Chapter 11 #2
Eris’s heart thundered, but when her voice came, it was unflinching. She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I would not be so sure…”—her words slowed, deliberate as a blade unsheathing—“about history repeating itself.”
The silence thickened. The air did not settle; it stilled, unnaturally heavy, as if the room itself had drawn breath and forgotten how to exhale. A distant creak whispered through the stone, though nothing had moved. Then she spoke again. Not louder, but resonant, as if the words had chosen her.
“Your empire, built on chains, soaked in blood.” Each syllable fell with unsettling precision, like chimes struck out of time. “It will fall.”
The light above them flickered once—a blink. Avaristo’s fingers tightened on his glass. He did not move otherwise. He did not speak, but the skin at the corner of his eye twitched, involuntarily. He had felt it too. Something was wrong.
"And when it does…" Eris continued, her voice not just quieter but altered, no longer entirely her own, "the Lycans will be free. Their land will be theirs again. And your name"—she leaned forward, meeting him eye to eye—"will vanish, buried beneath roots deeper than your thrones ever reached."
Silence followed, not peace but absence. Something ancient had passed through, and the room had not caught up. For one second, for one breath, Avaristo faltered. His gaze swept across her face, searching for a seam, a crack in the illusion, anything to explain the wrongness. There was nothing.
He blinked once. A trick of the mind, tension and light, nothing more, he thought. The mask slid back into place, and he exhaled smoothly, too smoothly.
With a faint tilt of his head, he leaned in. "Then we had best make sure the ground stays salted." He shifted, the movement surgical. The predator withdrew, replaced by the gentleman. Composure returned like a blade sheathed in silk.
A soft knock came at the door, timed, precise.
Avaristo’s gaze shifted as amusement flickered in his eyes.
He straightened, rolling his shoulders with languid ease.
"Now then," he said, voice smooth as velvet.
"There is someone quite eager to meet you.
" He gestured toward the door with casual flair. "Shall I let them in?"
The door creaked open and unhurried footsteps followed. Eris did not turn. She waited. Only when the air shifted, charged and oppressive, did she lift her gaze.
Rurik Rimashenko.
He stepped into the light as if it owed him.
He was massive, built for spectacle, not survival—a man who destroyed for the pleasure of watching things break.
Where Avaristo’s power was tempered by precision, Rurik’s was rooted in chaos, raw and unchecked.
His coat hung open, a silk shirt clinging to sculpted muscle, unscarred and unearned.
He stood not like a man, but like a promise: relaxed, entitled, and certain of his dominance.
When his eyes met hers, the room seemed to shift. They were gray, cold, and hungry. His gaze moved over her, invasively, as if he had already decided she belonged to him. It was not curiosity or admiration. It was assessment, the look of someone inventorying what he intended to claim.
Stubble traced his jaw with careful precision, and a single curl fell across his brow like a whispered lie. Manhood sculpted for desire, not substance—for velvet lounges, not battlefields. Still, he radiated danger, because men like Rurik didn’t need knives. They simply took what they wanted.
Her skin crawled as a sneer curled her lips in raw, unfiltered disgust.
He noticed. He liked it.
Rurik rubbed his jaw with a smirk, visibly amused.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice thick with mockery. "The pleasure is all mine, Princess." He stepped closer, head tilting. “So the rumors were true,” he murmured, eyes gleaming. “You truly are breathtaking.”
Eris didn’t flinch. Her voice, when it came, was cool and precise, like a blade unsheathing. “Pity. I can't say the same.” She let her gaze sweep over him, slicing the air between them like a verdict. “I have standards, after all.”
His smirk darkened, sharpening into something more primal. He wasn’t used to refusal, and women like her didn’t deter him—they provoked him.
Behind her, Avaristo chuckled, indulgent and amused. “Oh, you wound him, my dear.” His voice was that of a man enjoying the precision of a well-laid trap. “That’s rather rude,” he added smoothly, “considering my nephew has been quite insistent on meeting you.”
Eris’s stomach twisted, but she did not let it show.
Avaristo’s eyes glittered as Rurik’s smirk deepened beside him, dark and hungry. He sighed, adjusted his cuffs, and set the glass down with practiced calm.
“Well then,” he murmured, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “You two have fun.”
He turned away, his stride effortless, already dismissing her. The door clicked shut behind him.
The shift in the air was immediate and claustrophobic. A weight settled on her chest, tightening like fingers around her throat.
Then came a heavy, deliberate step. Rurik advanced with slow certainty, his presence stretching to fill the room like a dark tide. Eris forced herself to stay still, to breathe evenly, but her fingers curled around the chair’s arms, betraying her fear.
He leaned in, his voice deeply amused. “Drop the mask, Eris.” His breath brushed her ear.
“That little aristocratic sneer of yours—it’s charming.
But we both know what’s underneath.” His voice dropped crueler.
“Just a girl aching to be broken properly, by someone who knows how to make her beg for it.”
The words slithered in, wet with mockery and laced with rot. Revulsion tore through her as rage surged.
Her hand flew fast, but he moved faster. His fingers clamped around her wrist, iron-tight. Eris gasped as his grip locked in. His smirk deepened. He was clearly enjoying this. His other hand seized her arm and flung her from the chair.
She hit the ground hard. Pain shot through her elbows, ribs, spine. She inhaled sharply and pressed trembling palms to the cold floor, trying to rise.
Let him think this will break me. Let him. A broken thing cuts deeper.
Unhurried bootsteps followed. She turned her head slightly as a shadow stretched toward her.
Rurik stood above her, calm and watching.
His fingers moved to his belt. She heard leather drag slow through metal.
Her pulse roared. Her body seized. He knelt and slipped the belt around her throat, not tight enough to cut air, just tight enough to trap her in the threat.
His whisper coiled into her ear. “Tell me, Eris…did Kareon leave his mark or should I?”
Her breath caught. Fury rose. She turned and spoke through clenched teeth. “Go to hell, Rurik.”
The words cut like a blade. Something flickered in his eyes as he realized that maybe she would never break the way he wanted.
His grip tightened. Pain lanced through her jaw, but she didn’t flinch.
He smiled cruelly. “If he didn’t finish the lesson, I will.
” He dropped the belt, but the threat stayed.
He yanked her up and slammed her into the wall.
The impact stole her breath. Grey eyes devoured her, cold and claiming.
His gaze crawled over her like rot. “Ah…now I see it. No wonder Stephan’s gone mad for you.
” He leaned in, eyes glinting. “You wear temptation like a fucking birthright.”
The words hit like acid.
“Leave Stephan out of this,” she snapped. “You’re not even worthy to say his name.” Her hands shook with fury.
“Oh? Touched a nerve?” He sighed, mock-sympathetic. “Poor boy. Shackled to a girl with no loyalty and even less shame. I told him, you know.”
The words landed like a blow. She barely managed to speak. “Told him what?”
“At the Shadow Court match. Yesterday.” His tone oozed satisfaction. “Told him you weren’t worth his time. Not after the wolves marked you.”
The world tilted. Stephan—his fury, his silence, the way he had fought like every strike was a scream.
She had felt it then, without knowing why.
Now she did. She saw the poison Rurik had planted and the weight Stephan had carried alone, all because of her.
Her chest tightened from unbearable guilt.
“You miserable coward,” she spat. “You couldn’t touch him, so you went after me.”
His smirk faltered, only for a breath, but she saw it. Then it twisted.
“Oh, I touched him,” he said, voice venomous. “Right where it hurts.” He stepped closer, eyes alight with cruel satisfaction. “And now I’ll watch him break from knowing he couldn’t save you.”
Then his emotions pierced her, ice through marrow, sharp and merciless. Rage, rivalry, resentment. Old wounds, humiliation, the sting of being less. And beneath it all, a silence thick enough to choke.
She staggered under the weight of it, but he was already moving.
Rurik drew a sleek black device from his coat, its surface threaded with faint red circuits—an Obsidian surveillance orb.
He swiped a thumb over it, and it powered on with a low, ominous hum.
Tilting it with practiced ease, he angled the lens until his smug reflection stared back in the dark glass. The glow steadied, malicious.
“Shall we show your boyfriend what he’s been missing?”
Eris inhaled sharply. “No… Don’t.”
She lunged, fingertips grazing the edge of the orb, but Rurik struck, sharp and sudden. Her head snapped sideways, pain searing her cheek as blood welled on her lip, warm and metallic.
She tasted it, swallowed hard, and steadied her breath. Then she glared at him, full of what she couldn’t yet do. “There is no corner of this world I won’t find you in. No god that will stop me from making you bleed.”
Rurik barely glanced at her. Her threat meant nothing to him yet. He wasn’t interested in resistance, only in display, so he angled the orb.
“Greetings, Stephan,” he drawled, voice thick with mockery.
“Remember yesterday, when you said I’d never touch what wasn’t mine?
” He tilted his head, savoring the echo while the orb captured his smug face.
Then, slowly, the frame widened, revealing Eris pinned against the wall, her breath shallow, body rigid.
Rurik’s hand clamped around her arm, claiming her like a prize.
She gasped, face contorting as the pressure bit deep.
“Well,” he drawled, smirking toward the orb, “check this out.” He leaned in slightly, purring, “Isn’t she gorgeous? ”
Eris flinched and turned her face away from the lens. Her voice cracked. “Don’t do this. Please.” Tears slipped free as her breath turned ragged.
Rurik laughed, visibly pleased with himself. “Sorry, Stephan.” He turned the orb back to his own face. “Gotta put this away now. You understand.”
Another swipe of his thumb. The glow dimmed, and then he sent it. The orb fell silent, its signal cut. Stephan would see everything. And that was the part Rurik enjoyed most.
Eris’s world tilted. Her breath caught, strangled in her chest. But none of it mattered, because all she could see, all she could feel, was Stephan.
The thought of him watching her like this, helpless, shattered her.
Something inside tore at knowing Rurik hadn’t just humiliated her, he’d made Stephan suffer; that was the deepest cut.
Her body slackened. For a heartbeat, she gave in to despair. Then, deep inside, the silence shifted, not with hope, not yet, but with fury, coiled and waiting. He would fucking pay for this.
She barely registered Rurik’s hand at her jaw, his fingers tightening, forcing her still.
Let him think she was broken. Let him believe this was done. Because when she rose, she would make damn sure he bled for every second of it.
His body pressed against hers for control as his thumb dragged across her lips, smearing the faint trickle of blood from cracked skin.
His eyes darkened with hunger. She saw it in his gaze, what he intended to take.
Then his focus dropped. He saw what was on his thumb, truly saw it, and his tongue flicked out.
The moment her blood touched his tongue, something in him broke. His pupils dilated. A tremor seized him as his grip tightened. Then, hoarse and half-delirious:
“Marvelous.”
He inhaled sharply, as if tasting something rare. Exquisite. It wasn’t mercy that stopped him. It was madness—the madness of her blood.
And then he snapped. His grip crushed her. “Firstbloods like you,” he murmured, voice fevered, distant. “Only useful to bleed.”
Eris barely had time to react. His head dipped.
His lips dragged from hers to her throat.
Then he bit her. His fangs drove deep, wild and unrestrained.
Agony exploded through her, consuming. Her spine arched.
Her fingers clawed at his chest, useless.
He drank too fast, too deep, too much. Her pulse thrashed, then faltered.
With each second, her strength drained, her heartbeat slipping further away. The room swayed. Or maybe it was her.
A distant voice called out, urgent.
“Stop now, or there’ll be nothing left of her!”
Hands wrenched him away, and she slid down the wall, her body limp, breathless. No more fight. No more breath.
Stephan, forgive me.
And then the world went still.