Chapter 8 Chapter 8: The Fiancé
(Thalia's POV)
He looks like a prince from a fairytale. The kind who turns out to be the villain.
"Morrigan." He inclines his head to Mother with precise formality. "Thank you for receiving us."
"Casimir. The pleasure is ours." Mother's voice warms exactly three degrees, her version of gracious hospitality. "May I present my daughter, Thalia."
Those ice-blue eyes turn to me, and I feel suddenly exposed despite being fully clothed. Like he can see straight through the careful makeup and elegant dress to the confusion and fear beneath.
"Thalia." He crosses the room with predatory grace and takes my hand, raising it to his lips in a gesture that manages to be both courtly and possessive. "A pleasure to finally meet you."
"Likewise." painful lies.
His lips brush my knuckles, and I feel nothing. No spark, no connection, no recognition of any kind. Just cool skin against mine and the faint smell of expensive cologne.
So different from Lucien, whose mere presence sets every nerve ending on fire.
"This is my uncle, Sorin Dragomir." Casimir gestures to the older man who's been standing quietly by the window. "He serves as my primary advisor."
Sorin is probably in his late fifties, with silver threading through dark hair and eyes that hold the weight of too many secrets. He nods to both Mother and me, but doesn't speak. Just watches. Evaluating.
"Please, sit." Mother gestures to the arranged seating, her and me on one sofa, Casimir and Sorin on the facing one. Territory clearly demarcated. "I thought it would be beneficial for everyone to understand the full scope of this alliance before the formal announcement tonight."
"Agreed." Casimir settles into his seat with that same controlled grace. "Transparency prevents misunderstandings."
Mother launches into what sounds like a rehearsed speech about territorial holdings, pack allegiances, the strategic advantages of uniting Thornewood and Dragomir bloodlines. She uses terms like "consolidation of power" and "mutual defense pact" and "economic synergy," reducing what should be a marriage to a corporate merger.
I stop listening after the first five minutes. Instead, I study Casimir, trying to understand the man I'm supposed to spend my life with.
He shows no emotion during Mother's presentation. No enthusiasm, no reluctance, just that flat, assessing attention that makes him impossible to read. Every so often his gaze flicks to me.
What is he seeing? A suitable match? A necessary evil? A pawn as trapped as he probably is?
"...which brings us to the ceremony itself," Mother is saying. "We've reserved Westminster Abbey for the first Saturday in October. Six weeks from today. The guest list will include representatives from all major European packs, several human dignitaries who are... friendly to our kind, and of course immediate family."
Six weeks. Forty-two days until I'm legally bound to this stranger forever.
"The timeline is acceptable," Casimir says.
"Perhaps," Sorin says quietly, "the young couple should be given time to become acquainted. Without the pressure of political discussion."
It's the first sensible thing anyone's suggested all morning. Mother looks like she wants to object, but Casimir nods.
"An excellent idea. Thalia, would you join me for lunch? Somewhere private where we can speak freely?"
It's phrased as a question, but we both know it's a command.
"Of course." I stand, smoothing my dress. "There's a dining room on the third floor that should suffice."
Mother's expression suggests she'd prefer to chaperone, but even she can't object without appearing overprotective. "I'll have the kitchen prepare something appropriate. Thirty minutes?"
"Perfect." Casimir offers me his arm with old-fashioned formality. "Shall we?"
I take his arm because refusing would be churlish, and we leave the blue parlor together. His security detail follows at a discreet distance as we climb the stairs, close enough to intervene if necessary but far enough to provide the illusion of privacy.
We don't speak until we reach the third-floor dining room, a smaller, more intimate space with a table set for two and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames.
Casimir dismisses his guards with a gesture, then holds out a chair for me. I sit, hyperaware of his proximity as he settles across from me.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. He studies me with that unreadable expression while I try to figure out what I'm supposed to say to my arranged fiancé.
"You're nervous," he observes finally.
"Wouldn't you be? I'm meeting the man I'm supposed to spend my life with for the first time."
"Fair point." He leans back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Though I suspect your nervousness has additional causes beyond our unconventional courtship."
My heart rate spikes. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" His head tilts slightly. "Thalia, I'm not here to play games or pretend this is a love match. We both know this marriage is political necessity. What I need to know is whether you can be trusted to honor your commitments despite... complications."
"Complications?"
"The Voss wolf who infiltrated your bedroom two nights ago." He says it casually, like discussing the weather. "The one whose scent is still detectable on your skin if you know what to look for."