C H A P T E R E I G H T
C H A P T E R E I G H T
Altair
S he thinks she is a pet.
The words bounce around in my brain, refusing to settle. Is that truly how she feels? Does she see herself as a caged animal, something to be kept and tamed? A rush of frustration surges through me, but there’s something else beneath it—something more vulnerable, something I can’t quite name.
I’ve tried to ensure her comfort here, to give her every luxury I could. I left orders before I left, assurances that she would be well cared for in my absence. But even I know that’s not enough. I wasn’t here. I don’t know how she was treated while I was gone. I don’t know if those orders were even followed, or if someone in this damned court took advantage of her isolation. I don’t know what happened in the time I was absent, or how my absence might have shattered any sense of trust I’d tried to build.
I married her, then walked away, expecting her to simply accept it, to accept me , without ever truly considering how my absence could have affected her. I thought my gifts and my words would be enough, but I see now that they weren’t. I should have been here. She needed me here. And if she feels like a prisoner, like she’s nothing more than something to be controlled, then I’ve failed her.
I watch her, the way her chin lifts, the slope of her neck exposed—a dare, a challenge that makes my blood sing and my fangs ache. But behind her bravado, I see the flicker of fear, the uncertainty that shadows her green eyes. Her pulse races beneath her skin, and I’m keenly aware of every rapid beat. It’s a drumbeat echoing my own rising frustration.
She is more than a pet. She is my wife. My queen. How can she not see that?
The shadows around me pulse, mirroring the anger that coils tighter and tighter within me. I bare my fangs, my voice coming out rough, more growl than words. “You are not a pet,” I declare, my breath hot and ragged, the truth of it burning in my chest. She flinches but doesn’t back down, and a part of me thrills at her courage, even as my mind twists with anger.
I need her to understand.
I tighten my grip, feeling the delicate bones of her wrist beneath my hand. A warning? Perhaps. But also, a tether, an anchor. If she pulls away, I’ll lose everything? I lean closer, my breath brushing against her skin, and for a moment, I see a shiver run through her—a tremor I can’t quite tell is fear or some other emotion. Her eyes, bright and defiant, meet mine, and I see myself reflected in them—wild, desperate, afraid.
I try to steady myself, but what I’ve kept from her presses down on me. The truth— my truth —is so much more complicated than I’ve let her see. She doesn’t even know the full extent of her power, how dangerous it could be if it’s unlocked too soon, if she loses control. I can feel the tremor in my own gut at the thought. If she finds out what I’ve been hiding, and she doesn’t understand her power or how to wield it… if she lets her emotions run unchecked—she could destroy herself.
She has no idea that she is already a danger to herself. I fear the moment she discovers the truth; the moment she realises how much power she holds and how little control she has over it. Will she lash out? Will she trust me, or will she turn that anger on everything around her, including herself?
The conflict rages within me. I want to protect her, to guide her through this— but she has to be ready. She must learn to control herself, to understand her magic, before she can ever truly know the truth. But how can I keep it from her any longer, when everything in me is screaming that she needs to know, needs to be prepared?
I want to be the one she trusts, the one who can show her how to wield her magic, how to protect herself. But if I want that trust, I know I need to change. I need to give her something— something real —to show that I’m not just the king who married her out of convenience, who left her to fend for herself. If I am going to ask her to trust me, to help me guide her, I have to start by offering her something she’s never had from me: honesty, transparency, and maybe even a bit of compassion.
The thought nags at me, but I know it’s the only way forward. If I want her to trust me enough to let me help her, I need to show her that I’m not the enemy— I need to be someone she can believe in . But is that even possible after everything I’ve already done?
“Remember, Olwyn,” I whisper, my voice low, urgent, yet softer than before. “I chose you. Not as my prisoner. Not as my pet. As my queen. If I wanted you for food, or to keep a prophecy from coming true, I could have drained you the moment I saw you.” I pause, letting my words sink in, knowing the weight they carry. My hand loosens from her wrist, allowing her to pull away if she chooses, though part of me hopes she doesn’t. “But if you want to stroll around this palace feeling like a prisoner, unable to make more for yourself... that is your doing, not mine. You have plenty of opportunities laid before you, all you must do is ask.”
I take a step back, giving her space, but keeping my gaze locked with hers. The tension between us is thick, but I know this is necessary. She needs to hear the truth, even if she doesn’t want to accept it yet. I realise now that I can’t simply dictate her path—I need to give her the tools to decide it for herself. I can’t protect her from everything, especially not from the truth of what she is capable of.
“You are destined for more than you realise,” I continue, my voice steady, even as the urgency still presses in my chest. “Embrace it or fight against it. The choice is yours, Olwyn. But you will choose.” I let the words settle between us, my own heart beating heavy in my chest. For the first time, I’m not speaking as her king, but as someone who sees her potential—someone who wants to see her become who she is meant to be, not what I’ve forced her into.
I wait, watching her, hoping—praying—that she hears the meaning behind my words. That she understands I’m giving her more than just control over herself, but control over her future. Over her destiny.
She hesitates. “I can't,” she whispers, the words barely audible, but they hit me like a punch to the gut. I can’t. Why can't she? Because she doesn’t trust me? Or is it something deeper, something I’ll never be able to reach?
I let the shadows slip away, retreating to the corners of the room like a scolded dog. My grip loosens, and I step back, my anger cooling, replaced by something colder… something emptier.
“Fine,” I mutter, the word feeling like a stone in my mouth. I turn, opening the door, but I can't help myself—I glance back. “Consider what binds you, Olwyn,” I say, my voice softer, yet sharp as a blade. “Is it your captor’s chains , the limits you place upon yourself? Or perhaps something else entirely.”
As I leave, I try to shake off the feeling gnawing at me, the echo of her heartbeat still pounding in my ears. Am I any better than those who kept her in Avantra? Have I merely replaced one prison with another?
But then I remember her defiance, the way her eyes blazed with anger. She’s stronger than she knows. And maybe… just maybe, she’ll realise that here, with me.
I stalk past Iolas, feeling his curious eyes on my back. For once, he doesn’t say anything. Smart man. He knows better than to provoke me when I’m like this. I don’t even bother glancing his way; I feel the restraint in his stance, the tension that holds him in place. Good. I’m not in the mood for his quips or his questions.
“I’ll be in my study,” I mutter, my voice flat, barely a breath above a growl. I feel his gaze linger on me as I leave the training room, leaving Olwyn behind.
She needs some time alone, to think, to breathe. And so do I.