Chapter 22 Why do you have to be the good guy?
Maureen Laurent
The chambers were too quiet after the feast.
The golden gown lay discarded over a chair like shed skin, the crimson one folded away by careful hands. I sat on the edge of the massive bed in nothing but one of Vuk’s black shirts, sleeves rolled a dozen times, hem brushing mid-thigh. The bite on my shoulder throbbed faintly—warm, alive, a constant reminder that I was claimed in ways I still didn’t fully understand.
He hadn’t come back yet.
After he carried me from the blood-slick corridor, he’d brought me here, set me down like something precious, and kissed my forehead with shaking lips.
“Rest,” he’d growled, voice rough with leftover rage. “I’ll handle the mess.”
Then he was gone—doors closing softly behind seven feet of barely leashed hellfire.
I should have slept.
Instead I stared at the shattered remnants of the night.
Severed hands.
Screaming.
Blood steaming on cold stone.
And Vuk—my Vuk—moving faster than thought, protecting me without hesitation, without mercy.
Part of me was horrified.
The other part… the other part felt safe in a way I hadn’t since before Silas smiled and put a knife in my mother’s belly.
I curled my knees to my chest, resting my chin on them.
Safe.
In the Northern Dominion.
With the Alpha Devil himself.
It still felt like a fever dream.
A soft knock pulled me from my thoughts.
Livia’s gentle voice came through the door. “My lady? Lady Nyxara is here. She says she wishes to see if you’re all right after… the incident.”
I hesitated.
Nyxara.
The succubus had been kind to me in the gardens—curious, sharp-tongued, but not cruel. She’d listened when I spilled my fears about the Luna crown. She hadn’t laughed.
I wasn’t sure I had the energy for company, but I was tired of being alone with the echoes of screams.
“Let her in,” I called.
The door opened.
Nyxara swept inside like smoke given form—black silk clinging to every curve, violet eyes bright in the hellfire glow, tail curling lazily behind her. She carried a small crystal decanter and two glasses.
She took one look at me—curled small on the bed, Vuk’s shirt swallowing me whole—and her expression softened a fraction.
“Thought you might need something stronger than tea,” she said, raising the decanter. “Infernal brandy. Burns going down, but it quiets the noise.”
I managed a weak smile. “I’d like that.”
She poured two generous measures, handed me one, and perched on the edge of a chair opposite the bed—close enough to talk, far enough not to crowd.
We drank in silence for a moment.
The brandy did burn—liquid fire down my throat, spreading warmth through my chest.
Finally she spoke, voice low.
“You holding up, southern girl?”
I laughed—small, shaky. “Barely.”
She tilted her head, studying me over the rim of her glass.
“First time seeing the Devil’s justice up close?”
I nodded, fingers tightening around the glass.
“It was… fast. Terrifying. But he—” My voice cracked. “He didn’t even think. Just protected me.”
Nyxara’s eyes narrowed slightly, something unreadable flickering there.
“That’s what mates do,” she said carefully. “Or so they say.”
I looked down into my brandy.
“I didn’t ask him to cut off hands for me.”
“No,” she agreed. “But he did. And now half the dominion is whispering about how the great Alpha Devil lost control over a southern stray.”
The word stray stung, but her tone wasn’t cruel—just matter-of-fact.
I met her gaze.
“Does it bother you?” I asked quietly. “That I’m here? That I’m… his?”
She was quiet for a long beat.
“Everything in this fortress bothers me,” she said at last. “It’s designed that way. But you?” She leaned forward slightly, tail flicking. “You interest me. Most girls in your position would be preening. Flaunting the bite, the gown, the power. You look like you’re waiting for the floor to open and swallow you.”
I swallowed hard.
“Because I am,” I admitted. “I was a slave a month ago, Nyxara. Collared. Whipped. Sold. Now I’m… this.” I gestured vaguely at the opulent room, at the bite mark visible above the shirt collar. “It doesn’t feel real. And when it does, it feels too big. Like I’m wearing someone else’s life.”
She watched me, violet eyes sharp.
“And the Devil? Does he feel real?”
I thought of fireflies in the snow. Of cookies scattered on the floor because he couldn’t look at me in lace without losing his mind. Of the way he knelt—actually knelt—and begged me not to fear him.
“He feels like the only real thing I have left,” I whispered.
Something shifted in her expression—gone too quickly to name.
She drained her glass and set it aside.
“Then hold onto that,” she said. “Because this place will try to take it from you. The whispers. The stares. The ones who think you’re unworthy.”
She stood, smoothing her silk.
“I’ve seen girls break here,” she said quietly. “Pretty ones. Strong ones. They smile too wide or not wide enough. They trust the wrong person. They forget that gentleness is a luxury the North doesn’t allow.”
She paused at the door, looking back.
“But you… you might be different. Or you might not. Either way, if you need someone to talk to who isn’t bowing or growling… I’m around.”
She left as quietly as she’d come.
I sat there long after the door closed, brandy warm in my stomach, her words circling like wolves.
Gentleness is a luxury the North doesn’t allow.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe it was time I learned how to bare teeth.
Just a little.
For him.
For me.
When Vuk finally returned—scent of snow and blood still clinging to him—I was still awake.
He paused in the doorway, golden eyes searching my face.
“I’m sorry you saw that,” he rasped. “The ugliness. The violence.”
I set the empty glass aside and walked to him.
“I’m not,” I said softly.
His breath caught.
I reached up, touched the fresh blood on his knuckles—Harlan’s, probably—and met his gaze.
“You protected me,” I said. “No hesitation. No question. That wasn’t ugly, Vuk. That was love.”
His eyes fractured—relief, awe, something ancient and aching.
He dropped to his knees right there in the doorway, arms wrapping around my waist, face pressed to my stomach like I was his salvation.
I threaded my fingers through his hair.
“I’m still scared,” I whispered. “Of this place. Of what it asks of me. But I’m not scared of you. Not anymore.”
He made a broken sound—half growl, half prayer—and held me tighter.
We stayed there on the threshold for what felt like hours, his massive frame folded around me like the world itself had narrowed to this one embrace. Eventually he carried me to bed, stripping away the remnants of the feast—blood-scented leathers, the weight of too many eyes—and pulled me against his chest. His hands traced idle patterns over the bite mark, grounding us both in the quiet rhythm of breath and heartbeat.
Sleep came slow, laced with the scent of pine and hellfire, and for the first time in longer than I could remember, no nightmares followed.
Morning came softly, filtered through the eternal twilight of the North—dim silver light slipping past heavy curtains, painting the room in shades of frost and shadow.
I woke tangled in black furs and Vuk’s scent, the bite on my shoulder a warm, steady pulse. He was already gone—some urgent border matter, he’d murmured against my lips before leaving—but for the first time, the emptiness of the room didn’t swallow me whole.
I found Livia in the dressing room, laying out riding leathers—soft black doeskin, lined with fur, cut for movement. Simple, but beautiful.
“Lady Nyxara sent word,” Livia said with a small smile. “She thought you might enjoy the air today. A ride through the lower forests. The wolves are saddled.”
I hesitated only a moment.
“Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.”
The stables were a world of steam and warm beast. Massive dire-wolves the size of horses pawed the stone floor, their breath clouding in the cold. Nyxara waited beside a sleek black mare, already mounted on a crimson stallion that looked ready to devour the horizon.
She raised a brow when she saw me.
“Thought you might hide in the chambers all day after last night.”
“I considered it,” I admitted, swinging up into the saddle with Livia’s help. “Then decided fresh air might be better than staring at walls.”
Nyxara’s lips curved—almost approving.
We rode out through a side gate, down winding paths into the ancient forest that ringed the fortress. Snow-laden pines towered overhead, the ground muffled and white. The wolves moved silent and sure, breath pluming like dragon smoke.
For a while, we just rode.
The quiet was peaceful, broken only by the creak of leather and the soft crunch of paws on snow.
Eventually Nyxara spoke, voice casual.
“Tell me something good, southern girl. A happy memory. Something before all this.” She gestured vaguely at the fortress looming behind us.
I thought hard.
Most memories were stained now—Silas’s smile turning to betrayal, my mother’s blood on the floor, the crack of the whip in the slave pens.
But one surfaced, small and bright.
“When I was little,” I said softly, “my mother used to braid my hair under the full moon. She’d sing these old lunar songs—quiet ones, about stars and tides. Said my hair caught moonlight like silver thread. It was… peaceful. Just us.”
I smiled at the memory, faint but real.
Nyxara was quiet for a long beat.
“That’s it?” she asked finally. “That’s your happiest?”
I glanced at her. “It’s one of the few that still feels clean. What about you?”
She laughed—short, sharp, humorless.
“I don’t have those,” she said. “Not really. The closest I got was the day the old Alpha cut me down from the rope and handed me a blade. At least I was warm after that.”
My stomach twisted.
She said it lightly, but the words landed heavy.
We rode on in silence.
A flash of white caught my eye—a snow-hare, ears pricked, frozen in the path ahead.
I slipped from my saddle before I thought about it, kneeling slowly.
“Hey, little one,” I murmured, extending a hand. “It’s all right.”
The hare twitched, then hopped closer—curious, unafraid.
Nyxara watched from her mount, expression unreadable.
I was reaching to stroke its ears when the world tilted.
A shoulder slammed into my side, hard. I hit the snow face-first, breath knocked out.
Boots crunched close.
I rolled over, gasping.
Two women stood over me—mid-rank by their dress: sturdy wool cloaks with silver trim, hair braided tight for work. Servants, maybe from the kitchens or armory. Their faces were twisted with rage.
One shoved me back down when I tried to sit up.
“Why would you do that?” I coughed, tasting snow and blood.
“Shut up!” the taller one spat. “How dare you show your face here? I’ve served the Alpha Devil for twenty-three years—cleaned his halls, warmed his bed when he wanted, waited for a scrap of notice. And you—some dirty southern girl—just waltz in, spread your legs, and suddenly you’re consort? Paraded at the feast like you belong?”
The other kicked snow at me.
“You think you’re special because he cut Harlan’s hands off for you? He’ll tire of you. Slaves don’t become queens.”
I pushed up on my elbows, heart pounding, but I didn’t call for guards.
Nyxara sat motionless on her wolf, watching. Waiting.
I met the women’s eyes—really looked.
“You’re angry,” I said quietly. “I understand that.”
The taller one blinked, thrown.
“You’ve served faithfully for years,” I continued, voice steady. “You’ve given everything to this place. And then someone like me arrives—someone who never asked for any of it—and suddenly the world shifts. It feels unfair. Like everything you worked for means nothing.”
They shifted, uncertain now.
“I’m not your enemy,” I said. “Hurting me doesn’t raise your status. It doesn’t earn his notice. It just… makes more pain. For all of us.”
The shorter one opened her mouth—rage still there—but the taller one grabbed her arm.
“Come on,” she muttered. “She’s not worth it.”
They backed away, then turned and hurried off through the trees, boots crunching.
I stayed on my knees in the snow, breathing hard.
The hare had vanished.
Nyxara dismounted slowly, tail lashing.
“That’s it?” she asked, voice dangerously quiet.
I looked up.
“You just… let them go?”
I stood, brushing snow from my leathers.
“They’re scared. Angry. Punishing them would only prove them right—that I’m just another cruel hand in a long line of cruel hands.”
Nyxara stepped closer, violet eyes blazing.
“This is not how it works!” she snapped, voice rising. “You don’t get to ride out here, act like everything can be soft and understood, and expect it to change anything! They attacked you. They could have had knives next time. Why didn’t you call the guards? Why didn’t you order them flogged? Arrested? Executed? Why do you have to play the good girl?!”