*Admiral Nugen*
Gods damn it, Alexander.
Admiral Nugen clenched his jaw so tight it ached, the grinding of molars sending a spider-web of pain across his temple. His tongue tasted copper—he'd bitten the inside of his cheek without realizing it. He watched helplessly as the silver hem of Ana's gown vanished around the far column, her red shawl snapping in the air like a battle flag as she retreated. The silk caught the afternoon light through the high windows, blood-bright against the cold marble. She didn't look back.
How could she? Not unless she wanted the vultures still circling the court room to see how tears glittered in her scarlet eyes, threatening to spill down pale cheeks. The sight made Nugen's chest constrict, his breath catching on something jagged in his throat. Every muscle in his body screamed to run to her. To place himself between her and their stares. To comfort her with words he wasn't sure he had. But that wouldn't solve anything. He wasn't there for that.
That was Alexander's role, wasn't it?
Nugen's fingers curled into fists so tight his knuckles cracked audibly in the hushed aftermath. The leather of his gloves creaked in protest. He bit back the curse that rose to his lips, tasting ash and bile. His anger rolled up again—not a wave but a tide, inexorable and drowning. The man's absence felt like an open wound festering between them all. How much more they could have used him now.
Because that was brutal, what he had to sit and witness.
The court chamber still buzzed with lingering voices, like flies over something dead. Nugen's nostrils flared at the assault of smells—stale sweat mingling with expensive perfumes, smoke from the braziers clinging to tapestries, the sharp tang of ink from overturned ledgers, and beneath it all, the unmistakable iron scent of frustration. A few candles hissed as they guttered out in the corners, thin trails of black smoke coiling up like spirits fleeing a battlefield. The nobles had yelled until their throats were hoarse, spittle flying, faces mottled red with fury, and still it hadn't been enough to sate them.
And she—Ana, their Empress, the one they were supposed to obey by their own tradition and rule—had nearly been swallowed alive before his eyes.
Nugen exhaled through his nose, slow and hard. The sound whistled slightly between his clenched teeth. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of his armor pull and pinch against old scars. The leather straps under his pauldrons had been digging into his flesh for hours, but the pain was almost welcome now—something physical to focus on. He flexed his fists until the bones in his knuckles cracked again, the sound sharp in the murmuring hall. It had been worse than Parsal.
And that was saying something.
"Three more good men have died!"
Lord Fendrick's voice had cut through first, nasal and sharp. Nugen could still see the spittle flying from his thin lips, could almost feel the droplets hitting his face as the man's jowls quivered with indignation. His red robes, too fine for a man who never rode into battle, had fluttered like pennants as he threw his hand out. "Three! From my own house!"
Even now, the memory made Nugen's stomach churn. His hand drifted to his sword hilt, fingers tracing the worn leather, seeking the comfort of cold steel.
"How many more attacks before you'll come to your senses, Your Empress?!"
That was Lady Vaurn, thin as a branch, with hawk eyes that never softened. Her silver collar had glinted at her throat like a noose waiting to tighten, capturing the light with every sharp breath she took. She had stood, arms crossed over her flat chest, her chin lifted in contempt. Each word had been a dagger thrown at Ana's heart, and Nugen had felt each one as if they pierced his own flesh.
"You said it was safe!" someone else had barked. Lord Brenthan, with his greasy curls and broad gut, had scowled from the shadows near the back pillars, barely hiding his sneer. His breath had reeked of wine even from across the room. "You promised the roads were cleared!"
"You still have nothing on the crossbows?!"
A younger noble—perhaps barely of age—his voice cracking with outrage. His eyes had darted between his peers for approval, like a pup learning to bare his fangs. Nugen had watched the boy's Adam's apple bob nervously, even as he tried to muster the courage to join the attack.
Ana had tried to speak. Gods, she tried. "I did—" she'd said, voice steady but small against the tide. The sound had made something in Nugen's chest crack. He'd seen her shoulders square, her spine straighten even as her fingers trembled ever so slightly against the silk of her gown. But they didn't want answers. They wanted fury. They wanted someone to blame.
Someone to hang.
And then it came—first a whisper that raised the hairs on the back of Nugen's neck, then a mutter that made his skin prickle with cold sweat, and then a chant, rising like sickness in the gut.
"Kill them all."
"Kill the Bulgeons!"
"Kill them!"
They were animals now—red eyes gleaming in the torchlight like beasts in the dark, faces flushed with heat, collars loosened, spittle flecking their words. The marble floor had seemed to tremble beneath Nugen's boots, as if it might crack from the weight of their rage. Even the neutral lords—those who had said nothing—did not move to stop it. They simply observed. Cold. Detached. Some with flickers of amusement playing at the corners of their mouths that made Nugen's hand itch for his blade.
At last, he had stepped forward, chest swelling with a breath that tasted of iron and rage. His heart hammered against his ribs, blood pounding in his ears.
"Quiet!" His voice had lashed through the chamber like a whip, a shot against stone. It had startled even him—the raw power of it, the way it seemed to echo from the depths of his gut. But at least it stopped them.
For a moment.
Ana had turned to him then, her face drawn tight, like parchment stretched too far. Her knuckles white at her sides, bloodless against the deep purple of her gown. Her eyes had shimmered—not with tears. Not quite. But something just as raw. Fear, maybe. Or worse—resignation.
"Admiral Nugen," she'd asked hoarsely. Her voice had been frayed at the edges, a thread ready to snap. Still, she'd clung to a need to be civil in a place that was all primal now, her shoulders squared despite the weight pressing down on them. "What do you have to say?"
He'd stepped forward—ready to steady her with his presence if not his touch. Ready to give her a way out of this pit of vipers. His boots had scraped against the marble, loud in the sudden hush.
But he never got the chance.
"We want to hear from Lord Mykhol!"
The words had erupted from somewhere near the front—then repeated again by others, a chorus of discontent that had made Nugen's spine stiffen, his jaw tighten until a dull ache spread up to his temples.
A rustle moved through the chamber. Shifting. Tilting. Turning. The sound of silk and velvet rubbing against marble benches, the creak of boots on stone. Nugen had felt the change in the air—like the moment before a storm breaks, when the air pressure drops and everything goes still.
"He understands our land!"
"At least he knows how to act!"
"He has blood in this soil!"
Their darling snake. Each accolade had been a slap to Nugen's face, each word a grain of salt in an open wound.
"Stop listening to that human!" one voice had hissed, the word "human" dripping with such contempt that it had left a foul taste in the air.
"He has no business in Nochten matters!"
"He doesn't understand our people!"
"Her Empress shouldn't be taking orders from someone like him!"
Nugen's vision had flashed white-hot, his ears ringing with fury. His pulse had thundered in his temples like war drums, each beat a call to violence. Someone like him—like he hadn't bled on Nochten soil before half these upstarts were born. He'd taught their fathers how to hold a sword, had bandaged their uncles' wounds on battlefields these pompous fools had only heard about in bedtime stories. And now they dared question his place here?
Damn Vampires. Always thinking they were better by default. Even when they wouldn't lift a single damn finger to defend what was theirs. Their disdain enough to match his own.
He'd wanted to throttle them. His fingers had twitched at his sides, imagining the satisfaction of closing around one of their pale throats. The fantasy had been sharp and clear—how their vermillion eyes would widen in shock, how their fangs would flash in panic. But he'd bitten it down, teeth grinding as he forced his features into stone. Not wanting to risk speaking out of line. Risking himself to be thrown back into the dungeon for insubordination.
How much they wanted that. To get rid of him. The last real line of defense between them and Ana. His nails had dug into his palm until blood pricked his glove, the warm wetness a small anchor to reality.
Ana had managed to round the moment—barely—by agreeing to root out the Bulgeons involved in the last ambush. Nugen had seen the toll it took on her. Seen the slight shudder in her back as she made the call, like a physical blow had landed between her shoulder blades. That wasn't victory. That was sacrifice. And it had hollowed something inside him to witness it.
Now, hours later, the marble floor gleamed with a fresh polish, but the stench of the court still lingered. Perfume and rot. Politics and stale blood. The air felt heavy in his lungs, each breath an effort.
And there was Lord Mykhol, standing perfectly at his full height, sauntering across the court with practiced ease. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle on his immaculate jacket. The torchlight caught the embroidery on his sleeve—threads of gold and burgundy that seemed to move like living things, serpentine and sinuous.
He offered his arm to a noblewoman whose lips were painted wine-red, her hair piled high in an elaborate style that must have taken hours to craft. She giggled like the earlier outrage had been nothing but entertainment, her fingers resting lightly on his forearm in a gesture that made Nugen's stomach turn.
Mykhol smiled with full fangs—pearly white and sharp as daggers. Vermillion eyes glittering in the low light like this was just another social call. As if the court hadn't nearly gutted Ana in front of him. As if her pain was nothing but a footnote in his evening.
Blissful. Practiced. Smug.
"That bastard," Nugen breathed out between his teeth, the words cutting his throat like glass. His hand clenched around his sword hilt, the leather creaking beneath his grip. He didn't buy it for a second. That perfect composure. That easy smile. Behind those eyes, he knew, wheels were turning.
It's like the court was practically eating out of his hand already.
The thought was bitter as gall in his mouth. His teeth ached from clenching, a headache building at the base of his skull. Sweat trickled down his spine despite the chill in the air, his armor suddenly too tight, too heavy.
Without you here to support her, Alexander, I don't have enough power on my own. The situation with the Bulgeons was getting out of control. And that boy's power was coming back in full force.
They were going to start losing the few supporters they still had at this rate. The realization sat like a stone in his gut.
His fingers drifted to the old scar, the flesh puckered and rough beneath his calloused fingertips. He pressed until the dull throb centered him, until the pain was sharp enough to cut through the fog of his thoughts.
What's taking you?
They needed more. More allies. More leverage. More proof. The need was a hunger inside him, gnawing at his ribs.
"I'll investigate the trade path myself," he'd told the court. His voice had been steady then, a commander's voice. The one thing he could control in this mess. "If there's a clue on how they intercepted our weapons—I'll dig it out."
It had been the only reasonable proposal all day outside of calling for blood and war. Ana had agreed quickly, her eyes meeting his with naked relief, eager to give the crowd something to bite that wasn't her throat.
And of course—of course—Mykhol couldn't help himself.
"Please, take your time, Admiral." he'd said, that infuriating smile never faltering. His voice had been honey over broken glass. "You wouldn't want to come back empty-handed."
The bastard's words had danced on a blade. Nugen had felt them slide between his ribs, precise and cruel.
Nugen's jaw clicked remembering that, the joint popping painfully. His tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth to keep from lashing out even now, the taste of copper returning as he bit down again. Again, the teen was rubbing it into his face. He knew that he knew. And the boy was not bothering to be humble about it. Mykhol's hands were all over the murder of Mr. Nimble, the vanished second ledger. That the crossbows had been taken with too much precision for it to be chance. That someone inside had helped.
But Anastasia wouldn't hear it. Not without proof. And right now, he only had an old ledger and a gut full of fury. The frustration of it made his skin feel too tight, like it might split at the seams.
But the day would come.
And when it did, Nugen would be ready. His hand tightened on his sword hilt, the leather warm now from his grip. He could almost feel the weight of it slicing through air, finding its mark.
A soft voice to his side drew his attention, pulling him from the bloody fantasy.
"I didn't mean to imply anything," Pendwick said carefully, shifting his weight from one boot to the other. His hands twisted together in front of him, then behind his back, like he wasn't sure where they belonged. His voice was quiet—apologetic, even.
Nugen blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
Pendwick's gaze flicked toward the doors Ana had exited through not moments ago. His eyes—a paler red than most Nochten nobles—were clouded with concern. "Do you think I should apologize?"
"For what?" Nugen had no idea what the hell he was talking about. He was busy trying not to pummel people at the moment, his attention split between Mykhol's retreating figure and the phantom weight of Ana's distress.
"I think…" Pendwick hesitated. His usually pink lips had turned pale, and his boyish face was creased with earnest worry. "I think I made Her Empress angry."
Nugen narrowed his brown eyes at the young lord, the action making his head throb anew. "Since when?"
But the memory came back quickly—the awkward timing of Pendwick's offer to lend the Celbest family's support. Ana's expression, so carefully controlled, had shuttered in an instant. She hadn't said much. Just gone still... and then left. Excuses herself to need to be alone.
Anyone would want to be alone after dealing with that. Nugen didn't blame her for wishing to lock herself away for a while. She'd likely go to find solace in her work and books. The thought of her alone with her grief made something twist painfully in his chest.
"No, that isn't it," Nugen said, waving a hand. "Her Empress just prefers to do things alone sometimes. It wasn't meant to reject you."
"You're sure?" Pendwick's brows tugged together. "It's not because I offered my family's aid? I didn't overstep?"
"No," Nugen replied, voice steady even though his jaw tensed. "It was a good gesture. One I'm sure the king will take seriously."
He damn well better. And I hope it costs him an arm and a leg, too.
Because the truth was, Celbest's help came at a cost. Sir Celbest didn't give out favors—he invested them. A family like that didn't just offer support out of patriotism. No, they were angling for something. Some new foothold. A bond. A seat at Ana's side, if not in marriage to their only heir, then in her council….
Pendwick's shoulders eased a little, mistaking Nugen's even tone for reassurance. "My family is ready to help."
More like ready to cash in, Nugen thought grimly. But he didn't say it. Not now. Not when every ally mattered. If the Celbests wanted to wrap a golden ribbon around their son and send him to Ana's door, so be it.
If it helped Ana in the end, he wouldn't make an opinion.
"We'll bring it up to His Majesty when he arrives," Nugen said, turning to go. His boots scraped against the marble, the sound grating on his nerves.
"I'll let grandfather know," Pendwick replied quickly, following behind. His steps were eager now, his voice lighter. The sound of his boots on marble was quicker, almost skipping. "He'll be pleased."
"I'm sure he will," Nugen muttered dryly, allowing himself a small, humorless smile that pulled at his chapped lips. A muscle jumped in his cheek.
Very pleased to have the crown in their debt. He was certainly making up for all that ground lost with Parsul.
Pendwick hesitated again. "Do you… know when the king might return?"
Nugen stopped walking, his boots suddenly rooted to the spot. It felt like the question had hit him physically, a blow to the back of the knees. His fingers drifted back to the scar on his eyebrow, pressing hard as the familiar heat pulsed beneath his skin. The flesh there burned—angry and anxious, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.
"That," he muttered, the word scraping his throat, "is the question."
The stress sat under his skin like fire ants, crawling and biting and never still. His collar felt too tight, his armor a cage. Three letters. Four, if he counted the one he sent out privately with his own money. All urgent. All unanswered. No messenger. No sign of movement.
Where in the hells are you, Alexander?
He'd never wanted to punch the man more than now. But to do that, Alexander would have to show his face. The thought made a humorless laugh build in his chest, bitter as wormwood.
"When indeed," Nugen murmured bitterly, and quickened his step. The sound of his boots echoed off the marble columns, too loud in the emptying hall.
The war hadn't started yet. But if today was any sign…
Nugen reached down to clench his sword as if the touch of steel could calm him. The leather hilt was rough against his calloused fingers, fingers trained for combat, for bloodshed. His pulse throbbed in his wrist, loud in his ears.
*Mykhol*
You are wasting your time, Mother.
Mykhol didn't bother hiding the fatigue from his eyes as he watched his mother make a deliberate show toward the noble girls lining the edge of the courtroom. The scent of too many perfumes mingled in the air—jasmine, rose, and something sickly sweet that clung to the back of his throat. He could taste the desperation in it.
She had barely waited for the proceedings to end before nudging Lady Katya into his path, her smile sharp and expectant. His mother's fingers dug into his arm with practiced subtlety, the pressure just enough to leave crescents in his skin beneath the silk sleeve.
At least try to hide it, he thought bitterly, feeling a muscle twitch beneath his eye. Her efforts to parade suitors before him were as transparent as her desperation. If it was to replace or change his mind on Ana, she should give up on the idea altogether.
The weight of obligation pressed against his chest like a stone. His lungs felt tight, constricted by the game he was forced to play. And it was going to be a task to reject each one.
Again. Unnecessary work for me.
As they walked, court chatter dissolved into a muted hum behind them, the rustling of silk and satin skirts scraping against his senses like nails on glass. The marble floor reflected candlelight in distorted pools, making his head swim. Mykhol could already see the fork in the hall ahead, his salvation glimmering like water in a desert.
"Lady Katya," he said smoothly, taking both her hands in his and flashing a smile so sweet it nearly gave him a cavity. His facial muscles ached with the effort. "I've enjoyed our talk. But I must go."
His thumb traced the tender skin of her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his touch. A predator recognizing prey.
"So soon?" Her voice dropped to a purr, eyes flicking to the hallway where another shadow lingered—Ana's study, if he wasn't mistaken. The scent of her rose perfume intensified as she leaned closer, cloying and thick.
"I need to check in on something." His tongue felt coated with the lie, familiar and slick.
"Or someone, you mean?" Her tone tightened, teasing but with an edge that scraped against his patience. Her fingernails, painted the color of fresh blood, tapped against his sleeve with deliberate rhythm.
Heat crawled up the back of his neck—not from embarrassment, but from the strain of maintaining his composure. He hesitated, letting the silence stretch between them like taffy. "It could be."
Lady Katya's smile thinned as her eyes trailed to the door just down the hall. The corner of her mouth twitched—so subtle most would miss it, but Mykhol catalogued every microexpression like a collector of fine art. "It must be exhausting, handling a child." She laced her words with a feigned kindness that made his molars grind together. "You'd do better to spend time with someone who can show you real fun—someone your age."
"Fun?" Mykhol arched a brow, intrigued by her boldness. "And what kind of fun would that be?"
She leaned in until her breath tickled his neck, honeyed and warm. "The kind we both enjoy," she whispered. Her bodice—already low—shifted further as she pressed against him, silk parting just enough to reveal the soft swell of her breasts. The thin fabric clung where it should have concealed. The pink peaks beneath it were no accident. They were bait.
Katya was practiced—measured in every glance, every accidental brush. Her hand ghosted down his sleeve, her fingers curling like a promise. The quiet rasp of her nails against the fabric sent unwanted shivers along his spine.
And for a moment, heat pooled low in his abdomen. He considered it.
She was beautiful. Willing. And his body responded before his mind could refuse, blood rushing from his brain to more primal places. The scent of her, the warmth—he could taste the possibility on his tongue.
But then, he remembered Ana.
He'd seen her across the court earlier when she caught him speaking to Katya. Her scarlet eyes had flickered, caught off guard. At first, she simply stood there, stunned—like a breath had been stolen from her chest. Then her full lips parted, trembling as though she meant to speak his name. Her hand curled tightly in her skirts, knuckles white with strain, the fabric making a small, desperate sound as it bunched in her grip. She had wanted to stop him.
But instead, she'd turned.
Hurt.
Confused.
Her jaw had clenched, the small muscle there jumping beneath her pale skin. For a brief second her eyes glinted—not with pain, but possession. A flicker of fury that made his blood sing. Then fear, washing across her features like a wave. Then—she ran. Not walked. Ran, as though something inside her had cracked wide open and she had to escape before he saw too much.
The memory sent a thrill through him, electric and sharp, settling in his chest like a purring cat. His heart hammered against his ribs, each beat spelling out a single truth.
And that—gods, that was far more intoxicating than anything Lady Katya's mouth or curves could offer.
He reached up, gently but firmly catching Katya's wrists. "Lady Katya," he said smoothly, easing her hands off his chest, "forgive me."
He brought her hand to his lips, brushing it with a kiss more mocking than polite. The taste of her lotion—bitter beneath its floral scent—lingered on his lips. "There's someone I'd rather see tonight."
Her smile didn't falter, but he caught the momentary flare of her nostrils, the quick dilation of her pupils—anger, mixed with something like resignation. "Lord Mykhol," she replied, lowering her lashes. "Then do let me know when you're free to play next time."
If she was disappointed, she didn't show it beyond the slight whitening of her knuckles as she adjusted her shawl. "Lord Mykhol." Her smile held, unfaltering, as he walked away. But he could feel her eyes burning into his back all the way to the door, like hot needles pricking his skin.
Perhaps I should've taken her up on it, he mused, lips twitching as anticipation built in his chest. It'd save time rejecting the rest.
But Ana's jealousy?
His tongue swept across his lower lip, savoring the memory of her wounded expression. That was a game worth playing. Worth more than all the noble daughters and their practiced seductions combined.
The hallway to Ana's study was deserted as usual. The faint smell of salt mixed with faded sandalwood all by singaling Ana was in the area.The clack of his boots slapped against the smooth floor. Each step now was deliberate, measured, the sound of his approach a warning bell he chose not to muffle.
"I said I want to be alone," she snapped from somewhere behind the desk. Her voice was taut, frayed at the edges, and muffled by the heavy door between them. "Leave."
Mykhol stilled, his pulse quickening like a predator sensing weakness. That tone—it wasn't anger. Not really. It was hurt. Defensive. Fragile. Not like her.
The realization sent a tremor through him—not of guilt, but of triumph so intense he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The copper taste of blood filled his mouth, sharp and sweet.
He stepped inside without waiting for permission, the hinges releasing a soft whine of protest.
Ana's head shot up, silver hair shimmering like frost in the lamplight. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glassy, rimmed with red. The sight of her—vulnerable, wounded—made his muscles tighten with something primal. "Did you not hear me?" she said, voice wobbling. "I said—"
"What's wrong?" he cut her off gently, approaching with careful steps. His boots made no sound on the plush carpet, allowing him to glide toward her like a shadow.
"I'm not upset," she said quickly, darting her gaze to the pages scattered before her. But her hands betrayed her—trembling as they gathered papers she wasn't reading. The parchment rustled like autumn leaves, betraying her agitation.
"Ana?" Her name on his lips tasted like power.
"I said I'm fine."
"Liar." The word fell like a caress, gentle and knowing.
He stopped just before the desk, close enough to see the pink bloom brighter across her cheekbones, to catch the subtle scent of juniper and ink that always clung to her skin. Close enough to hear each shallow breath she tried to control. Her head remained bowed, but she was losing the ability to hide.
"Go away, I'm busy," she muttered, trying now to look absorbed. But her voice was distant. Her focus, elsewhere. The quill in her hand trembled, leaving tiny droplets of ink like black tears on the corner of her parchment.
"Ana," he said again, lower now, coaxing. Drawing the sound out like silk. His tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, savoring each syllable.
She flinched. The reaction rippled through her body, delicate and unmistakable.
"Ana… are you sulking?" The question felt like honey in his mouth, thick with mock concern.
Her head jerked up. "Sulking?!" The word burst from her like a startled bird taking flight. Her pupils dilated, dark pools in fields of scarlet.
He feigned innocence, tilting his head slightly. His hair fell across his forehead in a calculated disarray. "You're clearly upset. Is it because of court?" He tilted his head, mocking sympathy, feeling his lips curl in false concern. "Because everyone was looking at me, not you?"
Her lips parted, and she bit the lower one—too hard.
"That's not it," she said—too quickly. Her throat worked as she swallowed, the movement hypnotic in the flickering lamplight.
No, it wasn't that.
And he knew. Oh, he knew. The knowledge pulsed through him like a second heartbeat, hot and insistent.
He stepped closer, just a little. "Is it because I was with Lady Katya?"
Ana pushed to her feet. The chair scraped against the floor, jarring and abrupt. "No—I… don't be ridiculous."
But she wouldn't look at him. Her gaze darted to the window, the desk, the bookshelves—anywhere but his face. The avoidance was so transparent it made his chest ache with satisfaction.
Mykhol didn't breathe. His lungs burned with the effort of restraint. Every muscle in his body coiled tight, waiting.
"You're my cousin. Not hers." Her fingers gripped the edge of the desk like it grounded her, knuckles turning bloodless white against the dark mahogany. "I suddenly had the urge to go over and… and push her. I don't know why." She gave a small, broken laugh, shaking her head. The sound was brittle, like glass about to shatter. "That's so silly, isn't it? I've never wanted to hurt someone like that."
She looked up, face open and sincere. The lamplight caught in her eyes, turning them to liquid rubies. "But it just felt… wrong. Seeing you with her. It made my chest feel tight. Like I couldn't breathe. I don't understand why."
Each word struck him like a physical blow of pleasure. His skin prickled with heat, blood rushing in his ears like the tide. Victory tasted metallic on his tongue.
She shook her head again, whispering mostly to herself now. "Maybe I'm just upset about how court went. Or the Bulgeons. Things have been difficult lately, that's all…"
Each word that left her lips was another thread unraveling the tapestry of her denial. And Mykhol watched it fall apart with silent, ravenous joy. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to reach for her, to capture this moment in his hands.
To her, it was confusing.
But to him–
He was around the desk before she could blink, moving with a speed that surprised even him. His hands cupped her face, claiming her. His palms were warm, firm, possessive against her cool skin. He could feel her pulse hammering beneath his fingers, frantic like a trapped bird.
Ana gasped. The sound—small and startled—sent a jolt of electricity through him. "Cousin, let go—!" Her hands flew to his wrists but didn't pull away, the touch hesitant, conflicted.
"Look at me," he said softly. The command vibrated in the small space between them, thick with intent.
She stilled. He could feel the exact moment when her resistance melted, her muscles yielding beneath his touch. Her breath hitched, warm against his wrists.
Red eyes lifted to his. They were wide and dazed, shimmering with something she didn't yet recognize—something he did. Desire, untamed and unacknowledged. Her lips parted, unsure. The tiny wound where she'd bitten herself had already healed, but the memory of it made his thumb twitch against her cheekbone. Her hands hovered against his chest, not pushing him away. Just… there. As if even her instincts didn't know what to do.
Her voice came out small. "Is something on my face? You're staring."
She smelled of parchment and worry, of power and uncertainty—a contradiction that made his head swim. The warmth of her skin beneath his palms sent tendrils of heat through his body, pooling low in his abdomen.
Mykhol blinked slowly, like a man waking from a dream. His lashes swept down and up with deliberate languor. He drew back—just enough—his hands falling with exaggerated care. His fingertips lingered at her jaw for a beat too long. "No. Nothing. You're just… so honest, Ana."
Her eyes narrowed, still confused. A small crease formed between her brows, and he fought the urge to smooth it with his thumb.
"You'll always be the most important woman in my life," he said, voice velvet-smooth. The words felt like stones in his mouth—heavy with truth he hadn't meant to reveal.
Ana tilted her head, uncertain. A strand of silver hair fell across her cheek, and his fingers twitched with the desire to brush it back. "Of course I would be. I'm Empress."
He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Always so literal." And blind to what's right in front of you.
Her brows knit together, and she stepped back, as if trying to reassert her footing. The small retreat felt like victory. "Cousin, really…"
"Yes, yes. I'll go."
But he didn't. Not yet. His feet remained rooted to the carpet, unwilling to break the spell he'd cast.
As he turned to leave, a glint of yellow caught his eye from the desk—tucked beneath the edge of her ink blotter. The letter. The seal.
Queen Hildenberg's seal.
Of course. He almost forgot about that. They were meant to read it together when they got back. Part of him thought to bring it up. Mention it. He'd even imagined her leaning into him, shoulder to shoulder, sharing the weight of whatever words lay inside.
But now… was that really good idea?
Whatever it was, it came from Hildenberg. And Ana, ever dutiful, ever easily sidetracked, would lose herself to whatever it was. Might drift away from him.
No. Better she never saw it at all.
His pulse quickened, a drummer beating out the rhythm of opportunity. His mouth went dry with anticipation.
His gaze flicked toward Ana. She'd already turned back to her paperwork, her posture drawn tight with the strain of a dozen responsibilities. Her shoulders hunched forward slightly, silver hair cascading over them like a waterfall of moonlight.
Perfect.
He pivoted back, covering the shift in his focus with a half-turn of the shoulders, hands moving casually behind his back. No one ever looked when he moved like this. No one ever suspected. The movement was liquid, practiced to perfection in the dark of his room, before mirrors, until it became as natural as breathing.
"Cousin, please," Ana called softly behind him, clearly thinking he was heading out. The scratch of her quill resumed, rhythmic and distracted. "I need to get back to work. I have so much to do."
"I'm sure you do," he said absently, fingers deft as he slipped the letter into his sleeve like a magician's final trick. The parchment was cool against his skin, crackling softly as he secured it. The subtle sound sent a thrill through him—the whisper of secrets about to be buried.
"I won't even get a break today, or tomorrow," Ana went on, her voice returning to its usual rhythm. The dismissal stung, but only for a moment. "So please."
"Yes, of course," he murmured. But even as he answered, his hand moved again—reaching out to tuck a loose strand of silver behind her ear. His knuckles brushed her cheek, feather-light but lingering. The skin there was soft, petal-smooth under his touch.
Ana flinched. Her blush deepened, spreading down her neck like spilled wine. "Cousin…" His name on her lips was half warning, half plea.
"I thought we went over this," he murmured, stepping just a touch too close. The heat of her body radiated against his, separated by inches that felt like miles. "We're alone."
Her eyes dropped to the floor. Her breath caught—he heard the small hitch, saw the quick rise of her chest.
"Please, Mykhol…" she whispered, the words barely there. She didn't even know what she was asking for.
But he did.
He smiled—slowly, like a man savoring the last move of a game long played. His lips stretched wide, revealing the sharp tips of his fangs. The sensation of victory coursed through him—hot and thick and sweet, like honey laced with poison.
She was unraveling.
And he was winning. With no one here to get in the way.
Not that damn king. Not her stupid prince brother. Not even that nosy mountain of a woman, Hidi.
Mine.
The possessive thought crashed through him with such force that he nearly staggered. His vision blurred at the edges, narrowing until all he could see was her—Ana, silver and scarlet, delicate and powerful. His to protect. His to control. His to possess.
"I'll see you later," he said, savoring the taste of her name on his tongue like a promise. Each syllable felt like a spell, binding her to him.
Ana turned quickly, waving him off without meeting his gaze. "Now go." Her voice was steadier now, but still held a tremor beneath the surface—like earth after a quake.
He gave a low, elegant bow. "Goodbye, Ana."
As he walked away, the letter pressed against his thigh like a brand. The wax seal seemed to burn through the fabric, through his skin, marking him as a thief.
It should have stung.
It should have weighed him down with guilt.
But Mykhol only laughed under his breath, the sound dark and rich in the empty corridor. His footsteps echoed against the stone, matching the victorious rhythm of his heart.
Because soon, it'd be the last reminder it ever existed.
Because now, he had everything.
Everything.