238

238
Malrik POV

The water poured over us in steady streams, steam curling around our bodies as I held Dravina against me. Her back rested against my chest, her head tucked beneath my chin, as though she belonged there. My palms spread across her stomach, grounding me in the proof that she was alive, warm, mine.

Peace. That’s what it felt like. Fragile. Precious. Hard-won.

I pressed a kiss to her temple and, in silence, thanked everything the gods, the moon, the universe itself for sparing her and allowing me to keep her.

When we stepped out of the shower, I dried her carefully, dressed her as though she were made of something irreplaceable, and then placed the call.

“Let Zebulon go,” I told Vladan.

He hesitated, but didn’t argue. We’d made enough mistakes. Carried grudges long enough. Bigger battles loomed ahead.

By then Tavian was already arranging transport for Roarke and Marzena. Vladan, Ashuriel, Cassian, and Quillan’s officers would oversee their imprisonment until we reached the council. Tomorrow, we would present everything the evidence, the truth and maybe, finally, strike down the law that had condemned Moonchilds to the hunt.

With Cassian and Quillan at my side and Zebulon no longer an enemy but a witness we had a chance to win.

That night, exhaustion dragged us under the moment our heads touched the pillows. And for the first time, I wasn’t leaving her behind.

She would come with me.

To the council.

To the fight.

Into the future we would carve together.

The next morning, we shared breakfast like a family. Cassian. Quillan. My aunt. Ansel. Dravina. And me.

My officers were absent, still busy with the aftermath, but their absence left the table wrapped in something rare: stillness. Normalcy.

The air buzzed with conversation and the scent of fresh food warm bread, spiced meats, grilled vegetables, crystal glasses filled with chilled juice. Sunlight streamed across the table like a blessing.

Ansel was at the center, animated as he recounted the chaos of yesterday, embellishing every turn of the battle, every act of bravery. I didn’t interrupt. I only listened. And watched her.

Dravina, serene and luminous, sipping from her glass as though the world hadn’t just tried to shatter her.

“You’d be surprised what you can do,” she said, her eyes finding mine, her smile soft. “When you have a future to fight for.”

My chest swelled not just with love, but with awe, with respect. Once, everyone at this table had underestimated her. Never again.

“Hard to believe Marzena tried to kill her own mate,” Quillan muttered, shaking his head. “Drethos was dealt the worst hand.”

“She never cared for him,” Dashira said softly, guilt threading her tone. “He was part of her climb. A means to an end.”

Cassian rubbed the back of his neck, his expression shadowed. “I only hope he finds the strength to heal. That man will carry the weight of blame forever Rhydian, Orielle, Zenovia… everything.”

He glanced at Dravina, then at me.

“Discovering that his own wife poisoned the tea that destroyed his family it’ll break him. Forgiveness might be the only salvation he has, but I don’t know if he’ll ever grant it to himself.”

Silence fell. I didn’t speak, because Cassian was right. Drethos had been blind, as I had been. And in my gut, I believed the same thing if he’d known who Dravina truly was, he would have protected her. Perhaps even embraced the bond between us.

But life didn’t give us perfect timing.

It gave us choices.

And today, we were choosing to rebuild. Together.

“I always wondered why Ysolde never wanted me near him,” Dravina murmured, voice steady despite the weight in it. “When she came back after her arrest, she changed. She grew paranoid. Protective in ways she never had been before. Always hiding me. Always shielding me.”

She paused, her gaze distant.

“If Drethos had seen me sooner, there would’ve been no conflict. He loved his brother. He loved my mother, too. Malrik…” her eyes found mine, soft but unwavering, “the way he looked at me—you should have seen it. He wouldn’t have fought you.”

Quillan gave a low, humorless chuckle.

“That’s because Ysolde was under compulsion,” he said.

Dravina’s head snapped toward him.

“She confessed to Roarke under it,” Quillan explained. “I think he commanded her to keep you hidden from Drethos. Roarke knew the moment your uncle laid eyes on you, the game was over.”

Leaning back, arms crossed, Quillan continued, “Drethos was the only reason Roarke had access to Ashflow warriors. Their loyalty wasn’t to Marzena it was to the Mancini name. Roarke knew Drethos would never act against his niece, his brother’s daughter, the last piece of the family he cherished.”

Quillan’s voice hardened. “But he would fight to protect that legacy from what looked like a threat. From someone who seemed ready to rob his daughter of her birthright. To him, Malrik looked like a usurper. A thief. And Roarke and Marzena fanned that fire until it consumed him.”

His jaw tightened. “The man was never meant to lead. But he would bleed himself dry defending his family’s honor. And Roarke twisted that devotion into a blade. Used him. Just as he used Ysolde.”

Dravina leaned against me, her fingers curled around her glass.

“Poor man,” she whispered. “And poor Ysolde. They were nothing but pawns.”

No one argued.

Because it was the truth.