Chapter 3
He followed the Beast out of the chamber like a dog on an invisible leash.
The halls of House Virellien were all smooth marble and shadows.
Light didn’t reach here so much as it was permitted to glow in certain, careful places—hovering crystal sconces casting dim indigo and pearl light against black stone veined in silver.
The silence was complete, heavy, like sound was afraid to speak without permission.
No windows. No sky.
Riven’s steps echoed behind the Beast’s, each one an effort in pride.
He wouldn’t shuffle. Wouldn’t scurry. But gods, his back still burned.
The brand pulsed like a second heartbeat at the base of his spine, humming with magic.
It hadn’t faded—it had settled beneath his skin like it intended to stay.
He didn’t speak.
Neither did the Beast.
Not until they passed through an arched obsidian doorway and the heavy, runed door slid shut behind them with a final-sounding clang.
Then Riven realized two things at once: this was no guest wing.
And they were alone.
The chamber was expansive, darkly elegant.
Polished floors, a wall of cascading water behind crystalline glass, a low-burning hearth, and a bed big enough to host a war council.
The furniture was sleek, carved from blackheart wood and inlaid with iridescent shell.
A wall of blades and weapons gleamed along the far side—swords, guns, curved knives that pulsed faintly with enchantment.
The Beast shrugged off his coat. Leather fell in a slow ripple to the floor.
Riven stood stiffly near the door. He should say something, demand answers, ask what the hell his life was now supposed to be. But his mouth stayed closed.
Because the Beast had started to unbutton his shirt.
“You—” Riven’s voice cracked. “You going to fuck me the second we’re alone, then? Real subtle.”
Silver eyes flicked to him.
“No.”
He dropped the shirt next. His torso was a map of ink and old scars. Gods, he looked like a statue come to life. All lean, defined muscle, carved as if by war itself. Not bulky—there was too much grace in the way he moved for that—but solid, power coiled under skin like something waiting to strike.
Runic tattoos traced sharp ribs and coiled over his pectorals like serpents of ink. A gnarled scar ran from his left pectoral down to his navel, pink and raised. A blade wound, deep and deliberate. A killing blow, had it hit closer to the heart.
Riven hated that he noticed. Hated that his gaze dragged lower, over the flat of that stomach, the faint trail of silver-blond hair leading down beneath the edge of his trousers.
He hated it. He hated him.
But his breath still hitched.
“No?” he echoed, sharper now. “Then what the fuck is this? Am I a new pet to show off to your monster friends? Or do you just like watching me squirm?”
Thane didn’t smile. But there was something colder—sharper—in the way he tilted his head.
“You think I took you for sex?” he asked. “I could get that from anyone.”
That should’ve made Riven feel better. It didn’t.
“Then what do you want?” he snapped.
Thane took a slow step toward him. Riven didn’t move.
“I want to see what happens when you’re no longer hiding behind all that noise.”
There it was again—that strange attention. Not lust. Not cruelty. Something more intent, like Thane was a scientist, and Riven the live specimen.
Riven’s chest burned with resentment. And underneath it, heat.
Gods, he hated him.
The Beast turned his back on Riven, crossed the room to a sideboard. He uncorked a bottle of dark amber liquid and poured two glasses.
“I don’t take what hasn’t been offered,” he added, then smirked slightly. “Even when it’s already mine.”
“You branded me.”
“I claimed you. That’s different. Besides, you offered yourself to the House.”
He brought over a glass, handed it to Riven.
Riven stared at it, then him. “This is your idea of aftercare?”
“You’re not here to be a prisoner,” the Beast said. “You’re here to work off your debt. And to try not to get yourself killed.”
“Nice of you to say that after magically enslaving me.”
“Your sister is more in debt to us than perhaps you know,” the Beast said evenly, silver eyes glinting. “The Matriarch was ready to take her for whatever meager service she could provide.”
He took a long sip of his drink.
“You offered me a better solution.”
Riven hesitated, then took the glass. The liquor hit his tongue like fire and honey, burning its way down to settle behind his ribs.
“Why?” he asked, quietly. “Why accept?”
The Beast’s expression didn’t soften, but it changed, slightly. A flicker beneath the surface.
“You’re talented. Dangerous. And clever, if not especially wise. A good combination for the kind of work I do.”
Riven’s skin prickled, though he wasn’t sure if it was the fact that Thane Virellien had researched him or the wording he’d chosen. “What kind of work is that?”
A slow smile. “The kind that gets blood on your hands.”
He downed the rest of his drink and turned away.
Riven watched the long line of his back, the way his trousers hung low on his hips, just above the curve of—
He looked away, scowling. No. No fucking way.
He hated men like this. Powerful. Controlled. Arrogant as fuck. Just because the Beast had a body carved by war and a voice that did things to Riven’s spine didn’t mean—
“You don’t like me.”
The voice broke through the storm in his head. Riven turned to find the Beast watching him again, eyes half-lidded.
“No shit.”
“And yet you’re staring like you want to put your teeth in me.”
Riven’s breath caught. Heat flared low in his gut. That bastard grin spread across the Beast’s face again, slow and wicked.
“You think you’re so untouchable,” Riven muttered. “But I know your type.”
“Do you?”
“You think because you have power, it makes you right. But power’s just power. You use it, or it uses you.”
The Beast stepped closer. One pace. Two.
Riven held his ground.
“I don’t give a fuck about being right,” the Beast said softly. “I want to be obeyed.”
And there it was—that gut-punch twist of attraction and fury. Riven clenched his jaw. He wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Maybe both.
“Go to hell,” he muttered.
The Beast leaned in close, breath warm at Riven’s ear. “You’re already there.”