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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

U lric jerked awake, a strangled roar caught in his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs like a war drum. Sweat plastered his hair to his neck and chest, the sheets twisted around his legs like serpents.

The nightmare clung to him, its tendrils sinking deep into his consciousness.

He’d been in his Beast form, huge and monstrous.

But the true horror wasn’t the physical change—it was the absence of his own will.

Lasseran had stood behind him, a puppeteer pulling invisible strings, his cold laughter echoing through the throne room of Norhaven.

“Kill them all,” Lasseran had commanded, his voice slithering into Ulric’s mind.

And he had obeyed. He’d torn through his own warriors, his massive claws rending flesh, his fangs sinking into throats. Their blood had sprayed across the stone floor, across his face. The coppery taste had filled his mouth.

Then Jessamin appeared, her blue eyes wide with terror as she backed away from him.

“Ulric, please,” she’d whispered. “This isn’t you.”

But he couldn’t stop. His body advanced on her while his mind screamed in silent horror.

Lasseran’s laughter had grown louder. “You see, Jessamin? In the end, they’re all just Beasts. And I can control the Beasts.”

He was reaching for her, claws extended, when he heard her whisper his name and felt a small cool hand on his shoulder.

She had brought him out of the nightmare, but he couldn’t escape its clutches that easily.

The phantom smell of blood still filled his nostrils, so real he had to check his hands in the dim light to ensure they weren’t stained crimson.

The nightmare had felt different—more vivid, more prophetic. This wasn’t just his subconscious playing out his fears. This was a dark premonition of Lasseran’s ultimate goal.

A cold, metallic taste coated his tongue. Not blood, but fear—raw and primal. He’d faced death countless times on the battlefield without flinching, but this terror was different. It wasn’t fear for himself, but fear of himself—of what he could become in the wrong hands.

Jessamin sat next to him, waiting patiently for him to speak. Her golden hair fell loose around her shoulders, catching the light like a halo. She wore only her nightgown, the thin fabric clinging to the curves of her body, and her sweet scent began to cut through the phantom smell of blood.

He couldn’t summon the strength to put on his usual mask. He couldn’t pretend strength or control. He just stared at her, raw and exposed, his defenses completely stripped away.

“I heard you cry out,” she said softly.

“It’s the Beast Curse,” he said, his voice raw. “I was in my Beast form but Lasseran… he controlled me. Made me kill my own men. Made me hunt you.”

He looked up at her, meeting her eyes.

“My greatest fear isn’t death, Jessamin. It’s becoming a weapon used against my own people. Against you.” He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “It’s what I might do if Lasseran gets what he wants.”

He looked down at his hands—hands that, in his nightmare, had been transformed into claws dripping with the blood of those he’d sworn to protect.

He fell silent, the confession leaving him drained. He waited for her response, for her fear, her disgust, her retreat.

She didn’t speak, didn’t offer empty reassurances or platitudes, she simply kept her hand on his shoulder, a cool comfort against his fevered skin.

That simple touch undid him. It wasn’t demanding or fearful. It was an anchor, a silent promise that he wasn’t alone with his demons.

He closed his eyes in weary surrender as a shuddering breath escaped him, then carefully placed his hand over hers.

He leaned into her touch, a weary surrender.

For the first time he’d admitted his darkest fears about Lasseran’s plans—not to his warriors or advisors, but to this small woman from the south, this queen who had entered his life as a political necessity and somehow become essential to his very existence.

And she hadn’t run. She hadn’t recoiled in horror or disgust. She had moved closer.

“The Beast Curse makes you stronger,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady.

“But this—” she slid her hand down to cover his heart “—this is what makes you different from anyone under Lasseran’s control.

This is why your warriors follow you, why Norhaven will stand while other kingdoms fall.

This is what he can never understand or duplicate. ”

He looked up at her calm, beautiful face and couldn’t find the words to respond. She saw him—not just the king, not just the warrior, but the male beneath it all, with all his fears and flaws.

“When I was poisoned,” she continued, “you could have let me die. It would have been politically expedient. You could have blamed Lasseran and consolidated your power with Almohad. But you didn’t. You fought for me. That choice—that heart—is what Lasseran can never touch or take from you.”

Her hand moved from his chest to his face, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw with a gentleness that made his chest ache.

“I’m not afraid of you, Ulric. I’m afraid for you. There’s a difference.”

Something shifted within him, and the nightmare’s grip loosened. The fear didn’t vanish, but it transformed, becoming something he could face—not alone, but with her beside him.

“Jessamin,” he whispered, her name a prayer on his lips.

She didn’t answer with words. She simply stayed, her presence more eloquent than any speech, her touch more powerful than any vow. For the first time since the crown had been placed upon his head, he felt the burden lighten, if only for this moment, in the sanctuary of her presence.