Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
SABLE
B reakfast with warlocks. Not exactly how I imagined my life would go.
Kael’s chambers serve as our dining room, though calling it "chambers" feels laughably understated. The vast space is both grand and intimidating, with its high vaulted ceilings and stone walls that bear the weight of centuries. The long table stretches across the center of the room, carved from dark wood polished to a gleaming finish. Massive windows line one wall, spilling pale morning light over the thick fur rugs and casting a warm glow on the roaring fire in the enormous hearth. Despite the fire’s heat, the air still carries a hint of the chill from outside, a constant reminder of the northern winds beyond.
I sit stiffly near the end of the table, still in the nightgown they’d forced on me. Finn had come to my chambers that morning, opening the door with an ease that told me locks were a mere suggestion to him. His expression had been as impassive as ever, but there’d been a flicker of amusement in his eyes when he saw me scowling at him.
“Breakfast is ready,” he’d said simply, stepping aside as though he expected me to obey without question.
When I refused to move, he’d raised a brow, letting a faint smile curve his lips. “Suit yourself. But I doubt you’ll find anything edible in here.”
The thought of starving hadn’t been appealing, so I’d grudgingly followed him, hating every step as he led me back to Kael’s quarters. Now, seated at the table with all three warlocks, I feel like an animal under observation.
Across from me, Torin is openly staring. His sharp grin stretches across his face, and his dark eyes glint with amusement and something far more dangerous. It makes my skin prickle with irritation—and something I refuse to name.
Kael, seated at the head of the table, seems to radiate authority with every movement. He eats with a measured grace that only amplifies the weight of his presence. Finn, meanwhile, sits to Kael’s right, leaning back in his chair with a casual ease, his long fingers rolling a silver ring across his knuckles. Together, they make the room feel stifling despite its size, their attention weighing heavy on me as I poke at the food on my plate.
Kael is dressed impeccably, of course, because why wouldn’t he be? A fitted black sweater stretches across his broad chest, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the edge of a tattoo winding along his forearm. His dark trousers are pressed perfectly, the kind of detail that shouldn’t matter but somehow makes him even more infuriatingly put-together. The simplicity of the outfit only emphasizes his physique—lean but powerful, every inch of him screaming control. His dark hair is neatly combed, though a single strand falls across his forehead in a way that seems almost too deliberate. He looks far too good, far too composed, and I hate him for it. No one should look that... commanding at breakfast.
The sound of Torin’s low chuckle pulls my attention back to him. He isn’t wearing a shirt—because why would he be? I’m definitely not staring at the thick cords of muscle in his arms that ripple with every flick of the blade he’s spinning between his fingers. Or the way his shoulders flex as he shifts in his chair, all restless energy barely contained. No, I’m not looking at any of that. Definitely not.
His gaze hasn’t shifted once, and the edges of his grin only widen when our eyes meet. I have to force myself to look away, a stubborn flush creeping up my neck.
These men might not be human, but they’re as insufferable as any man I’ve ever met—and far more dangerous.
“Is something the matter, Sable?” Kael’s deep voice cuts through the silence, dragging my attention to him.
I glance at him, lifting my chin. “Yes, actually. Why do I have to wear this?” I gesture to the thin nightgown. “You’re all fully dressed, yet I’m still sitting here in this.” Well, except for Torin, of course, who’s allergic to shirts—or so it seems.
Kael raises a brow, but before he can respond, Torin leans forward, his grin widening. “Why would we change perfection, kitten? You look...good enough to eat.” His eyes gleam with wicked intent, and my cheeks flush despite my best efforts to stay composed.
I force my gaze down to my plate, ignoring the unbidden memory of his hands on me the night before, the weight of his body pinning me. Focus, Sable. He’s insane. They’re all insane. This isn’t the time for— I snap out of it and glare at him.
“Stop,” I hiss, my voice low but firm. “You’re disgusting.”
He laughs, low and throaty, the sound crawling under my skin.
Finn’s voice cuts through, calm and measured, drawing my attention to him. He leans back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other rolling that ever-present silver ring between his fingers. There’s an almost feline grace to him, his lean, muscular frame draped in a dark sweater that clings just right to his shoulders. His sharp features are all cool detachment, as if nothing in this world could truly faze him. Unlike Torin, who thrives on chaos, and Kael, whose authority demands engagement, Finn feels like he’s always observing, always calculating—but never fully present in the conversation.
“If you’re unhappy with your outfit, I can help,” he says, snapping his fingers with effortless precision.
The air shimmers around me, the nightgown shifting and reforming into something new—a sleek, fitted dress in deep green that clings to me like a second skin. I glance at him warily, and he meets my gaze with that same infuriating calm, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly as if daring me to protest.
“Stop doing that!” I snap, my voice rising. “I don’t want your magic used on me.”
Finn arches a brow, his lips curving into a slow smile. “As you wish.” He lowers his hand, and the dress vanishes entirely, leaving me completely bare.
I yelp, crossing my arms over my chest as heat floods my face. “Give me my clothes back!” I manage to grind out through clenched teeth.
Torin whistles low, his eyes raking over me with no shame. “Now that’s a look I can get behind.” He grins wickedly. “Or in front of.”
Kael’s sharp voice breaks through the chaos. “Enough.”
Finn smirks but obliges, snapping his fingers again. My nightgown reappears. “You’re welcome,” he says smoothly, gesturing toward me. “For future reference, there are clothes in your wardrobe. We’re not barbarians, Sable. Well...” He glances at Torin. “Not all of us.”
Kael steers the conversation back on course. “I'd like to discuss your training.”
“Training for what?” I ask, my tone sharp. My frustration boils over as I glare between Kael and Finn. “You must be insane.”
“To explore your powers,” Kael replies simply.
I scoff, leaning back in my chair. “Why don’t you just kill me and be done with it?”
Kael’s face remains unreadable. “Because we think you can be of use to us.”
My anger flares. “I’d rather die than help any of you.”
Torin’s grin turns feral. “I can arrange that,” he says, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “But we should make it fun first. Don’t want to waste a perfectly good opportunity.”
“Torin.” Kael’s voice is sharp, a warning.
Torin raises his hands in mock surrender, but his grin doesn’t falter. “Just saying, Alpha.”
I shoot Torin a glare, but something about the way Kael glances at Finn unsettles me. There’s a silent exchange, something unspoken that I can’t quite catch.
Finn leans back in his chair, his smirk returning. “You’re feisty. I’ll give you that. But if you’re not careful, you’ll learn the hard way that we like things unhinged around here. Keeps people from getting...brave.”
“Like Rothgar,” Torin says casually, slicing into a piece of meat with unnecessary force.
Kael’s jaw tightens, and Finn’s amused expression vanishes.
The name hangs in the air like a storm cloud. Rothgar. The way Kael and Finn glare at Torin tells me it’s a touchy subject—one I file away for later.
Kael’s tone is cool as he redirects. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”
“Or not,” Torin chimes in, his grin returning. “It’d be fun to watch her go down.”
I bristle, but I grab a piece of bread, determined to regain some control of the situation—and to learn more about this Rothgar. If he’s a sore spot, maybe he’s the key to figuring out how to escape.
For now, I’ll play their game. But only because I intend to win.