Chapter 6 Kieran
CHAPTER SIX
KIERAN
The council chamber smelled like iron and old incense, the scent of tradition and control. Tradition and control were two things my council never ran short on, though imagination had clearly been rationed.
I sat at the head of the long black-marble table, my spine straight, my expression carved from stone while torchlight painted the room in shadows.
To my right, Lord Rathley adjusted the collar of his formal black robe.
“Your Majesty,” he said, his smooth voice carrying the usual sting of warning, “we must address the matter of your…arrangement.”
I leaned back, pretending nonchalance. “We are addressing it. I married her yesterday, didn’t I?”
Lord Brightworthy, eldest of the trio and perpetually unimpressed, arched one silver brow.
“Marriage is only the first step. The treaty requires visible unity between your court and the witches. Proof of marital harmony within thirty days, or the alliance, and by extension your reign, fall into question.”
Proof. As if affection came with a ledger and witnesses.
“And how exactly should I provide that?” I asked. “Shall I stand on the battlements and declare my devotion?”
Lady Aragorn’s lips curved in polite disdain. “We expect companionship. Appearances. Shared chambers.”
“She just arrived, and we are sharing a chamber.” I’d made sure of it for this very reason.
Her gaze sharpened. “It would be easier if your bride were one of our own.”
There it was. The insult wrapped in civility.
“You mean someone like Lady Evangeline,” I said.
Rathley nodded, leaning forward in his chair. “Precisely. She’s of noble blood. Of suitable age. The witch is young. Mortal. Emotional. Their kind rarely grasp restraint.”
I’d built an entire kingdom on restraint.
It was the armor that kept me standing when grief threatened to crush me.
The discipline that preserved our ways when chaos circled like wolves.
But one look at Cyrene’s face yesterday and the hurt in her eyes, and my armor melted like ice under the summer sun.
“Lady Evangeline is her father’s spy. You want me to wed poison wrapped in silk?”
Lady Aragorn sniffed. “She’s the daughter of the House of Arclayne.”
“And very much aware of it.”
Lord Brightworthy’s tone remained grave. “Majesty, this alliance was your choice. If it fails, the Houses will move to challenge your leadership again.”
The word landed like an old bruise pressed too hard. I didn’t need the memory to remind me what failure looked like.
“The alliance won’t fail,” I said.
Lars tilted his head. “Then you’ll forgive our insistence on evidence.”
“You’ll have it.”
Lady Aragorn huffed. “If the queen fails to meet our expectations—”
“She won’t.”
“You sound certain,” Rathley said. “Perhaps when she stops flinching every time you enter a room, we’ll believe it.”
“I was at your wedding reception. We all were. We saw it with our own eyes,” Broadworthy said. “Your Majesty—”
“That will be all.” The irritation in my voice must’ve sunk in, because they changed the subject, droning on about border patrols, trade quotas, and the dull hum of a thousand duties. I let them talk while my thoughts slid elsewhere.
Cyrene.
My witch.
Six years hadn’t dulled the memories or her scent of wild honey.
I could still see her standing beneath the lantern light at the festival, joy glowing through her like sunlight through glass, her laugh the only sound that had ever made me forget what I was.
Three days where I wasn’t a prince or a weapon, just a regular person allowed to feel.
I’d just been a man, falling endlessly into the warmth of her smile.
Then the world ended, and I learned feelings were a liability.
I sent her a letter after the coronation, half apology, half confession. She never replied. Eventually, I decided she’d done the sensible thing and forgotten about me. I tried to do the same. Tried being the key word.
Weeks stretched into months until I stopped expecting a reply at all.
I told myself that witches burned bright, then moved on.
The moment I saw her walking down that aisle, six years collapsed into nothing. Time hadn’t dulled a single thing about how she made me feel. The same heartbeat. The same mouth I’d dreamed of more times than I wanted to admit.
My witch. My mistake. My second chance I would not throw away.
I’d give anything to go back to those three days when her fingers had been tangled with mine, when her magic had made even the night air taste like hope.
“Is that all?” I asked, and they nodded.
One by one, they bowed and vanished through the heavy doors.
When the echoes faded, I pressed my palms against the marble table, letting the cold bleed into me. Six years of mastering composure, and one witch had undone it with a single look.
Thirty days. That was the ultimatum.
Thirty days to prove a love they doubted existed.
Thirty days to earn back the trust of the woman I would adore for the rest of my days.
I’d find a way to make this happen.
The corridors of Shadowborne were tomb-silent as I walked toward the dining room. Light flickered along the stone, catching on carved family crests that stared down like judgmental ancestors.
When the doors opened, conversation cut off mid-sentence. The hall stretched long and severe, chandeliers dripping light over a table polished to a mirror shine. Every noble and relative in attendance rose as I entered.
“Your Majesty,” they murmured in unison.
I took my seat at the head of the table. The chair beside me remained empty.
Aunt Madeline never could resist making sarcastic comments. “Will Her Majesty be joining us?” she asked sweetly. “Or has the new queen already fled?”
A ripple of laughter followed, quickly muffled.
I turned my head enough for my gaze to land on her, and her laughter died instantly.
Across from her, her husband, my Uncle Prentiss, leaned forward. “I wasn’t able to attend the wedding, as you well know. Is it true she’s a witch, and does she really glow when she uses magic?”
I almost smiled. A ridiculous rumor. She only glowed when she laughed. But that wasn’t something I intended to explain to this audience. “You’ll have to ask her yourself.”
Madeline wrinkled her perfect nose. “I’d rather not. They’re unpredictable. Always smiling, always touching things they shouldn’t.”
“Then you’ll get along splendidly,” I said.
Prentiss snorted before catching himself. Lady Aragorn, farther down the table, looked horrified.
The dining hall door swung open, a wash of cool corridor air slipping inside with the scent of honey and something warmer.
Cyrene appeared in the threshold, her cheeks flushed, her curls slightly mussed, her gown a half-rumpled cream that shimmered like spilled moonlight. Every vampire in the room turned as one.
She outshone every jewel in the castle, every star in the night.
She didn’t belong in this world of shadows and restraint, and yet I couldn’t imagine these halls without her now.
“I—ah—apologies for the interruption,” she said, her voice too bright for this dark hall.
“Vassen came for me. I didn’t realize breakfast was at this time or so formal.
” Her gaze scanned the room, taking in my advisors in their robes, my family in their gowns and stiff suits.
Even I wore a coat and tails. A tie. But that was the usual for castle life.
When our eyes met, Cyrene froze. The noise in the room thinned, the space between us snapping taut.
Six years, and it only took one glance to still my world.
Did she remember how we’d watched the stars from that hillside, her head on my shoulder, me stroking the back of her hand? Did she remember how she’d teased me for being too serious, then proceeded to make me laugh until my sides ached?
She’d been twenty then, all soft laughter and fearless wonder.
Now she was all woman, her beauty sharpened by confidence she may not realize she wore.
There was a steadiness in her spine that hadn’t existed before, and yet a flicker of that same old nervous habit, her thumb rubbing her opposite palm.
Every small thing about her struck with cruel precision. The faint golden flecks in her eyes. The curl at the corner of her mouth when she tried not to smile. The single loose strand of hair she hadn’t managed to tame.
Mine.
I crushed the primitive thought fast.
She wasn’t mine. Not anymore.
“Your Majesty,” she said. Her curtsy was graceful but rushed, one hand still clutching her skirts as if she was unsure where to put herself.
I rose from my chair. “You’re late.”
Her chin lifted an inch. “You could’ve left a note.”
A ripple of shock passed through the room. Half the nobles looked like they might faint from her audacity.
Fates, I’d missed that mouth.
I gestured to the empty seat beside me. “It’s fine. You’re here now. Sit.”
She hesitated only a heartbeat before gliding toward me, all poise on the surface, nerves underneath. I felt the weight of every stare following her down the table.
As she passed my chair, her skirts grazed my thigh, a whisper of heat that made my breath catch. Our fingers touched, and something sparked. A faint shimmer of light, golden and warm, rippled across my palm before fading, like sunlight caught in mist.
My chest tightened. The subtle pulse of joy radiating from her tugged at something inside me I hadn’t realized was dormant for six long years.
She sat, and I followed. Our hands brushed as she reached for her napkin. A small, accidental contact, but my pulse thudded like it hadn’t in years. Contrary to popular belief, born vampires had a heartbeat.
She looked down fast, pretending to fix her place setting, but her pulse jumped beneath the delicate skin of her throat. I heard it. Every beat of her heart.
“Queen Cyrene,” I said, addressing her for the table’s benefit, “welcome to your first meal at Shadowborne.”
“Thank you. I’ll try not to ruin it.”
A laugh escaped me. It earned me several scandalized glances from my relatives.
“Impossible,” I said softly, just for her.
She stilled, her lashes lifting in surprise, a flicker of something uncertain in her gaze. Hope, maybe. Or confusion. Then she turned to her plate and pretended not to hear the collective disapproval rolling across the table.
Lady Aragorn leaned forward, her jeweled fingers lacing together. “Queen Cyrene, your gown is…charming. We so rarely see silk that isn’t black here. It’s rather cheerful.”
Rathley’s laugh showed pure venom. “Yes, positively radiant. I suppose witches don’t have to worry about blending in.”
“They blend in when they choose to,” I said before Cyrene could speak. “Though I’ll admit, she does make the rest of us look lifeless.”
A hush fell. My advisors blinked in tandem, unsure if they’d just been insulted or complimented. Cyrene hid a smile behind her hand.
The staff arrived in a silent procession, silver trays balanced on gloved hands. Large crystal goblets of blood were placed in front of each vampire, the liquid inside thick and as dark as garnet.
Cyrene’s eyes widened as the scent filled the air. She blinked down at the table, clearly trying to process what she was seeing.
Only one servant delivered food, a plate of pastries and scrambled eggs they placed in front of Cyrene. She blinked at the plate for a moment, noting nothing in front of me, before she lifted her fork.
“Please, dine,” I said.
Lady Aragorn and Lord Rathley were the first to grab their goblets, tipping them back and gulping down the contents. Rathley sighed loudly as he drank. Lady Aragorn moaned.
A flush crept up Cyrene’s neck.
I caught the faint wrinkle of her nose, the uncertain twist of her lips. Disgust?
Aunt Madeline set her goblet down and leaned back with an exaggerated sigh. “So, is it true, nephew, that you and your bride share a room? Or is the alliance purely ceremonial?”
Prentiss smirked. “Hard to imagine our solemn king with a wife who smiles that much. How will he ever survive?”
“Quite easily,” I said. “As you can see, I’m adjusting.”
Cyrene nearly choked on her tea, and my relatives went quiet, their amusement dissolving faster than dew under direct sunlight.
I reached for my bride’s hand under the table, and her fingers twitched in surprise, but she didn’t pull away.
Her eyes darted to mine. “What are you—”
Before she could finish, instinct took over. My advisor’s words echoed in my mind, reminding me they needed proof our marriage was real.
I brought her wrist to my lips, my fangs lengthening.
Her pulse hammered beneath my fingers, wild and alive. I could almost believe we were back at the festival, where I’d held her hand beneath the stars and promised her things I hadn’t known I couldn’t keep.
Cyrene frowned. “Kieran, wait—” She yanked her hand away.
Gasps rang out across the table.
The advisors wanted proof. What they’d gotten was proof that I could still ruin a perfectly good moment in under ten seconds.
So much for restraint. I’d spent years perfecting it, and one witch with the scent of honey on her skin had undone me before breakfast.