I could feel it in the very stones beneath my boots, the tremor of whispers, the shift of unease, the barely veiled hunger for war.
Vampires were creatures of instinct and pride, and pride wounded too easily. The wolves' raid had stirred old scars, and now every noble in my court wanted blood to salve their bruised egos.
But I was not here to soothe them.
I was here to remind them who ruled.
The great council chamber stretched wide before me, its long obsidian table glinting in the firelight. Silver torches lined the walls, their flames steady, never flickering, enchanted to bow only to me. Thirteen seats surrounded the table, occupied by the oldest lords and ladies of my kind, their eyes sharp, their lips pressed thin.
At the head sat me, their king.
I leaned back into my high-backed chair, cloak spilling over the carved arms like liquid shadow, fingers resting lightly on the silvered crest of my throne. Outwardly, I was carved stone calm, detached, unreadable.
Inwardly, I was burning.
Not with rage. Not with bloodlust.
With memory.
The taste of Damien still lingered on my lips, maddening as a phantom wound. His heat, his teeth, his wildness, everything about him clashed with my nature, and yet it lodged inside me like an arrow I couldn't pull free. I should have hated him. I should have ended him.
Instead, I savored him.
"Your Majesty," Lady Miralith spoke, her voice cutting into my thoughts. Her silver hair coiled in elaborate braids, her pale hands dripping with rings. "The wolves grow bolder. If we do not respond, it will be seen as weakness. Already, whispers rise among the border clans, some suggest you have grown… complacent."
Complacent.
A dangerous word.
The room bristled with agreement, soft murmurs like rustling leaves. I let them rise, let them think their courage mattered, until the chamber buzzed with it.
Then I rose.
Silence fell like a blade.
I paced the length of the table slowly, each step deliberate, measured. My hand drifted along the cool obsidian surface, nails clicking faintly. The lords watched me, unease coiling tighter with every second.
"Complacent," I repeated softly, tasting the word like poison. "Tell me, Miralith, which part of my reign strikes you as complacent? The centuries of peace bought with the blood of my enemies? The borders guarded with the lives of those who dared defy me? Or perhaps you mean the wolves who howl beyond our forests, beaten back every time they dare draw close?"
Miralith's eyes flickered, but she said nothing.
I smiled faintly. "No. I think what you truly mean is impatience. You are impatient. The court is impatient. And impatience, my dear lords, is the weakest of vices."
I stopped at the far end of the table, placing both hands on the obsidian and leaning forward, my gaze sweeping across them like a predator weighing prey.
"Wolves thrive on reckless hunger. They rush. They leap. They bite without thought. That is why they will always remain beasts."
I straightened, cloak snapping behind me like a whip as I turned back toward my throne.
"We," I said, voice rising, sharp and cold, "endure. We wait. We do not rush into traps set by fools. We strike only when the strike is final."
The chamber was silent now, save for the crackle of the torches. No one dared breathe too loud.
Good. They remembered who I was.
I resumed my seat, folding myself elegantly into stillness once more. "Now," I murmured, almost lazily. "Tell me again of weakness."
No one spoke.
I sipped from the goblet at my side, letting the blood coat my tongue, rich and warm. But it wasn't enough. It never was anymore. My thirst was for something far more dangerous.
The memory of his scent, wild earth and stormwind clung to me like a second skin. His growl echoed in my ears still, low and raw, claiming me without words. He thought himself dominant, thought himself my conqueror.
I almost laughed.
Let him think it.
I would feed his obsession carefully, delicately, until it consumed him whole. And when he was lost in it, when the mighty Werewolf King had burned himself down to ash in pursuit of me… that was when I would decide whether to grant him mercy.
Or ruin him entirely.
Lucien lingered at my right, ever-watchful, ever-faithful. Too faithful, perhaps. His eyes were sharp as daggers, his jaw tight. I knew that look.
Suspicion.
"You disagree," I said without looking at him.
His silence was brief, then careful. "No, my king. Only that wolves are never truly patient either. They do not wait at the border long."
(Meaning: Damien would not wait long.)
My lips twitched in the faintest of smiles. "Then let him come."
Lucien stiffened. "Your Majesty..."
I cut him off with a raised hand, my eyes still fixed on the goblet. "If the wolf hungers, he will chase. And when he does, he will find only what I allow him to find."
I lifted the goblet in a mock toast to the empty air, to the silence pressing in from every corner of the chamber.
"To wolves who cannot control their hunger," I murmured.
The blood slid down my throat, warm and heavy, but still it could not drown the heat rising in me. Damien's face burned in my mind, his voice, his eyes, his mouth.
The council saw only a king unshaken, untouchable.
They would never know that beneath the marble mask, I ached for the very enemy they despised.
And they would never know how much I relished the game.
Because Damien Blackthorn thought he was chasing me.
But it was I who led him by the throat.