Page 13

Chapter

Twelve

A ZALEA

Kyson tends to the crackling fire while I sit at the table, engrossed in trying to read the ancient maps set in front of me.

His voice fills the room as he passionately explains each Kingdom’s significance, history, and intricate relationships.

To my untrained ears, it all sounds like a foreign language, but I am determined to try and understand and follow what he is explaining.

He also unpacks the tangled relationships between Ester and Trey, and how Marrissa was my father’s mate.

That piece of information explained why I never saw her shift, although I can’t fathom why Marrissa and Jordan didn’t make an effort to save themselves.

They could have easily overpowered Alpha Dean’s Pack, given their Lycan status.

There are also gaps in his explanations that puzzle me.

He walks back to join me on the sofa. Kyson starts idly braiding my hair.

The atmosphere is comfortable; Kyson appears almost lobotomized.

Whatever Damian had said to him has transformed his demeanor entirely.

His fingers brushing against the back of my neck sends a shiver down my spine and causes me to cringe slightly at the ticklish sensation. I know I’m treading dangerously, but something has been playing on my mind all afternoon. So I decide to ask.

“Can I ask you something?” I inquire, leaning back and resting my head on his thigh.

“Hmm,” he hums noncommittally, tipping my head forward so he can finish braiding my hair.

“You mentioned you commanded Ester, right?”

He grunts in agreement again, and I furrow my brows in thought. Through our bond, it’s clear he isn’t fond of this line of questioning.

“How strongly did you command her?”

“Quite firmly; enough for her to collapse if she lied,” he replies casually. “Why do you ask?”

“Just some things aren’t adding up for me,” I confess.

“Like what?”

“For starters, why didn’t Marrissa shift when Alpha Dean’s men attacked? If she was a Lycan, she should have been able to kill them with ease,” I point out. He falls silent for a moment, clearly deep in thought.

“I’ve wondered about that too. But Garret died; that might have affected her Lycan side. Lycans weaken drastically after their mate dies. Most don’t survive the loss, and if she had sired you, that could have been the only reason she was still alive,” Kyson suggests, and I sigh in frustration.

“But what about Ester not recognizing her?”

“She did recognize her. Marrissa threatened to expose the truth about Peter if Ester betrayed her.”

“That doesn’t make sense, though. Landeenas have immunity; you would’ve had to protect Peter regardless. Marrissa must’ve known this; it doesn’t seem like a credible threat,” I argue, and his fingers pause again.

“I found that odd, too. Maybe Ester didn’t want Peter to become a target for hunters?”

I shake my head in disagreement. “What safer place than being protected by the King’s guard? Is that why Marrissa refused to fight for me? She mentioned as much, but if so, why didn’t she leave me with Kyson? She must’ve known he was looking for her and the council.”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” Kyson says dismissively. “Ester was under my command; she couldn’t resist it.”

“Unless she drank Landeenas blood?” I suggest tentatively, but Kyson shakes his head in denial.

“Peter hasn’t shifted yet; it doesn’t work like that.

His Alpha aura is missing, too, because his bloodline is diluted.

His blood wouldn’t affect her against my command,” he explains patiently while I nibble on my lip in thought.

The answer is on the tip of my tongue; something isn’t right, and I can almost feel it in my bones.

“Stress is making you overthink,” Kyson suggests, tipping my head back. But one thing continues to replay in my mind, and I’m almost certain of it. “I think Marrissa was framed,” I whisper, and Kyson tips my head back again, forcing me to look up at him.

“You’re not defending that woman!”

“What if I am? It feels wrong. I know Marrissa, and she loved me. She would never hurt me like that.”

“She’s sired to you. Of course, she loves you. You kept her alive,” Kyson growls, dipping his face and nipping at my lips, but I turn my face before he can deepen it. Kyson sighs.

“I don’t want to fight over this, Azzy. Please.

We’re having a great afternoon. Don’t ruin it,” he says, and I swallow hard.

Despite that, my mind is made up now more than ever before.

Marrissa didn’t do it; now the challenge is finding a way to prove it because Kyson refuses to believe he has been wrong all these years—that they got it wrong—but how do I explain her killing all those children or his sister?

“I get it—you want to see good in the woman who raised you, but ...”

“No! It’s not that! The more I think about it, little things keep popping up, and now I regret not questioning Ester myself.”

“You don’t trust what she said under my command?” Kyson asks incredulously.

My brows furrow.

“And are you sure you commanded her, and she couldn’t have resisted? No doubt?” I ask him; he falls quiet.

“I am sure Azzy—please no more talking about it tonight, let’s just enjoy the evening without worrying about the drama in our lives.” He gets up, muttering to himself walking toward his bar in the corner.

“I hate when you drink,” I tell him, and he stops, glancing at me over his shoulder.

“I’m only having one.”

“It’s never just one—you know that. You think I don’t notice how much you drank after the—” I trail off, shaking my head. Don’t go there, Azalea, I scold myself.

“It helps.”

“Helps get you drunk and turn into an asshat,” I retort, turning back to the maps that are hard for me to read but which I have a general understanding of by their mountains. When I look up at him again, he’s shaking his head, pouring himself a glass—I click my tongue.

“I won’t mention anything else tonight if you put the glass down,” I suggest, tilting my head to the side watching him.

“And if I drink it?” he asks, turning with the glass in his hands. But I know he drinks because it numbs him and also helps dampen his urges—still, it isn’t a permanent solution. Glancing around the room, my eyes land on a bookshelf.

“Read to me?”

“You want me to read?” he wonders aloud as he wanders over to the bookcase—but then puts down his glass on the coffee table as he picks out a book.

“Rapunzel?”

I shake my head.

“Prince and the Pauper?”

I shrug—he pulls it down before retrieving his glass, and I press my lips together in disapproval. He moves over to the bed, propping pillows up before sitting down—only then does he see me glaring at him from across the room.

“It’s one glass!” he growls, patting his chest—I raise an eyebrow at him, moving toward the bed and climbing into his lap.

When he picks up his glass again, I snatch it from him, gulping down its contents, fighting back an urge to spit out the burning liquid onto his face—it tastes like jet fuel.

It’s absolutely disgusting. So disgusting that it must not be whiskey, but something much stronger.

“Well, that’s what you get for stealing my drink,” he says as I cough and sputter. He deposits me beside him, getting up to take the glass back to the bar. Jumping off the bed, I swipe the bottle before he grabs it.

“Azalea, you can’t drink all of that! You’ll be on the floor after barely a quarter!” he growls angrily.

I tip the bottle to my lips already cringing from its strong smell.

“Go on then—I’ll grab it when you pass out,” he says, folding his arms across his chest. I suck in a deep breath, wondering if holding my breath will make it not burn or taste so bad—I chug some down, feeling like I’m drinking lava, and my eyes water before I gasp for air, choking and coughing—it could definitely be used as some kind of fuel.

Kyson reaches for the bottle. I snatch it away, and he growls at me, but I growl back at him.