Chapter 203

Chapter 203
Vesper

The scent of blood hit me before I saw the bodies.

Fresh blood. Still warm. The kind that made my newly awakened dragon instincts roar to life, every nerve ending screaming danger even as my fae senses catalogued the carnage with clinical precision. Thirty-seven corpses scattered across the courtyard. No—thirty-eight. The one half-buried under rubble near the fountain still had a hand twitching.

I'd followed Titania's intel to this godforsaken castle in the middle of nowhere, running on pure adrenaline and the kind of rage that made my vision blur at the edges. Draken had sent her the coordinates after he'd arrived—after he'd walked straight into what turned out to be a fucking ambush.

And now I was staring at what looked like the aftermath of a small war.

The castle doors hung off their hinges. Scorch marks blackened the stone walls in patterns I recognized—dragon fire, hot enough to melt steel, controlled enough not to collapse the entire structure. Someone had been very, very angry. And very, very precise about expressing it.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Where was he?

A figure moved in the shadows near the entrance. Tall. Lean. Standing with the kind of stillness that spoke of either supreme confidence or complete surrender.

I knew that silhouette.

"Alaric."

His name left my mouth like a curse. Power surged through my veins before conscious thought could catch up—dragon magic and fae instinct combining into something that felt like lightning wrapped in ice. The air between us rippled. Then he was airborne, yanked off his feet by invisible hands, suspended twenty feet above the courtyard for one perfect moment before I slammed him back down.

The impact should have shattered bone. Should have at least gotten a reaction.

He just lay there. Didn't even try to catch himself. Just hit the stone pillar like a ragdoll and slumped against it, head lolling to one side, eyes unfocused.

Wrong. Everything about this was wrong.

Where was the smirk? The calculating gleam in his eyes as he planned his next move? The coiled tension of a predator ready to strike?

This man looked... empty. Hollowed out. Like someone had reached inside and scooped out everything that made him dangerous, leaving behind a shell that couldn't quite remember how to care about its own survival.

I stalked closer, magic crackling around my fingertips. "Fuck are you playing at, Alaric? Some new manipulation tactic? Pretending to be broken so I'll let my guard down?"

He didn't answer. Didn't even look at me. Just stared at the ground with the kind of thousand-yard stare I'd seen on soldiers who'd lost everything that mattered.

Rage flooded through me, hot and vicious. "I asked you a question!" My hand cut through the air, and the invisible slap sent him sprawling sideways. His head cracked against the stone. Blood trickled from his temple. Still nothing. No reaction. No clever comeback. "Where the fuck is Draken?"

That got a response. His lips twitched—something broken trying to remember how to smile.

"Well." The word came out like gravel. "How touching. You came all this way, tearing through the night, worried sick about your precious mate." A hollow laugh rattled in his chest. "And here I am, lucky bastard that I am, getting to see you one last time before I disappear into whatever mediocre existence awaits me." His gaze lifted, meeting mine with unsettling clarity. "Still that same relentless fire in those eyes. I'll take that with me, at least. Something worth remembering."

What the fuck was this? Some deathbed confession? A manipulation so twisted I couldn't see the angle yet?

My fingers curled into fists. The air temperature dropped ten degrees. "You've got about five seconds before I tear that tongue out of your head."

"He left." Alaric's head lolled back against the pillar. His eyes finally met mine, and for the first time since I'd known him, there was no calculation in them. Just... exhaustion. "Went east, I think. Hard to keep track of directions when you're busy having your entire worldview dismantled."

I raised my hand again. Power gathered at my fingertips, sharp enough to slice through steel.

"Go ahead." His smile was bitter. Self-mocking. "Your mate chose to spare me. If you want to finish the job, this is your best shot. Tomorrow I might actually care about living again. Right now?" He shrugged. "Honestly can't decide if death would be a mercy or just another failure to add to the list."

The casual way he said it—like discussing the weather—made my skin crawl. This wasn't Alaric. Alaric fought dirty. Alaric manipulated and schemed and never, ever gave up.

This man had given up hours ago.

"Fuck." I lowered my hand, studying him. The burns covering his arms and chest were fresh. Dragon fire, no question. The kind that left permanent scars even on vampire flesh. Draken had done this. Had fought him. Had won. And then... let him live?

Why?