Chapter 13 Xelene
THIRTEEN
XELENE
The royal vehicle door opened with a soft click, and Xelene stepped onto the ceremonial grounds, her black dress rustling against her legs as Nova Aurora’s twin suns cast long shadows across the ancient stone structures.
The weight of the last twelve hours pressed against her chest like a physical force—everything had shifted so dramatically that she felt as though she were living someone else’s life entirely.
Benjamin and Janice stood waiting near the entrance, both dressed in formal mourning attire. Benjamin’s usually warm expression was somber as he approached them, while Janice’s hazel eyes immediately sought Xelene’s face with the kind of concerned intensity that came from years of friendship.
“Your Highness,” Benjamin said quietly, offering Lev a respectful nod. “Everyone is waiting inside.”
Lev’s jaw tightened, his broad shoulders squaring beneath his ceremonial jacket as he nodded curtly.
Even hungover and grieving, he radiated an undeniable alpha presence.
Xelene found herself studying his profile, remembering how different he’d looked just an hour ago—vulnerable and broken, needing her help to even sit upright and face the day.
Fated mate.
The words echoed in her mind like a mantra she couldn’t escape.
Last night, Janice had burst into her guest suite while Xelene was still reeling from too much Sidaii wine.
She’d been sprawled across her bed, still wearing her green sundress, trying to process the confusing tangle of emotions Lev stirred in her, when Janice had delivered the news that changed everything.
“The King is dead,” Janice had whispered, shaking Xelene’s shoulder. “Lev’s going to need you.”
But that hadn’t been the most earth-shattering revelation of the night. No, that honor belonged to what came next—Janice’s breathless confession about Lev’s private conversation, the one where he’d admitted the truth that explained his panicked flight from their first meeting.
“He said you’re his fated mate, Xelene. That’s why he bolted when you shook hands.”
Xelene had demanded an explanation, her analytical mind struggling to process concepts that defied everything she understood about relationships and attraction.
A fated mate, Janice had explained with the enthusiasm of someone who’d clearly been researching shifter culture with Benjamin, was like a soulmate but infinitely more intense and destined—a cosmic connection that bound two people together through something called a mate bond that once completed became permanent.
Permanent. Intense. Destined.
All the things Xelene had spent her adult life avoiding with fierce determination.
“You holding up okay?” Janice murmured, moving closer as Lev and Benjamin walked ahead toward the ceremonial entrance.
“I’m fine,” Xelene replied automatically, though her voice sounded strained even to her own ears. “Just processing everything.”
That was an understatement of epic proportions.
She’d barely slept after Janice’s revelation, her mind spinning between disbelief and a growing recognition that explained too much.
The instant attraction she’d felt when she first saw Lev in that office.
The electric shock when their hands touched.
The way her body seemed to hum in his presence, as if every nerve ending had suddenly come alive.
It just was, she thought, remembering Janice’s attempt to explain the mate bond.
Something that couldn’t be controlled or managed or strategically planned—it simply existed, whether Xelene wanted it or not.
The irony would’ve been laughable if the situation wasn’t so serious.
She’d built her entire career on controlling narratives, managing perceptions, and fixing other people’s chaotic lives.
Now she found herself thrust into a situation that defied every principle she’d lived by, connected to a man whose very existence challenged her carefully constructed world.
This morning, when she’d found Lev passed out in his clothes, reeking of expensive liquor and grief, she’d felt something shift inside her chest. Not just professional sympathy for a client in crisis, but a deeper ache—the kind of emotional response she’d trained herself to suppress years ago.
His questionnaire had painted a heartbreaking picture.
Losing his mother as a baby. Growing up under the weight of impossible expectations.
A father who’d ruled through emotional distance and rigid control, teaching Lev that love and duty were mutually exclusive.
The numbers he’d provided—times drunk, sexual partners, reckless adventures—were clearly approximated, but the emotional truth beneath them rang clear as crystal.
Self-sabotage, she’d recognized immediately. Classic fear-based behavior.
Yet nowhere in those fifty brutally honest answers had he mentioned the mate bond. He’d laid his soul bare on paper but omitted the one detail that explained everything about their connection.
“Xelene.” Lev’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. He’d stopped walking and turned back, his blue eyes intense despite the lingering effects of his hangover. “Ready?”
She nodded, forcing her professional mask into place.
Despite whatever cosmic force had apparently decided to upend her carefully ordered life, she still had a job to do.
Lev needed to pass his Trial of the Sun in five days, and his reputation required immediate rehabilitation if he had any hope of gaining his pride’s trust.
You can do this, she told herself firmly.
But as Lev extended his arm for her to take—maintaining their charade as a couple even here, in this moment of grief—Xelene couldn’t help but feel like she was walking toward something that would change her life forever.
The warmth of his body through the ceremonial jacket sent familiar electricity racing up her arm, and she had to resist the urge to pull away. Or worse, to lean closer and let that intoxicating sense of rightness wash over her completely.
Control the story, control the outcome, she reminded herself, drawing on years of professional training.
But some stories she was beginning to suspect were bigger than any one person’s ability to control them.
Lev soon dropped his arm from where Xelene was holding it and wrapped his fingers around hers with a possessive intensity as they approached the ornate casket.
The ceremonial grounds fell into reverent silence, hundreds of pride members turning to watch their grieving prince, walking hand-in-hand with the mysterious woman who’d appeared at their darkest hour.
Xelene forced her spine straight, drawing on years of professional training to maintain her composure despite the weight of so many curious, calculating eyes.
The gravity of the moment pressed against her chest—this wasn’t just a funeral, it was a political theater where every gesture would be analyzed and dissected.
She could feel the scrutiny like a physical force, pride members whispering behind their hands about Lev’s unexpected companion.
Control the narrative, she reminded herself, lifting her chin with practiced elegance.
But as they drew closer to the casket, Lev’s grip on her hand tightened almost desperately. She’d planned to step back and give him privacy for his final goodbye, but his fingers intertwined with hers in a silent plea that made her heart clench unexpectedly.
He needs this, she realized, studying his profile. He needs someone to anchor him.
The late King Rorick lay in state, his weathered face peaceful in death, wearing the same ceremonial attire Lev would someday inherit. Xelene had never met the man, but something about the strong jawline and proud bearing reminded her achingly of his son.