36. Nikolai
I stand near the edge of the runway, my jaw set so tight it feels like stone, staring out into the gray, misty horizon.
Beside me, Magnus has his arms wrapped securely around Darius.
The kid is unusually quiet, lulled by the heavy, rhythmic thrumming of the aircraft engines echoing in the distance.
If you didn’t know better, you wouldn’t be able to tell Darius isn’t Magnus’ biological son.
They match perfectly—the same dark curls, the same unyielding shape of the jaw.
Magnus holds him with a natural, fierce protectiveness that makes my wolf quiet down for a fraction of a second.
Ilinca stands pressed into Magnus’s side, her fingers trembling where they are woven through his, her eyes wide with a terror that has nothing to do with the freezing wind.
The high-pitched whine of a descending engine cuts through the roar of the wind. A sleek, silver private jet breaks through the heavy cloud cover, its tires striking the tarmac with a loud, smoking screech before taxiing toward our position.
The stairs lower, and the first figures to step out are the rulers of the werewolf world.
My father, the Alpha King, descends with a hard, calculated grace, his massive frame wrapped in a heavy woolen coat.
Behind him is my mother, her eyes sharp as flint as she scans the airfield.
Following them closely are Magnus’s parents—my father’s Beta and his mate.
“Nikolai,” my father growls as his boots hit the gravel, stepping forward to clasp my shoulder in a grip that would crush a human’s bones. He doesn’t offer a warm greeting. His eyes immediately dart to Magnus and the child in his arms, but before he can greet them, another sound echoes from the sky.
A second plane is descending. And this one is entirely different.
It is a matte-black twin-engine jet, landing with an eerie, unnatural silence that seems to defy physics. The moment the engines cut, a suffocating, heavy pressure drops over the entire airfield, a dark aura so thick it makes my wolf instantly bared his teeth in frantic, defensive warning.
The cabin door clicks open.
The figures who step out are the absolute definition of imposing.
The Corvins. They move with a terrifying, fluid grace that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
First is the king of the vampires. He is a tall, striking man with sharp, aristocratic features and eyes the color of freshly spilled blood.
Beside him is his Queen, a woman of ethereal, dangerous beauty, her long dark hair whipping in the wind.
Walking between them is a young boy, who couldn’t be more than fourteen, his expression cold and detached, carrying the unmistakable arrogance of a prince in training.
But there’s more.
Stepping out of the shadow of the black jet are the Morars. Ilinca’s parents, the Alpha and Luna of the largest Romanian pack, along with her brother, Adrian.
My father steps forward, masking his predatory instincts behind a rigid, diplomatic nod. “Your Majesty,” my father greets, his voice booming across the tarmac.
I step into line beside my father, pulling my shoulders back. “I’m Nikolai,” I introduce myself, my voice dropping into its formal register. “We regret the circumstances that brought you across the sea, but we assure you—”
“Where is she?”
The King interrupts me, his voice a low, terrifying hiss that carries the weight of a thousand ancient graves. He doesn’t care about my title. He doesn’t care about the political pleasantries. His crimson eyes bore directly into mine, demanding an answer.
I blink, a sudden confusion piercing through my guard. “I’m sorry?”
Why the hell is the king of the vampires asking me about her?
I still don’t understand why the Corvins are so hyper-focused on a random vampire girl.
If they are talking about Casandra—and every instinct I possess tells me they are—the sheer scale of their concern makes no logical sense. Is she a high-ranking vampire?
Before I can open my mouth to demand clarification, a quiet movement near the edge of the hangar draws our eyes.
Elena, Darius’ sitter, appears from the shadows. She doesn’t look at me, nor does she look at my father. She walks directly toward the vampire royalty, dropping into a deep, flawless bow.
“Your Excellencies,” Elena says, her voice steady despite the terrifying power radiating off the Corvins. “She will meet you in the dining hall. The academy staff are waiting there to welcome you properly.”
The Corvin King narrows his blood-red eyes, staring at Elena for a long, agonizing second before giving a single, sharp nod. “Lead the way.”
The walk back to the main academy building is a masterclass in silent tension.
The werewolves and the vampires move in two distinct, parallel columns, the air between us practically humming with a century of unresolved blood feuds.
I keep my focus forward, but my mind is a chaotic vortex of unanswered questions.
When we push through the heavy wooden doors of the dining hall, my breath catches.
The space has been completely, drastically transformed.
The cafeteria we know is gone, replaced by a grand, intimidating banquet layout designed to accommodate the absolute peak of supernatural royalty.
Heavy velvet drapes cover the high windows, and a long, polished oak table sits in the center of the room.
Alastair Hawthorne and Gideon Graves are standing near the head of the table, both of them looking entirely undone. Graves is sweating through his collar, his hands shaking as he bows to my parents and the Corvins.
I slide into a space near the back of the room, my eyes scanning the crowd until I spot Adrian standing near the perimeter, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches the faculty with a look of disgust.
I stride over to him, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t carry across the room. “Adrian,” I mutter, grabbing his attention. “What the hell is going on here? How come the Corvins came all this way right now?”
Adrian turns his head to look at me, his light brown brows furrowing in genuine bewilderment. He stares at me like I’ve just asked him if the sun rises in the east.
“What do you mean?” Adrian asks, his voice flat with disbelief. “Of course they came. Someone just tried to assassinate their daughter.”
The words hit my chest like a physical blow.
The world around me suddenly tilts, the walls of the dining hall blurring into a sickening mass of gray. The air is sucked entirely from my lungs, a cold, paralyzing shock freezing the blood in my veins. Their daughter.
“A princess,” Fenris whispers in my mind.
The pieces of the puzzle scatter and reassemble in my mind with a devastating, violent jolt.
That’s why she lived in the West Wing penthouse apartment.
That’s why Julian Vane—the leader of the largest vampire clan in North America—was sitting by her bed like a guardian.
She wasn’t just a high-born vampire. She was the vampire.
And I had just stood in a medical room hours ago, looking down at her bleeding, silver-poisoned body, and told her she was a cosmic error. I tried to reject the fated match of the most powerful female on the planet because I was too caught up in my own blind hatred to check her last name.
Before I can even draw a breath to steady my racing heart, the heavy double doors at the back of the dining hall swing open.
The room goes completely, deathly silent.
Casandra enters the hall. She has shed the hospital gown, now wearing a dark sweater that completely hides the thick layers of gauze covering her right shoulder.
She walks with her chin tilted high, her posture a perfect, unyielding insult to everyone who doubted her strength.
Her crimson eyes are clear, flashing with a fierce, vengeful light that makes my wolf instantly want to drop to his knees in absolute submission.
But she isn’t walking alone.
Her pale, perfect hand is woven firmly through Julian Vane’s fingers.
The sight of their joined hands ignites a sudden, catastrophic inferno in my gut, a wave of pure, devastating jealousy that threatens to tear my body apart.
She is looking at him with a soft, trusting familiarity, entirely ignoring my presence as she walks directly toward the head of the table where her parents stand waiting.
She is the Corvin heir. She is my fated mate. And I have just handed her directly into the arms of another man.