The silence between them was thick, stretched tight like a bowstring, neither willing to be the first to look away.
Raphael was the first to move. He placed his hands against Cyrus’ chest, intent on shoving him out of the tent. But before he could, Cyrus caught both of his wrists, his reflexes sharp. With a swift movement, he tackled Raphael down. The vampire prince hit the ground with a muffled grunt, his front pressed into the furs beneath him.
A smirk curled Cyrus’ lips as he pinned Raphael beneath him, using his superior Lycan strength to keep him in place. The vampire struggled, twisting, trying to break free, but Cyrus held firm. Eventually, Raphael stopped fighting, his breaths steadying beneath him.
Cyrus let out a mocking chuckle. "Not talking anymore? What happened? Cat got your tongue?"
Raphael slowly turned his head, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips. "This is very awkward," he mused. "If you like me, you can just say it instead of coming in here with all this pretense."
Cyrus arched a brow, his expression unreadable.
Raphael’s chuckle deepened. "It would be so weird if someone were to walk in right now and see you on top of my naked body with your rock-hard cock rubbing against my ass, don't you think?"
Cyrus' breath hitched, his entire body tensing as the realization dawned on him. His grip faltered—just for a second—but it was all Raphael needed. With a sharp twist, he flipped them over, reversing their positions.
Now, Raphael straddled him, thighs caging Cyrus in as he pinned the Lycan’s wrists to the floor. Their faces were merely a breath apart, the heat between them almost unbearable.
Cyrus was about to shove him off when he felt it—the slow, deliberate grind of Raphael’s hips against him. A strangled breath left him as Raphael rolled his hips, his arousal pressing into Cyrus’. He did it again, watching intently as Cyrus' expression shifted, his control slipping.
The friction was maddening, the slow, teasing pressure sending heat spiraling through Cyrus’ body. His breath came faster, his muscles tense beneath Raphael's hold.
Raphael smirked, eyes dark with amusement. "Interesting," he murmured, voice low, almost a purr. He continued the torturous motion, grinding against Cyrus in slow, measured movements, watching every flicker of reaction.
Cyrus gritted his teeth, trying to suppress the low groan threatening to escape. His body betrayed him, his cock twitching under Raphael’s relentless teasing.
And then—just as he was on the edge, just as his body coiled tight, desperate for more—Raphael stopped.
He pulled back just enough to watch the frustration flicker across Cyrus’ face. His smirk deepened.
"I have to admit," Raphael mused, running his tongue lazily over his bottom lip, "you are attractive." He leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost over Cyrus’ lips, his voice a silken taunt. "But, unfortunately, I don’t fuck with dogs."
With a slow, deliberate motion, Raphael dragged his tongue across Cyrus' lips, savoring the way the Lycan shuddered.
Then, without another word, he stood up, dragging Cyrus with him before unceremoniously shoving him back.
"Now, get out," Raphael said, his tone dismissive as he turned away, picking up his glass of bloodwine as if nothing had happened.
Cyrus stood there, chest rising and falling, still caught in the moment, his mind racing to process what had just transpired.
His gaze lingered on Raphael for a second longer before he finally stepped out of the tent, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
As he walked away, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. Raphael was already lounging back on his bed, sipping his wine, a knowing smirk playing at his lips.
Cyrus scowled and stalked off to find his tent.
—
Valerion sat alone in his tent, the candlelight flickering against the black silk lining. His fingers rested against his chin, his crimson eyes unfocused as he stared at the maps sprawled across the table before him. His mind, however, was far from strategy and battle formations.
Azrael and Draven had mated.
The weight of that truth pressed upon him like a phantom hand around his throat. He had always known his daughter was headstrong, but this… this was beyond reckless. It was a blasphemy against their very nature, a betrayal of the war their kind had waged for centuries.
His eyes narrowed.
***How much of this is fate, and how much is a curse?*** He thought to himself.
A faint rustle of fabric caught his attention. He straightened in his seat as the entrance of his tent shifted, revealing a familiar silhouette draped in flowing black silk.
"Father."
Valerion turned sharply. Standing at the threshold was Azrael.
For a long, unspoken moment, he simply stared at her. She was… restored. The dark circles beneath her eyes were gone. Her skin glowed with its usual ethereal radiance, and her golden eyes, though shadowed by something unspoken, no longer held the dull sheen of a fading soul.
He rose to his feet, closing the distance between them in an instant. Before Azrael could react, he pulled her into his arms, holding her close.
Azrael stiffened in shock.
***When was the last time he had embraced me like this?***
Centuries ago, perhaps. Maybe even longer.
She hesitated, then slowly brought her arms up, resting them lightly against his back.
Valerion pulled away just enough to take her in fully, gripping her shoulders as he searched her face. His touch was not harsh or commanding as it so often was—there was something gentler beneath it, something that almost felt like… relief.
"You're alive," he murmured, almost to himself. His gaze roamed over her, as if confirming she was truly standing before him. "It worked. You're alive."
Azrael nodded, her voice soft. "Yes, I am, Father."
Then he saw it.
His gaze locked onto the fresh mark on her neck. His fingers hovered over it, trembling slightly—a rare crack in his composed facade. It was real. The bond had been sealed.
A part of him had feared it, had known it was inevitable the moment she was left with the Lycan Alpha. But to see it with his own eyes… The reality of what had transpired hit him like a blade through the ribs. This wasn’t just some fleeting tryst, some moment of passion that could be dismissed.
Azrael was now bound to the enemy.
Bound to him.
A presence stirred at the entrance of the tent. Heavy footfalls. A familiar scent.
Valerion’s eyes lifted, already knowing who it was before he even spoke.
Draven stepped inside, his broad form casting a long shadow across the space. His expression was unreadable, but his stance was firm and unyielding, as if prepared for whatever came next.
For a long moment, the two men simply stared at each other.
Two rulers. Two sworn enemies. And now—two men tied together by the same woman.
Valerion’s lips parted, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of an empire.
"Draven.”