stomach tightened.
“If I obeyed, I was praised. If I didn’t”—his mouth thinned—“I learned very quickly what disobedience cost.”
I swallowed. “Dalek… did she hurt you?”
His eyes closed. A single nod. “For years, I couldn’t tolerate touch. Anyone’s.” His voice dropped. “Control became my shield. Even now, intimacy only works if I have utter dominance.”
The confession hung between us—raw, dangerous, possibly an unspoken promise.
“I know now she never loved me,” he said quietly. “Only what I could help her take.”
Without thinking, I placed my hand on his knee. The moment I realized what I’d done, it was too late. Surprisingly, he didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, his hand covered mine, and his shoulders eased, as though something inside him had finally unclenched.
“You didn’t recoil,” I murmured.
His lips curved faintly. “Because I’ve grown quite fond of you, Aurelia.” Heat sparked up my arm, settling low and insistent.
My mind warned me I was crossing a line. I was his therapist.
He squeezed my hand once, grounding me…or undoing me.
“Back to the truth,” he said quietly. “She attempted to seize the throne by force. She failed.” His expression darkened. “My father and uncle set a trap. She was imprisoned.”
I leaned forward. “And then?”
Dalek rose, poured himself more coffee, offered me some. I declined.
“You’re not going to leave me like this,” I said.
He smirked. “Anything worth knowing is worth waiting for.”
He sat again. “She was dying—stage four pancreatic cancer. Execution would have been mercy, so my uncle denied her that. She died slowly. Alone.”
My chest tightened. “Did you see her?”
“Once. At the end.” His voice roughened. “She made me promise something. A legacy. A destiny.”
A cold realization crept up my spine. “And before that?” I asked. “Before everything fell apart?”
His posture softened, memory pulling him backward. “When I was seven… eight… she used to tell me stories.”
“What kind of stories?”
“About a prince,” he said slowly. “One destined for greatness. One who would have to fight his own blood to claim what was his.”
His hands began to tremble. “She wasn’t comforting me or offering dreams of fantasy,” he whispered. “She was grooming me.”
The room felt suddenly too small.
“Dalek,” I said gently, “could this be where the nightmares truly began? Long before the promise? Long before her death?”
He met my gaze, fear and clarity colliding.
“And if I don’t finish what she started?” he asked. The question lingered, heavy and dangerous.
“She’s dead, gone. She no longer has control over you. You made a promise that allowed her to finally pass. You are under no obligation to fulfill it, or is there something you’re leaving out?”