Chapter 108 Saint Nathaniel

Chapter 108 Saint Nathaniel
The moment that black newsboy cap tilted and I caught the pale, jagged line of the scar over that milky, blinded eye, my blood ran cold.

Celeste.

What the fuck was she doing here? Why hadn't she looped me in? My mind spun through a dozen catastrophic scenarios—had Ernest caught wind of our meetings? Had the suppression ward completely collapsed? Was she here to pull Iris out right now, in the middle of four hundred high-ranking wolves?

"Is something wrong?"

Jessica’s voice pierced my ear, sharp and nasal. I blinked, dragging my eyes away from the server’s tray just as Celeste turned and vanished back toward the hospitality tents.

"What?" I managed, keeping my face smooth.

"You're staring at the waitress," Jessica said, her eyes narrowing with that petty, hyper-vigilant suspicion she reserved for anything outside her immediate sphere of control. "Do you know her?"

"No, of course not," I lied smoothly, shifting my shoulders. "It's just..."

"Her eye, right?" Jessica scoffed, taking a delicate sip from her glass. "God, so creepy. What even happened to her face? Honestly, management shouldn't hire people who look like that for the VIP boxes. It completely ruins the aesthetic."

I stared at her. The petty, reflexive cruelty was nothing new, but today, with the mate bond clawing violently behind my ribs and the weight of my father’s sick game suffocating me, something inside me finally cracked.

I rolled my eyes and let out a dry breath. "Do you ever feel bad about all the awful shit that runs through your head on a daily basis?"

Jessica froze, her glass pausing halfway to the table. For a second, she looked utterly speechless. That wasn't our routine. Our entire relationship was built on a very specific dynamic: she talked, I listened, nodded, discarded the garbage, and let her believe she owned me.

"Excuse me?" Her voice went dangerously quiet. "You never seemed to have a problem with what I thought until... recently."

"Well, maybe I changed," I said, looking out toward the dirt track where the horses were cooling down. "Have you ever considered that? Growing as a person? There’s a little more to life than sitting around judging everyone who doesn't fit your narrow little world."

"Why are you getting so defensive?" she snapped, crossing her arms tightly over her lavender silk dress. "Over some random, deformed waitress?"

"That was completely not my point, Jessica."

"I liked you a lot better before you decided to become some paragon of morality," she hissed, leaning into my space, her perfume suffocating me. "Saint Nathaniel of the weak and the oppressed. When I agreed to this match, I remember falling for a bad boy. Not a saint."

And I don't remember falling in love with you at all, I thought bitterly, because I never did.

I kept my mouth shut. The last thing any of us needed was Jessica throwing a high-society tantrum over a bruised ego; she was dangerous enough when she was happy, and lethal when she felt scorned.

Down in the front row, Iris set her flute down, murmured a quiet excuse to Christian about needing the powder room, and slipped out of the box.

I gave it thirty seconds. I knew damn well she wasn't going to fix her lipstick. Celeste hadn't risked infiltrating a private box just to pour sparkling wine; she had passed Iris a signal.

I stood up, adjusting my cuffs, and leaned down toward Christian.

"Keep an eye on your sister for a minute," I muttered, loud enough for Jessica to catch every syllable. "I need to hit the head."

It was a cheap, calculated bone to throw her—making it look like I was being an attentive, chivalrous fiancé while using the distraction to tail Iris without Jessica connecting the dots.

I slipped through the side gate and caught the white flutter of Iris's Chanel jacket. She bypassed the lavish marble restrooms near the main clubhouse entirely, cutting left down a narrow, shadowed service alley stacked with empty banquet crates and industrial recycling bins.

I shadowed her silently, keeping my boots light against the concrete.

She reached the dead end by an old brick fire escape, glancing over her shoulder. The second her eyes found me, she gasped, pressing her back against the brick.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded in a frantic whisper.

I stepped into the narrow corridor, shoving my hands into my trouser pockets. "I've been on your tail since you cleared the box, and you didn't hear a single footstep. Guess the legendary Pureblood package didn't come with heightened senses, huh? Even a human would've clocked me."

Iris glared, her jaw tight. "I'm not used to being stalked through garbage alleys, Nate. I'm not a fucking spy."

"Right," I muttered, the reckless, bitter edge slipping out before I could stop it. "I bet your father thought the same thing."

CRACK.

Her hand moved so fast I didn't even see the arc. The slap rang out in the cramped alley, the sharp, stinging impact whipping my head to the side.

Pain blossomed across my cheekbone, hot and sharp. I stood there, taking the heat of it, and slowly turned my face back toward her. I couldn't even be mad. I deserved it. It was a vile, uncalled-for jab, and I knew it the second the words left my tongue. But God help me, after weeks of her cold, hollow, distant stares—after watching her treat me like a ghost or an enemy—that burning sting against my skin was the closest thing to real contact I was ever going to get from her. It made me feel alive, even if it meant she hated my guts.

"What the hell are you doing here, boy?"

Celeste stepped out from behind a stack of green wooden pallets, having shed the apron and newsboy cap. Her dark curls tumbled wildly around her shoulders, her good eye narrowed into a dangerous slit as she locked onto me.

"I'm here to watch Iris's back," I said, rubbing the side of my face.

"I can take care of myself, thanks," Iris snapped, crossing her arms defensively over her white tweed.

"Yeah, I'll start believing that once you figure out how to handle that freak strength without crushing my brother's rib cage," I shot back. "Until then, you're stuck with me."

Iris rolled her eyes, turning her back on me to face the witch. "We don't have time for this. Christian and Jessica are going to notice we're both missing any minute. What happened, Celeste? Why are you here?"

Celeste’s posture shifted, the defensive irritation draining away, replaced by an exhaustion so deep it aged her ten years.

"I found a way," Celeste said quietly. "I think I can bind an active veil over your aura. It’ll cloak the Pureblood resonance from shadow-trackers and Alphas, but it won't suppress your physical strength. It won't lock your wolf away."

A breathtaking, radiant smile broke across Iris's face—the first genuine glimmer of hope I had seen in her eyes in years.

But I looked at Celeste. Her shoulders were tense, her jaw set like stone. There was no victory in her expression.

"What's the catch?" I asked flatly.

Iris's smile faltered, her gaze flickering anxiously between the two of us. "Please... please tell me there isn't a catch."

Celeste took a slow, heavy breath, looking down at the grimy concrete before meeting Iris’s dark eyes.

"To weave a veil strong enough to protect you without severing your magic," Celeste whispered, "I'm going to have to desecrate your mother's grave."