Chapter 16 Kaelen's Reprimand

Chapter 16 Kaelen's Reprimand
Kaelen

My mother sweeps me away. She doesn’t release my arm until we’re well beyond the main corridor, past the servants’ stairs and into one of the smaller galleries that overlooks the inner courtyard. This space is all marble and echo—designed to be impressive, not private.

She wants me visible. She wants me aware of that.

“You were staring,” Mother says, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from her sleeve.

I stiffen. “Staring?”

She stops walking and turns, her expression cool and composed. “Don’t insult me, Kaelen. I watched you long before you realized you were being watched.”

Heat creeps up my spine. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing does not disrupt your focus,” she replies. “Nothing does not make you forget where you are.”

I fold my arms. “She’s a servant.”

My mother’s lips curve faintly. Not in amusement—in dismissal. “She is a liability.” The word lands hard. “You noticed her,” she continues. “You altered your pace. Your attention shifted. Your posture changed.”

“She’s new,” I say. “That’s all.”

My mother studies me for a long moment, her dark eyes sharp. “Is she your mate?” The question hits like a blade between my ribs.

“No,” I say too quickly.

Her eyebrow lifts. She waits.

I grind my teeth. “I don’t know.” Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating.

“That,” she says calmly, “is worse.”

I stare at her. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she replies without hesitating. “Uncertainty is dangerous. Especially for someone in your position.”

“She hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“That is irrelevant,” my mother says. “Her existence is the problem.”

I take a step closer. “She’s a Lark.”

“Yes,” Zara agrees. “And that alone should tell you everything you need to know.”

My wolf bristles beneath my skin. I exhale sharply. “You can’t control who someone bonds with.”

“No,” she says. “But we can control what we allow to weaken us. Your father has been very clear,” she continues. “Desire is a luxury. Love is a distraction. The pack comes first.”

“And mates?” I ask.

She turns to me slowly. “Mates are tools.” The word makes my stomach twist. “Used properly, they strengthen the line,” she says. “Used foolishly, they contaminate it.”

“She’s not contamination,” I growl.

Mother’s gaze sharpens. “She is a reminder of a bloodline we worked very hard to eliminate.”

I freeze.

“You think this is a coincidence?” she presses. “That a surviving Lark ends up under our roof? That she draws your attention at precisely the moment your father is testing your readiness?”

I shake my head. “She didn’t choose this.”

“Neither will you,” Zara replies, stepping closer. “Unless you allow instinct to override reason.”

I look away, jaw clenched.

“You are the future Alpha,” she says firmly. “Your wife—if you take one—must reinforce the Draven line. Strengthen our dominance. Silence any questions about purity.”

“And if she is my mate?” I ask quietly.

Zara doesn’t hesitate. “Then you will have to decide whether you are a man… or an Alpha.”

Those words settle like iron in my chest.

“Do you really think the pack will accept her?” she continues. “A Lark? A servant? A reminder of everything your father destroyed to secure this dominance?”

“She’s not a reminder,” I say. “She’s a person.”

Mother sighs, as if disappointed. “That sentimentality will get you killed.” She reaches out, adjusting my collar with careful precision. “Your father sacrificed love, friends, brothers. He expects you to understand why.”

“I do,” I say.

“No,” she corrects. “You obey. Understanding comes later—if it comes at all.”

Footsteps echo nearby. Voices drift closer. The moment tightens, fragile. Mother steps back, the mask sliding flawlessly into place.

“One last thing,” she says softly.

“Yes?”

“If she is your mate,” she says, “you must sever that bond quickly.”

My breath catches. “You can’t—”

“We can,” she interrupts. “And we will. For the sake of the pack.” Her eyes lock onto mine, unblinking. “Do not let instinct make a fool of you, Kaelen. Bloodlines are cleared for a reason.” She turns and walks away, her heels clicking sharply against the marble, leaving the words hanging in the air like a death sentence.

I remain where I am, my heart pounding, the word mate echoing through me like a curse. Because the truth—one I don’t dare voice—is this: If she is my mate, then my mother is right. And my father will never allow her to live.



The training grounds are already alive when I arrive—wolves in mid-shift, guards drilling in formation, the younger pack members sparring with more enthusiasm than finesse. The air smells of sweat, earth, and ozone from the recent storm.

Good. Familiar. Grounding.

I move among them easily, offering corrections, stepping into spars when tempers flare or technique falters. I let my presence settle the way my father taught me—quiet authority, no wasted words.

“Again,” I tell a pair of younger wolves locked in a clumsy grapple. “And this time, don’t telegraph.” They nod, breathless, their eyes bright.

For a while, it works–burying myself in workouts, trainings, drills, and spars. The pack responds to me the way it always has—with trust, with expectation. This is what I was raised for. What I’m good at. The weight of the future lifts, ever so slightly, for a moment.

Jared joins me near the perimeter, his arms crossed and gaze sharp. “You’re early,” he says.

“I needed air.”

He snorts. “That’s a first.”

I ignore the jab. “How’s the eastern patrol?”

“Quiet,” he replies. “Too quiet, if you ask me.”

“You\[1\]  always ask you.” I narrow one eye at him.

He smirks and then sobers. “The younger ones respect you.”

“They should.”

“They do,” Jared says. “That’s the problem. They’re watching you.”

I glance back at the pack. “Let them.”

He studies me, then nods once. “You’re doing well today.” Not a question.

Later, after training winds down, I join a small group near the fire pits—wolves my age, future leaders, second sons and daughters who grew up beside me. The banter is easy, familiar. Someone passes a flask. Someone complains about patrol rotations.

“You’re quiet,” Rhea says, bumping my shoulder. “That’s usually my job.”

“I’m thinking.”

“That’s never good,” someone mutters, earning laughter.

For a moment, I let myself relax. Let myself be just Kaelen; not the heir, not a weapon, not the future Alpha. The sound of their voices steadies me. Then movement in the courtyard catches my eye.

I see her.

Sierra is kneeling in the garden beds near the fountain, dirt smudged along her skin from her fingertips to forearms. Sunlight filters through the clouds, catching in her hair, softening the lines of her posture. The world narrows.

My chest tightens, sharp and sudden, like something vital has been tugged too hard. I don’t choose it. I don’t invite it. I feel her. The pull is immediate—an ache, a yearning so visceral it makes my fingers twitch. I want to touch her, to know the warmth of her skin, the sound of her breath. I want to make her smile, to make her safe.

Goddess. I force myself to look away.

“You all right?” Jared asks quietly.

“Yes,” I lie. But even when I turn back to the group, my attention splinters. I can still sense her presence, like gravity. Every instinct I have leans toward her, drawn by something deeper than desire.

Later that evening, I review patrol reports, approve supply reallocations, settle a dispute between two guards who nearly came to blows over a boundary line. I do everything expected of me. More, even.

The pack thrives under order.

And yet—when night settles and the estate grows quiet, it’s not strategy or duty that occupies my thoughts. It’s her hands in the dirt. Her quiet strength. The way my chest, and a certain extremity, aches when I imagine her looking at me—not with fear, but with trust.

Mate, my mother said. The word coils around my ribs, heavy and undeniable. If she is… then everything changes.

I understand the true cruelty of the Draven legacy. It doesn’t just demand sacrifice. It demands that we destroy what we love before it can destroy us.

\[1\]I think that's right but marking just in case.