Chapter 265 Raw Horror - Aleksandr’s POV

Chapter 265 Raw Horror - Aleksandr’s POV
A plate hit the floor. China cracked against burgundy carpet, a sharp report cutting through the music and conversation.
I turned before my mind had fully processed the sound, reflex converting noise into threat. The sight before me stopped every other calculation.
Dominic caught Amelia inches from the carpet. Raw horror stripped the composure from his face, the look of a man watching the event he had built every protocol to prevent.
I reached them as the crowd recoiled. Wolves cleared my path on instinct, reading enough in my expression to know delay would be unwise.
Amelia hung limp in Dominic’s arms, burgundy silk pooling around her legs and her crown tilted towards one temple. Her eyes were closed. Each breath came shallow and uneven, barely enough to lift her chest.
Skoll’s roar tore through our shared mind.
His rage blotted out the ballroom, all teeth, instinct and helplessness. His mate had fallen in front of him, and there was no enemy within reach.
‘Mate,’ he snarled, the sound vibrating through our bond until my jaw ached. ‘Mate hurt. Pups hurt. Find. Kill. Make example.’
I had no answer for him. Language had deserted me, replaced by a cold focus that reduced the world to Amelia, the pastry and whoever had put poison between them.
I took Amelia from Dominic, supporting her knees and back. Her stillness was wrong. Her crown slipped, and I caught it long enough to thrust it into Dominic’s hands before tightening my hold.
“She took one bite,” Dominic said, his training holding his voice steady. “Chocolate and cherry. She said it tasted wrong, handed me the plate and collapsed. Thirty seconds, perhaps less.”
I nodded, forcing the husband aside long enough for the king to act.
“Lock it down.” I kept my voice low because volume was irrelevant when every guard knew the cost of failure. “Nobody leaves or enters. Seal every exit. Sweep the corridors. Contain the kitchen staff and identify every person who touched the Queen’s food tray. Now.”
Dominic moved. Orders travelled across the ballroom as the security team shifted from celebration to crisis. Guards sealed the exits. Questions rose, guests were contained, and someone began bagging the shattered plate before the final pieces had stopped moving.
I carried Amelia through the corridors. The small curve of her abdomen rested against me, a physical reminder that two pups depended on reaching Sylvia in time. Skoll’s fury remained close, no longer noise so much as a single command: faster.
Fluorescent light met us in the medical wing. Sylvia rose before we crossed the threshold, her steel-grey hair loosening from its bun and her scarred hands already prepared to work.
“Lay her here,” she ordered, pointing to the nearest bed. The healer outranked the king while a patient was failing, and we both knew it.
I lowered Amelia onto the bed. Dark hair spread across the white pillow; burgundy silk looked violently out of place against hospital sheets. Sylvia checked her pulse and pupils in a sequence too quick for fear to interrupt.
“Pulse is strong,” she said. “Breathing is shallow but regular. Pupils reactive. Whatever she ingested acted quickly, but it is not shutting down major systems. Not yet.”
She fitted an IV with one smooth motion. Clear fluid began descending the line towards Amelia’s veins while Sylvia prepared the next set of equipment.
“I need blood now. Full toxicology, heavy metals, plant alkaloids, everything. I cannot counter what I cannot identify.”
Three vials filled in quick succession. Sylvia labelled and capped each without wasted movement.
“I’ll run these myself. Poison is my speciality. Give me twenty minutes.”
She left with the vials in one hand, white coat snapping behind her. The door closed, and for the first time since the plate broke, there was nothing for me to do but wait.
I dragged the chair to Amelia’s bedside. Her hand lay still on the sheet. I covered it with mine and rested my fingertips over the silver mating mark at her wrist, using the pulse beneath it as proof that she remained with me.
Skoll prowled the dark edge of my thoughts, his fury narrowed by helplessness. ‘Wake mate. Find threat.’ He offered no elaborate violence now, only the demands neither of us could fulfil yet.
Dominic reached me through the mind link, clipped and controlled, though strain roughened the edges of his report.
‘My King. We have two people in custody: a waiter and a kitchen assistant. Both had access to the royal tray. The waiter says he received the pastry from the assistant, who prepared it. Neither is talking. Their quarters are being searched, and they are secured separately in the cells.’
‘Good. Keep them apart. By morning, I want their financial records, pack affiliations and every connection to the protests or surveillance operation.’
‘Yes, my King.’ He hesitated, and composure gave way to guilt. ‘I apologise. The food protocols were comprehensive. I reviewed them personally. This should not have happened.’
‘Dominic. Your apology can wait. Find everyone involved. That is the only useful thing either of us can do for her right now.’
The link muted. He had his orders, and I had spared him neither blame nor absolution. Both could wait until Amelia opened her eyes.
Her breathing gradually steadied, the shallow pulls lengthening towards sleep. The IV dripped beside her. Beneath the sheet, the small rise of her abdomen moved with each breath.
I laid my free hand over that rise, careful not to disturb the lines. Warmth met my palm. It told me nothing about the pups’ condition, but I could not make myself move away.
Minutes stretched. Machines measured pulse and oxygen with indifferent regularity. I counted each breath because counting gave fear a boundary. At twelve, Amelia’s fingers twitched against mine. The movement was too slight to mean waking, but it broke the stillness and kept Skoll from retreating into rage again.
Dominic sent further updates without being asked. The kitchen had been sealed. Ingredient containers were tagged. Every camera feed from preparation to service was being copied to isolated drives. The woman who carried the tray remained under guard while investigators reconstructed the route in reverse.
I ordered the guest list frozen and every departure delayed until statements were taken. Rank would not excuse anyone. If the poison had entered through a guarded kitchen during a locked-down gala, then either our enemy had recruited someone inside or had learned to move through our safeguards without leaving a visible mark.
The thought carried no dramatic heat. It settled into the part of me that planned wars: names, access, motive and opportunity. Rage could wait. Evidence disappeared when frightened people realised they were being hunted.
I would find every person involved: the hand that altered the pastry, the mind that designed the plan and anyone who helped them enter our security chain. Consequences could be decided after Amelia and the pups were safe.
For now, I remained beside the bed, one hand marking Amelia’s pulse and the other resting above our pups, waiting for Sylvia to return with a name for the poison and a way to bring my wife back to me.