Chapter 66 Chapter Thirteen
The silence after Ciel’s final words stretched thick, heavy like fog before a storm. No one moved. No one smiled.
Then Ezra leaned back, just slightly, the long fingers that had been tapping against the edge of the table stilling in the quiet.
“Enough about the girl,” he said at last, voice precise, razor-sharp, and devoid of amusement. “Let’s talk about the ones foolish enough to whisper our names.”
The shift in the room was immediate. Enoch's mouth tightened. Malachi scoffed under his breath. Reuben's smile vanished altogether.
Benedict muttered, “Them again?”
“Yes,” Ezra said, and this time his tone left no room for dismissal. “The group. The ones who dare accuse us of cultic activity. That we’re devils. Manipulators. That we corrupt the bloodlines of nations.”
“Well…” Malachi chuckled darkly. “They’re not entirely wrong.”
“It’s not about what’s true,” Ezra snapped. “It’s about perception. And they’re doing more than spreading rumors.”
A servant, cloaked in shadow near the edge of the room, stepped forward and bowed low.
“My lord,” he began, voice low and strained. “May I speak?”
Ezra gave him a sharp nod.
The servant straightened, but his face was pale.
“We lost all contact with the Haven outpost. The one in the northeast sector. The one you sent for the cleansing.”
A sudden chill swept through the chamber.
“All of them?” Enoch asked angrily.
“Slaughtered. Not even the bodies were left intact.” The servant’s voice shook. “They were... strung up. Painted. A message written on the walls.”
“What did it say?” Ezra asked.
The servant swallowed.
“‘Your sins will be devoured by the truth.’”
Ciel’s eyes narrowed. Enoch stood up, his fists clenched.
“That’s the third strike this quarter,” he growled. “They’re not just rumors anymore. They’re coordinated.”
Malachi sneered. “They’ve taken three of our bases. I say we wipe them out—slowly. Let them choke on their own courage.”
“It’s not that simple,” Benedict murmured, now fully awake. “They’re smarter this time. They knew our men would be there. They knew the pattern. Someone’s feeding them our plays.”
A beat of silence passed.
Then Ezra exhaled, steepling his fingers.
“I want the traitor.”
“And I want the head of whoever wrote that message,” Ezra spat.
A heavy pause followed.
Then Benedict leaned forward, speaking slowly. “Has no one else noticed how they know exactly what we’ll do before we do it?”
Reuben glanced sideways. Ciel didn’t move.
“They’re not just lucky,” Benedict continued. “They knew where the outpost was. They timed the attack to the cleansing. They even knew how many would be there and who was leading.”
His eyes swept the room. “That’s not a rumor. That’s precision. That’s weeks of planning based on knowledge only we have.”
A silence followed—tighter now, more personal.
“So what are you saying?” Enoch asked, already knowing the answer.
Benedict didn’t flinch. “I’m saying it’s funny, in a sick kind of way. They know everything we can carry out within weeks. Every play. Every move. Which means—”
“—The traitor isn’t out there,” Ezra finished flatly. “They’re sitting with us.”
Malachi gave a soft laugh, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Careful, Ezra. That sounds like you don’t trust your own council.”
“I don’t trust anyone right now,” Ezra said. “And if that bothers you, you’re welcome to leave.”
No one moved.
Then Ezra turned to the servant still waiting near the wall. “Bring in the registry. I want everyone who’s stepped into any of our sectors in the last thirty days. I also want everything that breathes inside the capital to be watched. That means staff. That means guards. That means wives, children—everyone. No one gets a free pass..”
“Yes, my lord.”
When the servant left, Ciel finally spoke, voice quiet but firm. “If the traitor is in this room, they’ll hear everything we plan next.”
“They will,” Ezra said. “But this time, I’ll be watching who looks too calm when everything goes wrong.”
Ezra’s eyes lingered on the glass of champagne on a tray in another servant’s hands, but his voice, when he spoke next, drifted in a different direction.
“Send word to Lucian Vale.”
The entire table stilled again—this time sharper, quieter.
Ciel’s brow creased. “You’re extending an invitation to him?”
Ezra didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
Malachi leaned forward, his tone low with disbelief. “You already extended an invitation to him once. He never answered. What makes you so sure he will this time?”
Ezra looked up slowly, the barest trace of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Not warm—never warm—but certain.
“He will.”
Reuben exhaled a faint laugh. “You hope he will.”
Ezra shook his head. “No. I know he will.”
Enoch raised a brow. “And what gives you that feeling, oh great prophet?”
Ezra didn’t reply and just like that, the meeting ended.
Salem's POV
I woke to the sound of his belt sliding through the loops of his trousers.
The sound was quiet. On purpose.
I didn’t even open my eyes. I just listened. Still. Breathing through parted lips.
Lucian moved like a man who didn’t want to be caught leaving. Which meant one thing—he didn’t want to explain it.
I turned under the sheets, the silk brushing my bare thighs, my chest tightening as I reached for the space beside me and found only cold air.
He hadn’t planned on waking me.
But he should’ve known better.
My voice cracked the silence. “You’re leaving?”
His pause lasted all of three seconds. Then he exhaled like the truth was something he didn’t want to let go of just yet.
“I won’t be long.”
That didn’t sound like his usual "I’m going on a business trip." It also wasn’t a clear yes or no. Just something vague enough to make my chest ache.
I sat up. The sheet fell from my skin, but he didn’t turn around. He always turned around.
This time, his back stayed to me, spine rigid, fingers slipping the belt back through the loops like he could pretend nothing had shifted. Like I couldn’t feel it.
“I didn’t know you were going anywhere.”
His fingers stilled. Then he turned.
And there he was.
Lucian Vale, carved from shadow and blood. Everything about him — the gloves, the coat, the storm in his shoulders — screamed danger. Screamed blood. He was going somewhere. Somewhere he didn’t want me to know about.
He didn’t answer me.
Instead, he crossed the room. Slowly. Like he was approaching something fragile. Dangerous. Sacred.
Me.
His hand cupped my jaw. “I wasn’t going to wake you.”
I searched his eyes for something solid. Some shape of the truth, “You don’t want me to ask where you’re going.”
“No,” he said simply.
“Why?”
“Because if you ask, I might have to lie.”
Something sharp and invisible twisted behind my ribs.
His fingers slid down my throat. Rested just above my collarbone. Then he leaned in, voice brushing my lips like a sin, “So don’t ask, Salem. Just come here.”
And I did.
I didn’t even think. I just surged forward, threw my arms around him, and pressed my mouth to his like I was trying to swallow whatever was pulling him away from me.
And just like that, the tension snapped.
He backed me into the mirror, mouth crashing to mine, brutal and bruising. His hands weren’t gentle now—they were punishment. Worship. Possession. His knee shoved between mine and forced my legs apart as he pinned me there, palms flat against the glass behind my head.
He turned me around. Face-first into the mirror, arms pulled back behind me, body trembling as he pressed against me from behind.
“Lucian—”
But it was already too late.
His hand slid between my thighs, fingers rough, claiming, sliding through my slick heat. I gasped, forehead hitting the glass, knees shaking.
“Wet already?” he whispered, voice a rasp of sin.
“I hate it,” I hissed, grinding back on his fingers. “I hate needing you.”
“You little liar. Still not very honest, are you?”
He shoved two fingers in deep, twisting them just right, until my legs buckled and I screamed into my own reflection. My nails clawed the mirror. His other hand snaked around my throat and pulled me back against his chest, eyes burning in the reflection as he stared me down.
“Say it again,” he said.
“I—hate—you,” I sobbed, hips rocking harder. “I hate that I love you.”
He ripped me away from the mirror and bent me over the bed, tearing my legs apart.
“Then hate me properly,” he snarled, and plunged inside. He was already inside me, already home, burying himself so deep it felt like he was trying to leave something behind.
No prep. No warning.
Just the stretch. The sting. The raw, perfect ruin of him. A moan ripped out of me, my hands flying to his shoulders, clawing at the muscles there as he started to move.
He fucked me hard. Deep. Desperate. Each thrust dragged a whimper from my throat, his fingers digging into my hips like he wanted to anchor himself there. Like he wanted to stay even if the rest of him had to go.
“You think I’m not yours?” he snarled against my lips, dragging me closer by the hips. “Every fucked-up inch of me belongs to you. But if you keep looking at me like that, Salem—like I’m already gone—then I’ll fuck the fear right out of you before I take a single step out that door.”
Then his mouth was on my neck, my shoulder, my lips again, and I tasted something bitter and raw in him. Like regret. Like restraint.
His pace turned savage. Relentless. His fingers locked with mine above my head, our palms slick with sweat, his body dragging against mine like sin incarnate. Every movement was possessive. Every thrust a claim.
He bit my collarbone. Bruised my hip. Kissed my jaw as if he could carve himself into my bones.
I wrapped my legs around him tighter, trying to keep him there. As if I could. As if I was enough to anchor a man like him.
He pulled out, only to flip me over, dragging my hips up until I was on my knees, cheek pressed to the mattress. He entered again, deeper this time, grinding against that spot that made me cry out. His hand tangled in my hair, holding me still.
“Lucian,” I gasped, clutching his back, nails digging in.
But he didn’t speak.
He just took.
Took like a starving man. Like he needed this more than he needed air.
And when I looked at him—really looked—I saw it.
Not fear.
Not guilt.
Just something… heavy.
Something he couldn’t give words to, so he gave me this instead.
His body.
His silence.
His everything.
My fingers gripped the sheets as my body trembled around him, as heat coiled sharp and vicious in my core. He was everywhere. Inside. Behind. Over me. All of me.
“I’ll wait—fuck—Lucian—” My voice broke as pleasure built fast, messy, feral.
When I came, it was messy. Loud. I sobbed into the pillow, and he didn’t stop.
He kept moving, holding me there, letting me fall apart on him until he finally spilled with a groan so guttural it barely sounded human. He collapsed over me, chest heaving, his body still caging mine.
We stayed like that for a long time. Breathing. Existing.
Finally, he pulled out and turned me to face him, gathering me into his arms with a tenderness that didn’t match how ruthlessly he’d taken me.
I laid there, against his chest, listening to the beat of a heart I feared I’d never hear again.
“You should sleep,” he murmured as I drifted to sleep.