Chapter 71 Let's make a deal
Lord Cassian Voss
The girl stood in the center of my private solar like a discarded rag doll someone had propped upright. Thin arms wrapped around herself, white-gold hair hanging limp and tangled, those milky blind eyes staring at nothing.
She smelled of the southern pens: damp stone, old fear, and the faint sour tang of unwashed skin. Pathetic.
“Can you see me?” I asked, voice flat, already knowing the answer.
“No, my lord… I can’t.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, cracked from disuse or terror or both.
I exhaled through my nose, loud enough for her to hear the disappointment. “Of course you can’t. I knew that boy was a scammer. Lirien sells me a blind hoe and swears she’s an oracle who prophesies real futures. Two million gold for this?”
She flinched at the word “hoe,” shoulders hunching smaller.
I stepped closer, circling her slowly, boots clicking on the obsidian floor. The terrified omega scent rolled off her in waves—sharp, cloying, nauseating. It made my stomach turn. Fear like that should arouse a proper wolf. On her, it just smelled like weakness.
I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing calm. Think slow, Cassian. Not impulse. Good dice, not bad bets.
“What exactly can you do, then? Enlighten me. Because right now you look like a liability I just paid a fortune to drag into my house.”
She swallowed audibly. “I… I see glimpses, my lord. Not the full future. Just… flashes. Pieces. Like broken glass in moonlight. They come sudden, and they hurt, and they fade fast. But they’re real. They’ve always been real.”
“Glimpses.” I barked a short, ugly laugh. “That’s your grand gift? Vague little pictures that ‘hurt’ and ‘fade’? Any half-drunk seer in a tavern can claim that after enough wine. You’re trying to scam me, aren’t you? Lirien’s little charity case, hoping I won’t notice you’re worthless until the gold’s already spent.”
“No!” The word burst out louder than she meant—then she clapped a hand over her mouth, trembling harder. “I’m not scamming you, my lord. Please. I swear on the Moon. I can’t control when they come or what they show, but… but they’ve never lied. Not once.”
I stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel my heat, my breath stirring the hair across her forehead. “Prove it.”
Her blind eyes widened—somehow they still managed to look terrified. “I—I can’t just summon it. It doesn’t work like that. It comes when it wants. Usually when something… big is close. Or when someone’s fate is tangled tight.”
“Tangled tight.” I repeated the words mockingly, tasting them like bad wine. “How poetic. And convenient. So you’re telling me you’re useless until fate decides to throw you a bone? That I bought a lottery ticket with legs?”
She shook her head frantically. “Not useless. I’ve seen things before. Real things. A fire that swallowed a pack house three nights before it happened. A blade in the dark that found a lord’s throat two days later. I told my overseer. He beat me for lying. Then the fire came. Then the blade. He stopped beating me after that… but he never believed me either.”
I studied her face—pale, bruised under one eye, lips chapped. No guile there. Just raw, animal fear. The kind that made me want to slap her just to see if she’d break or bite back.
She didn’t bite. She never would.
“Fine,” I said at last, voice dropping low. “Let’s play a different game. What’s your name? Or do blind oracles not get those either?”
“I… don’t have a name, my lord. I’ve been a slave since birth.”
I laughed again—this time colder. “Gods, what a pathetic excuse for an oracle. No name, no control, no spine. You’re a walking disappointment.”
I tilted my head, considering. “From now on, you’re Celesta. You hear that? Pretty name for a broken toy. You better start bringing me good luck—real visions, useful ones—or I send you straight back to Lirien. In pieces if I feel like it.”
She shook her head again, small, frantic jerks. Tears welled in those useless white eyes but didn’t fall. Smart enough not to let them.
I glanced at Riven, who waited silent in the shadows by the door. One nod, and he stepped forward, massive hand closing around her thin arm like a manacle.
“Take her to the lower guest chamber,” I told him. “Chain her to the wall—loose enough she can move, tight enough she remembers who owns her now. Feed her once a day. No visitors. No light. If she starts spouting prophecies, I want to hear them immediately.”
Riven dragged her toward the door without a word. She stumbled once, bare feet scraping stone, but didn’t cry out. Just that same trembling silence.
The omega fear-scent lingered after they left, thick enough to choke on. I almost gagged again. Weakness. Always weakness.
I made my way downstairs, pulling out my comm device as I descended the spiral stair. Notifications blinked—council summons, border reports, another sniveling message from Lirien begging for more time on his debt. I ignored them all.
Think slow, I reminded myself. Not fast and stupid like last time. Good dice. Deliberate moves.
System 1 wanted to rage, smash something, scream at the moon that Vuk had everything while I scraped for scraps. System 2—the cold, calculating part—whispered patience.
If this blind thing was even half what Lirien claimed, she could be the edge I needed. A glimpse of Vuk’s weakness. A vision of his precious mate bleeding. Something—anything—to finally tip the scales.
I paused on the landing, thumb hovering over a contact. The southern packs were restless again. Maybe it was time to place a few quiet bets there too.
I stepped out of the obsidian doors into the frozen night air, the wind slicing across my face like a reminder that even my fortress couldn’t keep the cold out forever.
The black town car waited at the curb, engine purring low. My driver—silent, efficient, one of the few people who never flinched when I snapped—opened the rear door without a word.
“Vesper’s,” I told him, sliding into the leather seat. “The back entrance.”
The drive was short, silent. Streetlights bled gold across the snow, turning the city into something almost beautiful. Almost.
My thumb kept scrolling through contacts I had no intention of calling. Southern packs. Disgruntled elders. Anyone who might owe me a favor. Anyone who might hate Vuk half as much as I did.
Vesper’s loomed ahead—low black stone, red velvet ropes, the kind of place where deals were sealed over blood-infused wine and no one asked questions.
The valet knew my car; the doorman knew my face. They nodded once, sharp and deferential, and ushered me straight through to the VIP wing without making me wait in the crush of normals.
I was halfway to my reserved alcove when something snagged my attention.
Across the main floor, in the open dining area where lesser wolves and betas pretended they belonged, sat Eryx.
And her.
Nyxara.
They were tucked into a corner booth, candlelight carving soft shadows across their faces. Eryx leaned in close, laughing at something she’d said—low, genuine, the kind of laugh I’d never heard from him in three centuries of service.
Nyxara’s dark hand rested on his forearm, casual, possessive. She wore a simple black dress that hugged her like sin, hair loose and wild, violet eyes catching the flame like they were drinking it.
They looked… happy. Like lovers. Like people who’d chosen each other and didn’t give a damn who saw.
My smile came fast—wide, sharp, predatory. I changed course without thinking, boots cutting through the crowd like a blade.
They didn’t notice me until I was almost on top of them.
“Well, well,” I drawled, stopping at the edge of their table. “Look at this. The fallen beta and his demon whore, playing house in public. Dating openly now, are we?”
Eryx’s head snapped up first. His eyes narrowed, but the smile didn’t leave his face.
Nyxara turned slower, deliberate, like I was an annoying insect she’d already decided not to swat.
She chuckled—soft, low, dangerous.
“Fix your mechanic voice, Cassian,” she said, voice velvet over steel. “It’s ruining the dramatic entrance.”
The words hit like ice water.
I’d almost forgotten.
The voice modulator—sleek, silver, embedded under the skin of my throat like a permanent insult—made every word come out slightly synthetic, clipped, robotic at the edges. No more smooth drawl. No more silver tongue that used to make lords bend. Just this… machine. Vuk’s gift. Vuk’s fucking brand.
Heat flooded my face. My fists clenched at my sides.
Nyxara didn’t flinch. She tilted her head, studying me like I was a mildly interesting specimen.
“You’re still mad about that, huh?” she continued, voice dripping mock sympathy. “Poor thing. Must be hard, waking up every day knowing the Devil took the one thing that made you dangerous. How’s the diet going without a tongue to taste your victories?”
Eryx’s hand slid around her waist—protective, proud. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. The way he looked at her said everything: she was his, he was hers, and I was nothing but background noise.
I felt the old rage surge—hot, blinding, the same fury that had me screaming naked in my own halls. I wanted to reach across the table, grab her by that pretty throat, squeeze until those violet eyes popped. I wanted to remind Eryx who’d pulled him from nothing, who’d given him rank and purpose.
Instead I forced a laugh—harsh, mechanical, echoing wrong in my own ears.
“Enjoy the scraps, beta,” I said, leaning in just enough to let them smell my anger. “When Vuk tires of his lunar bitch and her half-breed litter, he’ll come for you next. And you’ll be nothing without me to shield you.”
Eryx finally spoke, voice calm, almost gentle.
“We’re not hiding anymore, Cassian. We don’t need your shield. Or your pity.”
Nyxara leaned forward, elbows on the table, smile sharp as fangs.
“Run along now,” she purred. “Your client’s waiting. Wouldn’t want to keep the important people waiting while you embarrass yourself in front of the help.”
She flicked her fingers in dismissal—like I was a servant who’d overstayed.
I stood there one heartbeat longer, chest heaving, the modulator humming faintly in my throat like a taunt.
Then I turned on my heel and stalked toward the VIP alcove.
The curtain parted for me. My client—a wiry southern envoy with nervous eyes—rose halfway out of his seat, bowing low.
“My lord—”
“Sit,” I snapped, dropping into the opposite chair. The synthetic edge in my voice made the word crack like static.
He sat.
I stared past him, through the gap in the curtain, watching Eryx lean in to kiss Nyxara—slow, deep, unhurried. She melted into it, fingers threading through his hair like she owned every inch of him.
My stomach twisted.
Not with hunger.
With something uglier.
Envy.
Pure, black, choking envy.
They had what I never would: someone who chose them. Someone who stayed. Someone who looked at them like they were enough.
I forced my gaze back to the envoy.
“Talk,” I said, voice flat, mechanical, dead. “And make it quick. I’m in a mood.”
He started stammering about border concessions and tribute hikes.
I barely listened.
All I could hear was the echo of Nyxara’s laugh—and the soft, satisfied sound of Eryx kissing her like the world could burn and they wouldn’t care.
They’d chosen each other.
And I was still alone.
Always alone.
I smiled at the envoy—wide, mechanical, empty.
“Let’s make a deal,” I said.
Inside, something cracked a little wider.
But deals were all I had left.
So I made them.