CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
AUbrEY
The wooden platform creaks above me as I huddle in the shadows beneath, my thirteen-year-old body trembling with terror. The sweet scent of crushed wildflowers mingles with the metallic tang of blood, creating a nauseating combination that will haunt me forever.
Screams pierce the air—voices I recognize, people I love. My brother James's voice rises above the chaos, defiant even as death closes in. Then it cuts off abruptly, and something inside my chest shatters.
"Find the girl!" a voice commands, cold and authoritative. "She can't have gone far."
I press my hands over my mouth to stifle my sobs, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure they'll hear it. Through the gaps in the wooden planks, I see boots moving across the blood-soaked grass. Expensive boots. Royal boots.
When they finally spot me cowering in my hiding place, I run. My legs pump desperately across the festival grounds, past overturned tables and scattered flowers, past the bodies of everyone I've ever loved. Behind me, pursuit crashes through the underbrush like thunder.
They catch me at the edge of the woods, strong hands yanking me back just as freedom seems within reach. I'm spun around to face my captor, and that's when I see him clearly for the first time.
The face that will haunt my nightmares for years to come. Strong jaw, aristocratic nose, green eyes cold as winter ice. The face of the man who ordered the slaughter of my entire pack.
King Alexander.
I jolt awake with a gasp that tears from my throat like a scream, my chest heaving as the nightmare releases its grip on me. Sweat soaks through my skin, and my hands shake uncontrollably as the memory—no, not a memory, the truth—burns itself into my consciousness with perfect, horrifying clarity.
For years, my mind had blocked out that face, too traumatized to let me remember clearly.
But something about last night, about the intense emotions and stress, must have broken through the mental barriers I'd built to protect myself.
Now I remember everything with crystal clarity that makes me want to vomit.
King Alexander ordered the massacre of my pack. Knox's father is the monster who destroyed my entire world.
Beside me, Knox sleeps peacefully, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his breathing deep and even.
In the pale morning light filtering through the curtains, his face is relaxed, almost boyish.
But all I can see now are the similarities to his father—the strong jawline, the aristocratic features, the way his lips curve even in sleep.
He looks just like him. Just like the man who murdered my parents, my brother, and everyone I ever loved.
The sight makes bile rise in my throat. How could I have been so blind? How could I have let myself be seduced by this face, these features that should have triggered every survival instinct I possess?
"Knox is innocent," Aria's voice whispers urgently in my mind, sensing the shift in my emotions. "He was just a young man when it happened. He had nothing to do with—"
I sever the connection between us with brutal efficiency, cutting off her protests before they can take root.
I don't want to hear about innocence. I don't want to hear about how the sins of the father shouldn't be visited upon the son.
All I want is the cold, clean clarity of purpose that's been missing from my life for too long.
The royal family destroyed everything I loved. Now I'll destroy them.
Knox stirs beside me, his arm sliding across my waist as he pulls me closer in his sleep.
The casual possessiveness of the gesture, which last night might have made my heart flutter, now makes my skin crawl.
This is the enemy. This is the son of my family's murderer, and I let him touch me, claim me, mark me as his.
The self-disgust is overwhelming, but I force it down. What's done is done. But now I know the truth, and I can use it. I can use everything—his feelings for me, the mate bond, the trust I saw in his eyes last night when he whispered my name like a prayer.
I'll use it all to tear his world apart, just like his father tore mine apart.
Knox's eyes flutter open, immediately finding mine with a warmth that once might have stolen my breath. Now it just makes me want to claw his face off.
"Good morning, beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep. His hand trails up my spine, sending unwanted shivers through my body as he rolls closer. "Last night was..."
"Necessary," I finish coldly, but he doesn't seem to catch the ice in my tone.
His lips find my shoulder, pressing soft kisses to the skin there while his hands begin to wander with increasing boldness. The touch that brought me such pleasure hours ago now feels like violation, like betrayal of everything my family died for.
When his fingers trace lower, clearly intending to recreate some of last night's passion, I finally speak.
"Wait."
Knox freezes immediately, his hands stilling as concern floods his features. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you? Are you sore—"
"I'm fine," I cut him off, turning to face him with an expression I've carefully schooled into neutrality. The face of my family's killer stares back at me, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to reach for the dagger on my nightstand.
Instead, I study him for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until unease creeps into his green eyes. When I finally speak, my voice is perfectly level, businesslike.
"I'll be your Luna."
The words hit him like a physical blow. His eyes widen, hope and shock warring across his features as he struggles to process what I've just said.
"You... what? Aubrey, do you mean—"
"I'll marry you," I continue, my tone as calm as if I'm discussing the weather. "I'll stand beside you at your ceremony. I'll be your queen, bear your heirs, play whatever role you need me to play."
The joy that floods his face is almost painful to witness. For a moment, he looks like a child who's just been given everything he ever wanted for his birthday.
"But," I continue, and the single word wipes the smile from his lips, "I have three conditions."
Knox sits up straighter, wariness creeping into his expression. His hair is mussed from sleep, making him look younger, more vulnerable. Good. Vulnerability is weakness, and I plan to exploit every weakness he shows me.
"What conditions?" he asks, his voice carefully neutral.
I smile then, the expression cold and sharp as a blade. The game has begun, and this time, I know exactly who my enemy is.