Page 34 of Claimed In Darkness

34

ZEPHIRAN

I let her go.

That was my first mistake.

The second was thinking I could.

The air is thick with the remnants of her—anger, heat, the scent of her fucking skin still on mine.

She walked away from me, but she didn’t take everything.

Her taste lingers on my tongue, still hear the sharp cut of her voice, still see the fury in her eyes.

I still know, deep in my fucking bones, that I was a goddamn idiot to let her slip through my fingers.

And now—I will pay the price for it.

The fire crackles low in the distance, shadows flickering between the twisted trees, a sliver of golden light stretching across the cold, damp earth.

Too quiet.

Too still.

Even the wind has stopped, like the world is holding its breath.

My instincts coil tight. The curse under my skin twitches, warning me.

Perhaps, I should have listened to it sooner. It can be useful at times.

I step forward, the soft crunch of dirt beneath my boots the only sound in the suffocating silence.

I don’t call for Aereth, because I know what’s ahead.

I’ve been betrayed.

And my enemies are waiting for me.

I walk into the clearing, blade already in hand.

The moment I step into the light, I see them.

The High Council’s guards.

Dozens of them.

All standing too still, too silent, too fucking ready.

And in the center of them all?—

Aereth.

Standing beside them.

She’s standing with them like a leader. A queen.

Her head tilts slightly, those dark, too-familiar eyes drinking me in like she’s waiting to see my reaction.

A slow, poisonous smile curves on her lips.

"We’ve been expecting you, my love."

They’ve set a trap from the very beginning.

The moment she stepped out of the shadows in front of me, I was in her snare.

From the moment I let myself believe—for even one damn second—that she was real.

I feel the sharp, brutal bite of rage rip through my heart.

The weight of the betrayal, of my own stupidity, crashing into me like a goddamn war hammer.

I let myself be fooled.

I let her touch me.

She whispered my name like she still had the right.

And all along—this was her plan.

To lead me right into this.

A slow, mocking exhale slips from my lips.

"Aereth."

Her name tastes like poison.

Her expression softens, but it’s not real.

"Zephiran," she murmurs, taking a single step closer.

A warning bell screams in my head.

I composed myself, willing my mind and heart to not let any emotion slip.

She can’t see how deep the wound she just left in me truly is.

Instead, I tilt my chin slightly, letting a slow, sharp smirk pull at my mouth.

"I should have buried you myself."

Her smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.

Aereth has cornered me successfully and she relishes in it.

I feel the shift before I see it.

The subtle movement of blades unsheathing.

The slow, calculated repositioning of bodies.

They aren’t attacking yet.

They think they got me because of Aereth’s presence.

I am surrounded, unarmed, outnumbered.

There’s no Naira. Maybe it’s for the best.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay loose, forcing my grip to remain light on my sword hilt, forcing the tension in my body to become something fluid.

Something lethal.

I might be trapped?—

But I am not alone.

She is still here.

Watching.

Waiting.

She may hate me.

Forgiveness might be an impossibility from her.

But Naira is not a woman who lets others steal what belongs to her.

And no matter what she tells herself—I still do.

"You shouldn’t have left me," Aereth says, voice like silk.

I almost laugh.

Instead, I lean my head slightly to the side, watching her with cold amusement.

"Did you rehearse that line in the mirror before you stabbed me in the back, or did it come naturally?"

She sighs, shaking her head.

"You always were dramatic."

I roll my shoulders, exhaling a slow, bored breath.

"And you were always a liar."

She steps closer, slow and deliberate.

I let her come.

Let her think she is winning.

She lifts a hand, her fingers brushing the collar of my tunic as if she belongs there.

Like she still has the right.

"You don’t have to fight this," she murmurs.

She whispers the final nail in her own coffin.

"You don’t have to fight him."

The world freezes.

The breath locks in my throat.

And now, I see it.

The truth.

The thing I should have known from the very beginning.

This was never about the High Council.

Revenge? No it’s not.

This was never even about her.

My father has always been the center of every upheaval in my life.

He sent her. He made her.

He designed her.

To be my first love.

To be my first weakness and the thing that would break me when I tried to escape him.

I feel the slow, sickening slide of realization crawl through my chest, too sharp and too fucking late.

This was never Aereth’s betrayal.

This was his.