Chapter 58 The Scent of Iron and Cedar
Ronan extended his hand to touch her again, his fingers hovering inches from the jagged line of her shoulder, but Elara snapped.
"I told you, I’m fine!"
Her voice cracked as she scrambled to her feet, the sand of the training grounds clinging to her skirts. She refused to meet his eyes. The mere thought of this powerful Lycan King being her fated mate sent a fresh wave of panic through her. She was terrified that if she locked gazes with him, she would become transparent. He would see the fear written all over her face—the fear of being owned, of being trapped by a destiny she never asked for.
She scoffed inwardly. “Who am I kidding? They said he had felt my pain for years through the bond. If that were true, he was undoubtedly tasting the metallic tang of my terror right now.”
"You’re shaking," Ronan said, his voice dropping an octave, "and the air reeks of something dead. Who was here with you, Elara?"
"I don't know," she said. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth. She knew the figure was a vampire, but his identity was a void she couldn't fill.
Beside Ronan’s conscious mind, Fenrir snarled. "Where were the guards? How did they miss this?" Ronan gritted his teeth, his jaw muscle leaping. The security was lacking. For anyone to have gotten this close to Elara, something was deeply fishy. His gaze fell on her exposed shoulder, darkening when he saw the darkening purple bruise where the cloak had been torn away.
"When did this happen?" he asked, his voice tight.
"It happened in the square," she said, pulling her cloak back around her and clutching it tight. "It doesn't hurt."
He reached out, wanting to inspect the mark, but she shifted back, putting distance between them. Before he could speak, Matthew’s voice rang in his head via the mind-link.
“Your highness, we’ve just caught a rogue sneaking outside the border. The strange thing is, he doesn't seem to remember how he got here. His mind is a fog.”
Ronan’s brow furrowed. “Handle it, Matthew. Now.”
He cut the link and fixed his attention back on the shivering girl before him. "Why are you out here alone? I assigned maids to you for a reason, Elara. It’s the middle of the night."
"I was restless," she said, her hands shaking as she tucked them deeper into the folds of her cloak.
Ronan opened his mouth to argue, but Matthew’s voice returned, more urgent this time. “Alpha, hurry. We have more movement at the North wall.”
Ronan let out a low snarl, and Elara flinched, her eyes wide. He immediately softened his expression, exhaling a ragged breath. "The guards will escort you to your room."
"No," she said quickly. "I want to stay out a bit longer. I need the air."
Ronan went quiet, his golden eyes scanning the dark perimeter. He didn't like it, but the threat at the border was escalating. He turned to the guards standing at the entrance of the field. And if he insisted that she goes inside, he would only end up driving more wedge between them. "Stay with her. Do not leave her for a single second. If so much as a shadow touches her, I’ll have your heads."
Elara opened her mouth to protest the stifling protection, but Ronan was already gone, vanishing into the darkness in the blink of an eye.
Left in the sudden quiet, Elara remained rooted to the ground. “The seal,” Lyra whispered, her voice sounding thin and strained. “It’s weakened, Elara. I don't know what’s going to happen.”
Elara didn't answer. Her hand simply rested on the spot on her neck where the vampire had poked her. That was where she had been bitten by the nosferu once. That was where the past and the present were currently colliding.
Minutes felt like hours.
When Ronan finally returned, he looked like a nightmare. He didn't need a mask for the guards to recognize his aura. They bowed instantly as he approached, his leather tunic torn and his hands coated in a thick, dark arterial spray.
On his way back from the border, he had intercepted a group of masked scouts from the North. They had been trying to scale the balcony leading directly to Elara’s private chambers. He had dismantled them with his bare hands.
He wanted to tell her she was safe, but then he saw her expression.
Elara was staring at his hands. The copper scent of the blood hit her like a physical blow to the stomach.
But she didn't feel the nausea she expected, or real back due to trauma Instead, a sharp, agonizing hunger coiled in her gut. Her mouth watered. Beads of sweat formed at her temples
She recoiled, her back hitting a wooden training post with a dull thud.
"Elara?" Ronan’s brow furrowed, his heart sinking at the look on her face. "I'm sorry you had to see this. I'll wash—"
"No," she gasped, her eyes fixed on the red staining his knuckles. "Just... stay back. Please."
She wasn't afraid of his violence. She was afraid of what she was feeling. The scent of iron was calling to her, and for a terrifying second, she had wanted to reach out and taste it.
Ronan froze, misinterpreting her horror as fear of him.
The gold in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a raw, jagged hurt. "I was protecting you," he muttered, the words sounding hollow to his own ears.
"I know," she whispered, clutching her stomach as the hunger growled within her. "I just... I need to go."
She turned and fled toward the palace, leaving him standing in the blood-stained sand.
—-
The next morning, the palace was a cacophony of noise. Guards and maids scurried through the halls, shouting instructions as they moved heavy iron-bound boxes and supplies toward the line of waiting carriages.
Elara stood by her window, staring out at the chaotic courtyard absentmindedly. Her neck still throbbed, and the hunger from the night before had settled into a dull, persistent ache.
"Faye?" she asked, not turning around as the maid entered the room. "What is going on?"
Faye paused, holding a stack of folded traveling leathers. "My Lady, the King has moved the schedule up. We are moving to the camp for the Great Hunt immediately."