Page 9

Alaric

The Eyrie–Approaching the Library

My brothers leave after we finish putting wards around the crown.

But I remained standing there long after they’d gone, with Kael’s parting words haunting me.

“Maybe this idea of yours, that humans are soft and easy to fool, that you could trap one with your magic and charm, isn’t exactly what you thought, my old friend. Maybe it’s she who’s trapped you?”

Fucking Kael. Lord of asinine comments.

I growl my frustration.

I need to refocus. This isn’t about her. It never was.

It’s about the crown.

About the realm.

About doing what none of my brothers have managed so far— claiming the Prime seat before the SoulTakers breach the veil and reduce everything we’ve protected to dust.

Jules is a piece in that puzzle.

Nothing more.

So why the fuck do I keep thinking about her mouth?

Her lips parted when I lifted her chin.

The heat in her eyes when she asked me why I brought her here.

The way her body reacted before her mind caught up.

Curious, open, wanting.

I grind my teeth as I stride down the corridor, every torch I pass flaring slightly at my presence.

My magic is restless, coiling under my skin like a storm in waiting.

It’s time to turn up the heat.

Time to shift from restraint to charm.

Seduction.

I’m good at it.

I’ve made gods beg and monsters purr. Mortals are simple .

One taste. One touch. And they bend.

Beneath the glamour I cast so I appear more human to her— palatable, familiar, safe —I can feel the truth of me stir.

My wings stretch in the space between realms, aching to unfurl.

My Dragon’s scales rustle beneath my skin like armor ready for war.

I don’t like this game of pretending.

My Dragon doesn’t understand the need for this softness .

It is simply illusion.

All of it.

The neat, symmetrical face.

The smooth, tamed magic that hums along the edges of my body like a well-mannered breeze.

But then again— what isn’t an illusion?

How many centuries have I worn masks and played at civility?

For the comfort of mortals.

For politics.

For power.

This is no different.

And yet it is .

Because she’s different.

I glance at Jules where she stands beneath the golden light of the library’s dome, her fingers curled around the edge of a leather-bound tome, her cheeks flushed from some half-teasing remark she made a moment ago.

She radiates warmth, life, and maddening curiosity.

She turns and sees me, like she senses my approach. And I have to wonder at that.

Now she’s looking at me like I’m something tame.

Like I’m just a man.

And for some reason I can’t explain, that makes something twist inside me.

How would she react if I showed her my true form?

If she saw the curling horns that rise from my temples, carved with ancient markings older than her world?

The runes and rituals inked into my skin—sigils of air, war, and vengeance?

If my black wings burst forth, stretching wide and terrible, each feather tipped with obsidian?

If my hands morphed into what they really are—claws, not fingers, built for rending rather than caressing?

Would she scream?

Would she run?

Would she look at me with fear instead of curiosity?

Would she call me monster ?

And suddenly, I care.

My frown deepens, unbidden. A crack in the composure I’ve spent a lifetime perfecting.

I’m not supposed to care what a mortal thinks of me.

I’m not supposed to crave the way she looks at me now.

Like she wants to understand, not just survive.

I tell myself this is still a game. A strategy.

I tell myself that once I’ve completed the mating bond and claimed the crown, the feelings will fade.

But the lie tastes bitter in my mouth.

And my Dragon— ancient, primal, unchainable —rumbles low with a single, insistent truth.

She is mine.

My viyella.

And I want her to know all of me.

I want her to choose me.

No. I must stop this.

I will not let myself get sentimental.

That way lies weakness. Attachment.

And I have no time for either.

I will woo her, mate her, and claim the crown.

Then she’ll be cared for.

Kept. Adored, if she wishes.

But nothing more.

Nothing emotional .

My steps slow as I approach.

Her scent reaches me now—warm cream and shea butter with a hint of human anxiety and something wilder beneath.

Something that stirs the Dragon inside me.

When I step farther inside, I find she is not alone.

She’s standing beside Shade, one of my most loyal stewards.

The Demon is carefully shelving a row of fragile glass-bound volumes, but her attention is split.

Clearly she is fascinated by the mortal chattering beside her.

Jules is smiling.

Relaxed.

Her arms folded beneath her full breasts as she tilts her head, asking questions.

I catch her laugh, light and unsure, and something inside me sharpens.

I do not like that she is this at ease with anyone but me.

Mine.

The word carves itself into my bones.

Shade catches my gaze and immediately straightens, bowing her head. “My Lord.”

Jules turns, and I see her face light up with something between curiosity and— gods help me —fondness.

Dangerous.

Too fucking dangerous.

I should end this now.

Shut her down.

Remind her what I am.

But instead—I watch.

Because Jules Strano, little mortal firebrand, has no idea the line she’s toying with, and yet, she dances on it like she was born for this.

“Am I interrupting?” I ask, voice silken with that lazy authority mortals usually trip over themselves to obey.

She turns, one hand on her hip, chin tipped up in challenge.

“Depends,” she says with a smirk. “You here to whisk me away to another realm—oops, wait. You did that already.”

A joke?

She’s joking.

With me.

Shade gasps softly at her audacity. Even lowers her gaze, which amuses me more.

Because normally? That kind of insolence would earn a lesser creature a quick, painful lesson in fear.

But this isn’t just anyone.

This is her.

Jules doesn’t stop. Of course not.

“Or,” she continues, tilting her head with mock curiosity, “are you going to give me more cryptic answers about why you’ve brought me here? You know—because being chosen really doesn't explain the kidnapping part.”

Audacious. Clever. Nervy.

She should be groveling. Trembling.

Instead, she’s playing with me like she’s in control.

I find myself amused.

So I don’t interrupt. I wait. Let her finish.

And Jules?

She does not disappoint.

Her eyes sparkle, lips curling as she adds, “Or— Heaven forbid —is big bad Lord Alaric finally ready to answer some real questions?”

Shade makes a strangled sound like she’s trying to disappear into the book cart beside her.

And me?

I smile.

Slowly.

Oh yes.

Time to turn it on.

I stalk forward, not too fast, not threatening—just enough for the air to thicken between us, enough for her breath to hitch even as she holds her ground.

“No more riddles,” I murmur, letting the timbre of my voice darken just slightly. “I’ve kept you waiting long enough.”

Jules’s lashes flutter. Just once.

Good.

“You want answers?” I ask, stopping just short of touching her. My power hums in the space between us like heat lightning. “Then you may ask your questions over dinner. But I warn you, Myrrin , truth in Nightfall always comes with a price.”

Her throat works as she swallows, but her gaze doesn’t drop. Not yet.

And gods help me, I hope it never does.

I step closer, gaze raking down her silk-clad form, letting my power warm the space between us.

“Of course, I was thinking, if you’re brave enough, that perhaps we might move beyond questions.”

She blinks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I let my gaze linger. Let the tension build. “It means I’ve been patient. But there are other ways to show you why you’re here, Myrrin .”

Her breath catches.

Good.

Because I’m done pretending I don’t want her.

And if charm won’t do the job, seduction will.

However, no one said I have to rush.

The hunt is more satisfying when the prey doesn’t know it’s already caught.

I let my fingers trail down her bare arm. Light enough to make her shiver, deliberate enough to make her wonder.

Jules stills, her breath catching ever so slightly.

Yes. She feels it.

I lift her hand, slow and certain, and guide it to the crook of my elbow. My other arm hovers behind her back, not touching, but close enough to claim.

“Hungry?” I ask, voice low.

Her eyes flick up, confused. “What?”

I lean in, close enough that my breath grazes the shell of her ear.

“Are you hungry, Myrrin ?” I enunciate each syllable, letting her feel every word the way a body feels heat before it burns.

She doesn’t answer. Not with her mouth.

But her body, oh , her body speaks volumes.

The soft rise of her chest. The flush blooming across her collarbone.

The way her fingers twitch against my arm, tightening just a little, as if testing the tension between us.

I glance down at her, at the woman I’ve stolen from one world and dragged into mine.

She’s wrapped in silk, curves lush and inviting, eyes wide with disbelief and something she hasn’t named yet.

But I know it.

Want. Desire. Yearning.

Even if she doesn’t.

Not yet.

“Come, Myrrin ,” I murmur, pulling her gently forward. “Let me feed you.”

Her gaze holds mine for one breathless second too long.

And then, slowly, she nods.

One step. Then another.

And I smile.

Because she doesn’t know it yet, but with every step she takes at my side, she steps deeper into me.

I’ve got you now, Jules Strano.