Page 19

Chapter

Nineteen

K YSON

Azalea’s voice, persistent and scared, finally ceases as she succumbs to exhaustion in my arms. Her breaths slow to a gentle rhythm beside me, and I feel the tension in my own body ebb, replaced by a silent vow—she won’t be stepping foot outside these walls without me again.

However, the abrupt intrusion of Gannon’s voice slices through the quiet of the room, jerking me to full alertness. “We finally found his files,” he says, the words clear as crystal in my mind.

“Good,” I respond softly, cautious not to disturb Azalea’s slumber. Carefully, I extract my arm from underneath her, wincing at even the slightest shift that might wake her. Her face is serene at rest, making a stark contrast with the storm of questions that had raged from her lips just hours before. I watch her for a moment longer, the rise and fall of her chest a reassuring sight as it hits me how close we came to losing her today.

With deliberate movements, I slide out of bed and pad silently across the room. “You and Dustin can meet me at my office and wake up Damian. Tell him to meet me there too,” I instruct Gannon, my thoughts already racing ahead.

Gannon and Dustin have been buried in musty texts and decrepit records for hours now, searching for any shred of information on Trey that might help us understand the mess we’re in. The fact that they’ve unearthed something, anything, sparks an urgency in me that refuses to wait until morning.

I pull the door open with a soft click, finding Liam and Trey stationed outside. Liam’s eyes flick to me, sharp and assessing, while Trey’s stance remains firm—a living barrier between us and the unknown threats that lurk beyond these castle confines, making me question where all the unease came from surrounding him and my men.

“Trey, you’re coming with me,” I command, my voice low but laced with an authority that doesn’t leave room for argument.

He peels away from the stone wall, every bit the disciplined guard he’s trained to be. Liam gives a silent nod, stepping closer to the bedroom door.

Descending the staircase, the cool draft is like fingers of ice skirting across my skin, and I suppress a shiver. But it’s not the chill that unsettles me - it’s whatever I’m about to find out next.

Reaching the bottom, the familiar path to my office stretches out before us, the torches flickering along the walls casting elongated shadows that flicker on the stone floor. My footsteps echo, steady and purposeful, while Trey’s fall silently behind me.

The door to my office ahead, the dark wood stark against the cold gray of the stone. Pushing it open, I step inside where the scent of leather and parchment fills my senses.

Motioning to the chair across from my desk, I take my seat. Trey slumps into the chair with a casual grace, his arms crossing over his chest as he stifles a yawn. He doesn’t squirm or glance around nervously; instead, he sits there with an air of resignation, as if he’s already accepted whatever judgment I might pass. His eyes, hooded with fatigue—or perhaps indifference—remain fixed on mine, steady and unflinching. I waste no time in questioning him.

“What did you mean earlier about her blood being in your system?” I ask, leaning forward slightly. The memory of his earlier words itches at my mind, and has all night. His claim had sounded absurd, impossible even, yet here he sits before me with an explanation seemingly at the ready, and I cannot ignore the genuineness that flickers in his gaze.

“I am sired to the Landeena bloodline,” he states.

“Excuse me?” The words claw their way out of my throat, rough and edged with disbelief. Sired? As in the irreversible bond formed when one is turned? I push back from the desk, muscles coiled tight as I rise to my feet.

Instinct roars within me, a primal warning that he is a threat to my mate bond. My growl rumbles deep in my chest, a sound that fills the room with its threat. No one—absolutely no one—would claim any part of Azalea without facing my wrath. The very notion that someone could stake a claim on her, share in what is solely mine by right of our mate bond, ignites a fury that burns hot and unforgiving.

I tower over him now, ready to defend what is most precious to me.

“Wait, not in that way.” Trey’s words rush out like a dam breaking, his hands raised in a placating gesture. The moonlight streaming through the window glints off his anxious eyes as he tries to stem the tide of my fury. “I was born Lycan. King Garret didn’t turn me. Landeena blood is different.”

My growl subsides into a low hum of confusion. I hover over him, still a menacing presence, but curiosity now threads through the anger.

“Yes, King Garret sired me,” Trey continues, urgency underpinning his tone, “but it works similar to an oath. I am loyal to not just King Garret but the entire Landeena bloodline!”

“Wait, how could you be sired to the entire bloodline?” The question slips from me. My stance softens fractionally as I process his words. A bond to a lineage, not merely an individual—this is unheard of, yet his conviction rings with an undeniable truth.

Trey’s eyes lock onto mine, and I cannot ignore the earnestness that flickers in his gaze and I retake my seat.

I drum my fingers on the cold surface of my desk, my eyes narrowing as I take in Trey. The tension hangs heavy in the room, a palpable force that seems to press against the ancient walls of the castle.

“Landeena blood is special, you already know this,” he says, his voice a mixture of frustration and exhaustion.

My thoughts mull over his statement. Landeena blood—revered, potent, the stuff of legends. I’ve seen its effects, the reverence it commands among our kind. Yet here stands Trey, his allegiance bound to it in ways that defy the norm.

“But you can only be sired to one person, not an entire bloodline,” I retort, my skepticism obvious. The concept feels alien, like trying to grasp smoke with bare hands. Loyalty to one is tangible, measurable. But to a bloodline? Who would agree to that, how could someone blindly agree to that not knowing if the next King or Queen will be a good one.

Trey holds my gaze, unflinching, as if his very soul lays bare upon my scrutiny.

“Wrong!” Trey’s voice slices through my doubt, sharp and certain. “Same as if I have children, they are automatically sired to the Landeena’s as well,” he continues, his arms unfolding as he leans into the explanation, a hint of desperation lacing his words.

I study him, trying to piece together this puzzle that doesn’t fit into any frame I’ve known. The notion of blood ties extending beyond direct siring is uncharted territory beside pact oaths which are marginally different, yet the conviction in Trey’s eyes is unmistakable.

“That bear ripped me to pieces, I was carrying her, she was also bleeding.” His voice grows more fervent. “I only needed a drop of her blood to awaken the sire bond completely, though I could feel my sire awakening already.”

“The stronger she gets, it does and eventually it will awaken any gifts she may have inherited from her parents.” He presses on, urgency threading through his tone. “That is why I have been pestering for shifts as her guard.”

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my shifting weight. My mind races, grappling with the intricacies of Landeena lineage that now seem to expand before me like a complex puzzle. I can’t shake off the feeling that there’s more to Trey’s story than mere loyalty.

“You wanted to awaken an old sire bond?” The question escapes my lips, and almost sounds accusing yet what I am accusing him of I am no longer sure.

Trey meets my gaze squarely, the weight of years etched into the lines of his face.

His chest rises and falls with a tremor that belies his usual calm. “It’s more than that,” he begins. His eyes are distant, lost in a sea of memory. “The sire doesn’t just make us loyal, it... it makes us feel pained when we’re not near our sired. Years, I felt my sire pulling. I never believed she was dead, not until years later when I could no longer feel the tugging of my sire blood thrumming in my veins.” He pauses, the silence heavy with the weight of his confession.

“Then,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper, “when her blood touched me while I was carrying her, it must have got in my system because I could feel my sire like an extra limb, an attachment. The stronger she gets, the stronger my sire bond gets.”

I open my mouth to question the implications, but the click of the door announces new presences. Damian strides in first, his posture rigid with purpose, followed by Dustin’s frame shadowed by Gannon’s large silhouette.

“Kyson,” Gannon nods and extends a folder worn at the edges with use. I take it. My fingers flip through the contents, images and texts blurring together until one name leaps out, snaring my attention.

“What’s your link with Marissa Talbot?” The question is sharp, cutting through the air with the precision of a blade.

Trey’s jaw tightens, the muscles working as he grapples with the question. The room holds its breath, the silence stretching taut between us.

“She was Azalea’s nanny,” he states. “I tried to warn the Queen about her.”

Gannon’s laugh is short and devoid of humor; it reverberates against the stone walls, a precursor to the storm brewing in his narrowed eyes. With a swift motion, he flings an aged diary onto my desk. It lands with a thud, which disrupts the balanced silence of the room.

“Bullshit,” he bellows, his eyes full of anger.

Trey reacts instantly, snatching the diary up with hands that betray no tremor. His fingers skim over the worn pages, eyes darting back and forth as he searches for something, anything that could substantiate his claim.

Pages riffle under Trey’s fingers, but I can see the tension coiling in his shoulders.

“It’s a diary,” he asserts, a note of defiance creeping into his voice as he looks up from Queen Tatiana’s scrawled words.

Gannon leans forward, his presence like a boulder in the cramped space of my office. “Queen Tatiana’s diary,” he snarls with a sneer that could curdle blood, “not once does it mention you.”

“Of course it doesn’t.” Trey’s retort is a snarl to match Gannon’s, and he flicks through the pages with a force that threatens to tear the delicate paper. “You think she would leave information about Azalea’s guards for anyone to get their hands on?”

The question hangs between us, pointed and heavy. It’s a valid argument; any Queen worth her crown would guard her secrets fiercely, especially when it came to the safety of her child. But I also understand her need to document everything in a diary, it makes me wonder if she kept notes for Azalea one day, yet she also left out crucial information that could have been used to help find her had I known.

Trey’s finger stabs at a passage, his nail circling an entry. “See, a guard reported Marissa and that guard was me,” he declares, thrusting the book towards me.

I reach out and take the diary. My eyes dart over the handwritten words, tracing the lines of ink that weave through the page.

“She didn’t believe you?” I probe, incredulity lacing my tone as I look up from the text. The thought that someone could dismiss a guard’s caution, particularly regarding a threat to her child shocks me.

Trey’s gaze shifts to the cold stone floor, the muscles in his jaw clenching tight. “No, she did, it was Garret that refused to listen,” he murmurs, almost too low for me to catch. The words hang between us, a confession that Queen Tatiana had, in fact, heeded his warning, yet an undercurrent of something unsaid flows beneath them.

I lean forward. “And why would he do that?”

Trey swallows hard, a man battling with memories that are clearly etched into his soul. His eyes, when they finally meet mine, are hardened and angry.

“Maybe because she was King Garret’s mistress,” Trey admits.

I reel back as if struck, the revelation sending a shockwave through me. My gaze snaps to Gannon, who stands rigid, his face a mask of disbelief.

“Impossible, Tatiana—” Gannon’s begins.

With a swift motion, Trey raises his hand, asking for him to wait. His eyes lock onto mine, pleading to let him explain.

“She knew he was having affairs; she always knew. Yet she wanted to save her marriage and….” He trails off for a second becoming nervous.

“She knew?” I ask, shocked by this news. What Queen would allow that? Trey’s voice breaks the silence, rough with emotion.

“Of course, she knew, but where would she have gone with hunters killing off royal families, with the only other Lycan community being yours and with a baby that would be heir to both the Landeen and Azure name?” His eyes are wide, imploring me to understand the desperation of a cornered Queen, a mother protecting her pup.

I can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Tatiana, imagining her plight, trapped between love for her daughter and duty to a marriage she never wanted. Trey sighs heavily and rubs his temples.

“The night of the attack then, where were you?” The command rolls off my tongue. It’s not a question but an order for the truth, and Trey knows it. He meets my gaze, his own eyes shimmering with the threat of tears.

“With my brother. It was my night off.” His voice falters, a single tear slipping down his face. “By the time we both got back to the castle, Azalea was gone. Tatiana was dead, and King Garret was barely alive.”

“We tried to save him, but...” Trey’s voice trails off, his body rigid with the memory. Then, with a sudden motion, he opens his shirt. There, on his chest, are three bullet holes.

I lean forward, my breath catching at the sight of the scars. Trey’s chest rises and falls with shallow breaths.

“The hunters shot my brother in the head,” he finally manages, the words hollow, as if spoken from a grave. Gannon stands motionless, the muscle in his jaw working silently as he listens.

The skin around the wounds is tight, pulled into pale circles that mark Trey’s brush with death. He glances down at his chest. “A few millimeters closer, and I would have died,” he murmurs, his voice steady—too steady. He touches the scar closest to his heart, a haunted look in his eyes. “This one collapsed my lung.” His finger moves up slightly. “Another here, lodged in my sternum.”

Then his hand hovers over where his heart beats beneath the flesh, a tremor betraying his stoic facade. “And this one,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “only burned me when the bullet lodged into my Landeena crest pendant.”

Damian shifts beside me, clearing his throat; he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, the weight of his gaze heavy on Trey. “What happened afterward?” His voice rumbles.

Trey straightens, the fabric of his shirt settling back over the scars, hiding them once again from view. “After the Landeena was taken down?” Trey asks, and Damian nods.

“I was beside myself with grief when Liam found me. I told him about Azalea. We searched the castle, and he left while we searched the river edge and the forest.” Trey explains. “We came across some hunters. When I was shot, adrenaline kept me alive long enough to get back to Landeena when your men arrived.”

“Then what?” Damian asks.

With a nod, Trey acknowledges Damian’s question. The room feels smaller somehow, the walls closing in with the weight of his words as he continues. “Spent three months in your hospital with silver poisoning,” he says, eyes locked on mine, compelling me to verify his claim later. “Check your records.”

I make a mental note to do just that, but there’s something about the way he says it—no hesitation, no falter in his voice—that makes me believe him without seeing the proof.

“Then, when I was released,” Trey goes on, “I went hunting with a few other Landeena warriors.” His gaze drifts past me, focusing on something distant and unseen. “We went looking for Azalea; we even thought we found her at one stage.”

“But by the time we got to the camp by the river, it was empty.” He presses his lips in a line.

“We picked up Jordan’s scent by accident.” Trey’s hand absently moves to the Landeena pendant hidden beneath his shirt that was now a necklace—the crest that both marked him and saved him. “By the time we got there, there was no sign of them.”

“That was years ago,” he finishes his voice a soft echo of defeat.

“9 years ago?” The words taste like ash in my mouth as I voice the unspoken timeline we’ve all danced around.

Trey nods, his gaze holding a distant sorrow—a mirror to my own heartache. “Yes, I got here just before your sister died.” His fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt, a restless energy that speaks of unease and regret. “After Clai… she died, we gave up,” he admits, and there’s a tremor in his voice that doesn’t escape me. A man haunted by his failures.

“Figured I would come to the trials and failed miserably for three years.” Trey’s eyes don’t meet mine; they’re fixed on Dustin. His jaw clenches tight, the muscle ticking with tension.

“I didn’t want the last Royal family to die.” There’s defiance now in his voice.

“Tatiana wouldn’t have wanted that,” he finishes, and the weight of his loyalty—to a Queen long gone, to a lineage teetering on the brink—settles heavily in the room.

I narrow my eyes at him, pressing for an answer that makes sense. “And you didn’t recognize Marissa when she was here, not even notice her scent around here?”

Trey shakes his head, the lines of frustration etching deeper into his face. “No, Marissa never had a scent, so I wouldn’t have recognized her by scent anyway.” He pauses, as if the next words are heavy on his tongue. “Tatiana and Garret were paranoid about security. She used to make everyone in the castle use a descenter, so our scents couldn’t be tracked,” he explains.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the cold, hard surface of the desk, the weight of centuries-old wood bearing witness to the tension in the room. “Not even by sight?” I ask, my voice laced with incredulity.

“I wasn’t here when she was here,” he replies, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair before continuing. “I failed the trials three years in a row. I worked at the mill in town before I made your guard; she was already gone by then.”

The creak of parchment echoes softly as I sift through the stack of documents cluttering my desk, searching for corroborating evidence. Trey watches me, his gaze never flinching as if daring me to challenge his words.

“The year you accused me of tampering with your trial was the year I was officially made a guard.” The simplicity of his statement hangs between us, unadorned and raw. “I hardly entered the castle grounds except to drop wood off,” he adds.

My fingers find the edge of a particular sheet, and I pull it closer, scanning the neat script that lists appointments and duties. Trey’s name stands out; he was appointed guard two years after my sister’s death, just as he said.

It clicks into place—after her death, I had created the blood oath for my men and selected staff.

“Your story checks out,” I concede, my mind reeling from the implications. The pieces of the past settle into a new pattern, one where Trey’s presence now makes a twisted kind of sense. His unwavering gaze tells me he knows it, too—that the truth has always been in his favor when Dustin speaks.

“Then why were you a jerk to her in the stables?” Dustin asks.

Dustin’s question hangs in the air like a blade poised to strike, and Trey’s jaw tightens visibly. For a moment, he simply stares at Dustin, his eyes dark pools of old pain and regret. Then he leans forward, gripping the edge of the desk.

“I told you,” he starts, his voice rough, carrying the weight of years marred by a guilt that has never left him. “I thought she was Marissa Talbot’s daughter.” He pauses, swallows hard, and when he continues, there’s a fierceness in his tone that wasn’t there before. “Do you have any idea of the guilt I have lived with for not being there that night?”

“Azalea was my charge, and I left, and she vanished by the time I got back!” The words are like a confession, a plea for understanding from someone who has been living in the shadow of a single, haunting failure.

Trey’s breath hitches, and he looks up, his eyes meeting mine with a raw honesty that is almost painful to witness. “I would never hurt her,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the sincerity in his voice.

“I just need to be around her now,” Trey says, and his voice breaks slightly, revealing the cracks in his composure. “That is why I have been so desperate to stay on as her guard.”

His admission lingers in the air, and I feel something shift—like a lock clicking into place that allows me to see the full picture of Trey’s allegiance. It’s no longer just about duty; it’s personal and fiercely protective. And as much as I hate to admit it, I understand that desperationbecause I feel it too—every time I look at Azalea.