Chapter 27
Malchance
TYSON
One of Chastity’s healers scurried past him, and Tyson closed the door to his Uncle’s room as gently as he could. “They’re both asleep,” he told his cousin.
Natalia rounded on Sir Gavin. “Why hasn’t anyone been guarding His Grace’s door? This is a gross oversight.”
“My apologies, my lady. It will not happen again.”
“If His Grace wakes up, I am to be notified immediately. And do not let anyone in. Witch or demon or goddess herself. Do you understand?”
The guards nodded, then stationed themselves outside the door.
Natalia strode down the narrow stone corridor, hips swaying, hands clenched into fists. Tyson raced to catch up with her. “Where are you going?”
“To fetch my sanguine partner. If our uncle refuses to eat, then I’m going to force-feed him.”
“He’ll be livid.”
“I don’t care.”
She didn’t care? Had she met our uncle? “When Uncle Bastien gets angry at you, you'd better say I had no part in this.”
Natalia grabbed the front of Tyson’s shirt and bared her fangs.
“This is why you shouldn’t be Bastien’s heir.
You’re not willing to make the hard choices necessary for command.
” She shoved him against the wall. “It doesn’t matter if someone is angry at you.
That’s a child’s worry. What matters is that you did what was best for your people. ”
She released him, and Tyson tried to put his mask back on. Willing the pieces of his cracked facade to snap back into place. However, when he tried to smirk and brush off Natalia’s words, the jagged pieces didn’t fit as well as they had before.
“Do you want my help?” he called after her.
She offered him a one-fingered gesture as she continued down the corridor.
Tyson leaned the back of his head against the wall and tried to silence the voices in his head that were screaming at him. Shouting at him with his uncle’s disapproving sneer. His father’s wrath. His mother’s insistence that he was something he was not.
He wanted to drink. To fight. To fuck. Anything to drown out the sound of his own ineptitude.
He exhaled slowly through his nose and dragged a hand down his face. He supposed he should do something selfless instead, like check on the wounded, or perhaps go and comfort Tansy, who wouldn’t stop crying over Devlinn’s rotted body.
That’s what a commander would do. Wasn’t it?
The only problem was that Chastity’s Stronghold was just as big a labyrinth as the underground tunnels, and he had no fucking clue where he was. He looked left, right, then stopped, stilled by the sound of shouting.
Tyson drew his sword and edged closer to a bend in the corridor, back pressed to the wall.
“This way!” a female voice said.
“No, this way!” answered a male voice.
Tyson pushed off the wall just as two figures came tearing around the corner and collided with him full force.
The impact drove the breath from his lungs and sent all three of them stumbling.
His shoulder struck stone. Someone’s elbow caught his ribs.
For a tangled second, there was nothing but fabric and limbs.
Normally, Tyson would welcome this kind of situation, with a lot more wine and a lot less clothing.
But unfortunately for him, he was trying to act more lordly.
He pushed to his feet and realized the two runners were unarmed. One was a man he recognized from Chateau Rose. He was almost positive he was one of Claire’s consorts, although he couldn’t remember the man coming with them into the Lawless Lands. In fact, he’d heard he’d gone missing.
He dropped to one knee, head bowed.
“My lord—”
Tyson froze, staring down at him. He didn’t just recognize him. It felt like he knew him. Every inch of him. From his dark hair to his smooth skin.
“You don’t need to bow,” Tyson said strangely, because bowing was exactly what he was supposed to do. “Please, rise.”
Tyson held out his hand, and the man glanced up at him with red-brown eyes. They were the most unusual shade he’d ever seen in his life. So captivating.
He shook off the reaction as he helped him to his feet. He’d just said he wasn’t going to be fighting or fucking anymore. It was time to change if he wanted to be Bastien’s heir, but he didn’t know how to face himself or his fears without the distractions.
He offered his hand to the woman who was still on the floor.
She glowered at him instead of accepting his help.
With tangled white hair and a face covered in dirt, she looked like she’d walked through the Underworld and had been spat out.
But what bothered Tyson the most was that her dress was ripped and her bodice was loose.
She lifted the dagger toward his throat without hesitation.
He didn’t try to stop her. He was transfixed.
“Move,” she said, breathless. “Or I swear to Diana I’ll cut you down where you stand, vampire.”
Tyson stared at her. Her eyes were brown, just like the man’s, except hers were flecked with gold. She was feral and entirely unimpressed with him. He cut a look between them, and something inside him gave way. Like a rope being cut.
It wasn’t attraction, not exactly. Nothing like the way he felt when he saw Chastity’s stocking-clad legs. This was a pull in his ribs, like a hook had caught him behind the breastbone. His body recognized both of them in a way his mind didn’t understand.
Mine.
The thought flashed through him so suddenly that it made him dizzy.
And suddenly, a thumping started in his chest. Beat.
Beat. Beat. His bloodstone. Tyson stilled.
No. Not that. Anything but that. Two near strangers covered in dirt.
One actively threatening to stab him. The other was a man who had almost been decapitated by his uncle when he caught him naked with his mate.
If his bloodstone was right, he’d just found his own mate. But which one was it? Which one had the stone recognized?
More footsteps thundered down the corridor, followed by the crackle of magick. Witches rounded the bend in a flurry of dark skirts and wands. Chastity’s coven witches.
“There!” one of them called. “With the moonstones!”
Moonstones?
Tyson’s gaze dropped to the woman’s throat. An opaline stone hung there. One was also draped around the man’s neck.
“Werewolves use those gems to control their shifting!” another witch shouted. “Shayla’s magick!”
These two were wolves? But…
“Thank you for catching them,” one of the witches said, lifting her wand higher. “These disgusting creatures will suffer our justice for breaching our defenses.”
The woman angled her blade forward. The man beside her shifted as if preparing to lunge.
He should hand them over and rid himself of the problem they presented. If one of them was his mate and died here, they would be reborn decades—perhaps centuries—from now, and he could still inherit Roselyn unencumbered.
That hook that had landed in Tyson’s chest gave a rough tug. And despite every logical protest, his body stepped between them and the witches.
Traitor.
“These two aren’t werewolves,” he explained to the witches. “They’re consorts from Chateau Rose. When we killed the wolves in the tunnels, I gave them these necklaces as gifts.”
The corridor fell silent.
“If Chastity has a problem with it,” he continued lightly, “she can take it up with my uncle. Until then,” he slung his arms around both their shoulders, “they’re under my protection.”
He internally cringed, wondering what he had gotten himself into.
“We will take this up with Chastity,” one of the witches said. Then they backed slowly away. When they were gone, the woman neither lowered her knife nor thanked him. She simply studied him like he was a puzzle she hadn’t decided whether to solve or stab.
He had sworn he would never let a matebond drag him back to the capital like a leashed dog. He wanted to be just like his Uncle Bastien.
He’d meant it.
“I think we all need to have a little chat,” Tyson said, guiding the two of them in the direction of his room. Or where he thought his room likely was.