The wind was cold that night, sweeping through the towering spires of Blackthorne like a whisper from the dead. Moonlight spilled across the castle courtyard as Azrael and Raphael stood in front of their father. His question lingering in the air.
Valerion stood at the grand entrance like a statue wrought of vengeance, his snow-white hair catching the moon’s glow like strands of starlight. His crimson eyes, ever watchful, fixed on them both with the weight of a man who trusted nothing—and no one.
Eva was still standing beside him like a ghost from the shadows, her platinum–blonde hair curling ever so slightly in reaction to the tension radiating off her.
There was a moment’s pause. Azrael looked at Raphael, who gave her the subtlest of nods.
“We received word of a possible Lycan sighting near the borders,” Azrael said smoothly. “We thought it wise to investigate before informing you, to ensure it wasn’t a false alarm.”
Valerion's eyes didn’t move from her. He was still, deathly still, and it felt like standing in the path of an avalanche. Then, finally, he blinked. He turned slightly, walking a few paces away as though weighing her words.
“You went on a border patrol. Without informing me.”
“It was meant to be a brief recon,” Raphael said, stepping in. “If there had been real danger, you would have been the first to know.”
Valerion was silent, his hands clasped behind his back. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod, he turned and walked away. “Next time,” he called over his shoulder, “don’t assume I need protection from surprises.”
The tension did not fade with his departure.
Azrael exhaled and turned toward the castle. Eva fell into step behind her.
The silence between them was heavy and sharp.
Azrael could feel Eva’s stare burning into the back of her skull. The girl was too smart for her own good.
She finally glanced over her shoulder and asked, “Is there something on your mind?”
Eva’s platinum locks rippled with the barest twitch of static, curling at the ends with suspicion. “Nothing,” she said too quickly.
The walk to Azrael’s chambers felt like a funeral procession. Every footstep echoed too loudly, every flickering torch a judgmental eye.
When they entered the room, Azrael shut the door behind them. The moment the latch clicked, Eva turned.
“Where were you really?” she asked softly, but with the weight of accusation.
Azrael raised an eyebrow. “I already told you. Patrol at the border. Lycan sighting.”
Eva’s mouth curved into a bitter, humorless smile. Her hair shimmered, the platinum strands twisting slightly. “So you’re not going to tell me the truth?”
Azrael’s voice remained calm. “What do you mean, Eva? I’m telling you the truth.”
Eva let out a short laugh—sharp, disbelieving. “Oh, so you didn’t go to see Draven then?”
The name hit Azrael like a slap. Her eyes widened before she could stop herself.
Eva caught it. Her expression sharpened. “I overheard you and Raphael,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re still in contact with him, Azrael. After everything he’s done to you? After he marked you in front of the nobles? Disgraced you?”
Azrael’s voice rose, emotion bleeding through her calm. “Draven is not the enemy!”
Eva stared at her, stunned.
“Not the enemy?” she repeated, disbelief dripping from every word. Her hair flared, brightening and twisting like it had a will of its own. “Not too long ago, the Lycans launched an attack on Blackthorne. People died. And now you’re out there, what—playing fetch with one of their alphas?”
Azrael’s fists clenched at her sides.
“Draven is the enemy,” Eva said again, this time quieter. “And you know it.”
“I said he’s not the enemy!” Azrael snapped. “He’s my soulmate!”
Eva recoiled slightly from the anger and venom in her voice.
Then Azrael’s face paled. She hadn’t meant to say it. Not like this.
Eva stared at her, frozen.
Her hair moved slightly, the curls falling limp as if stunned too.
“What… did you just say?” she asked, her voice was barely a whisper.
Azrael didn’t answer immediately. She looked down at her hands.
Then she met Eva’s wide eyes and said again, firmer this time:
“Draven is my mate.”
Eva backed up half a step. Her lips parted, but no words came out.
The air between them thickened until it was unbearable.
—
Raphael stood in front of the tall mirror in his chamber, the silver moonlight casting an ethereal glow across his bare torso. His long, snow-white hair fell like liquid silk around his shoulders, but it did little to hide the thing that now taunted him in the reflection—the mark.
The skin at the crook of his neck bore the faintest crimson hue, shaped in the unmistakable imprint of a mate’s bite. No matter how many times he touched it, hoping the mark would fade or prove to be a hallucination, it remained. Permanent. Binding.
His golden eyes narrowed as he stared at it. ***A Lycan.***
He scoffed, but the bitter sound dissolved quickly in the silence of the room. It didn’t matter how many times he reminded himself. It still felt… surreal.
***Cyrus.***
The name alone conjured up far too much. Raphael could feel the mate bond even now, tugging at him from across kingdoms. Every heartbeat carried Cyrus’ echo. He already missed him, despite their separation being no more than a handful of hours.
And then, without warning, the memories surged forward—demanding, hungry, visceral.
Cyrus’ mouth had been hot and urgent against his. His hands—firm, reverent—had explored Raphael like a map he was determined to memorize. The taste of his breath, the gasp in his throat, the tremor in his thighs. Raphael recalled the way their bodies fit together, the fevered pace of skin meeting skin, and the raw sound of Cyrus’ voice whispering his name.
The way Cyrus melted beneath him, arched for him, took him—every detail played back in sharp, addictive detail.
Raphael's breath hitched. His jaw tightened. The hardness stirring in him was unrelenting, shamefully easy to coax with just the memory of that night. He pressed a palm to the dresser, the wood cool and grounding against his skin.
And then—
**BANG.**
The chamber doors slammed open with a deafening force, shaking the silence apart like shattered glass.
“Raphael!” came the furious, thunderous voice.
He flinched, caught between panic and disbelief as his head whipped toward the door. No—
Valerion stormed inside like a hurricane of shadows and fury, his wine-red eyes gleaming with suppressed rage. His aura filled the room instantly, oppressive and commanding, swallowing up the last of Raphael's stolen peace.
Raphael barely managed to spin around, using his hair like a shield to cover the mark. He faced away from his father, heart pounding like war drums in his chest.
Valerion's footsteps were sharp and deliberate as he closed in. “I told you to keep an eye on her, not go off with her for two whole days!” he snarled.
“I—” Raphael began, voice faltering, but Valerion cut him off like a whip to the spine.
“You think me a fool?” Valerion hissed. “Do you truly believe I bought that pathetic lie about a patrol near the borders?”
Raphael said nothing. He kept his gaze locked to the floor, muscles tight, calculating the best way to navigate this moment without giving away everything.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, boy!” Valerion’s voice cracked like a blade unsheathing.
Raphael clenched his jaw, praying to the gods that his hair concealed the mark well enough. Slowly, he turned to face his father, lifting his chin just slightly—measured defiance wrapped in practiced obedience.
Valerion stepped closer, scrutinizing him. “Now tell me,” he said coldly. “Where did you and Az—”
His voice cut off abruptly.
His eyes narrowed.
“What is that?” he asked, his tone suddenly quiet. Too quiet.
Raphael froze.
“What is that on your neck?” Valerion took another step forward.
Raphael blinked. “I—what?”
But it was too late.
In a flash of movement, Valerion's hand shot out and gripped Raphael’s hair, yanking it aside with vicious force.
The mark gleamed under the light.
The silence that followed was immediate and suffocating.
Valerion stared at it. Then at Raphael. Then back again.
A storm churned behind his eyes.
When he finally met his son’s gaze again, Raphael’s blood turned to ice.
They stood like that—locked in a stare neither one of them wanted to break.
And the room was silent… except for the quiet, thunderous beat of Raphael's heart.