Rhys Volkov's Warning
I was seated at the massive writing desk in the antechamber of my suite, pretending to review the Lycan war ordinances General Oris had left me. The ink smelled sharp and clean, and the weight of the parchment felt official and important, a world away from the scraps of damp newspaper I used to hoard for light.
My mind, however, was not on troop movements. It was running a loop of terror and exhilaration. I had gained a crucial victory yesterday: Demetrius was deploying resources based on my tactical advice. I was indispensable. For the moment.
The problem with being indispensable is that you become a high-value target for those who resent your position. I could still taste the bitter tang of Lady Anya's revulsion, and the memory of Selene Voss's predatory glare was a constant pressure behind my eyes.
I am a piece of mud wearing a crown, I thought, tapping my silver pen against the wood. And everyone in this Citadel knows it except the soldiers who have to pretend to bow.
The door to my private sitting room opened silently. I hadn't heard a knock, and I knew Commander Finn, who was always on station, would never simply let someone stride into the Luna's chambers.
I looked up, and my breath hitched painfully in my chest. Standing framed in the doorway, his immense presence radiating cold, metallic authority, was Beta Rhys Volkov.
His scent was clean, disciplined, and utterly sterile, the precise opposite of Demetrius's fierce iron. He was taller and broader than any other Lycan I had seen, a wall of pure military containment. He looked less like a second-in-command and more like a human-shaped force of nature.
"Where is Commander Finn?" I asked, pushing back from the desk, my hands trembling slightly as I grasped the edge of the wood for support.
Rhys didn't move. He didn't step closer, but his gaze, the color of gunmetal, locked onto mine. He treated me not as a Luna, but as a biological specimen he was observing under glass.
"He is handling a minor security breach on the eastern perimeter, Luna. A momentary lapse that I took the liberty of utilizing for an unscheduled, private conversation." His voice was deep, level, and utterly without warmth. "A conversation the King is not privy to."
The implication was clear: he had deliberately created a window for this threat. My heart hammered against the silk of my robe. This was worse than a public confrontation. This was a private execution.
"You've come to warn me, then," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, aiming for the strategic coolness I had used on General Oris.
"I have come to clarify the terms of your lease, Esmeralda," Rhys corrected, finally taking a few measured steps into the room. He walked with the heavy, silent grace of a landslide. "I saw the report from General Oris. Your understanding of logistics is surprisingly sound. The King is pleased with the efficacy of the tool he purchased."
The dismissal of my intelligence, the reduction of my identity to a tool, ignited a cold flash of anger that briefly eclipsed the fear.
"And you are not pleased, Beta Volkov," I observed, allowing the edge into my tone.
Rhys inclined his head slightly, acknowledging my reading of him. "No. I am not. That prophecy concerning the Silver-Eyed lineage is centuries old, written by superstitious poets, not by military strategists. And the Mate Bond is nothing more than a biological nuisance when dealing with an omega who spent four years in a kennel."
He finally stopped a few feet away, his size blotting out the light from the window. "The King is a man of destiny and great sacrifice. He has shouldered the burden of this war alone for too long. He needs a path through the canyons. You provide that path. That is your sole value."
Rhys leaned down, his voice dropping to a harsh, low frequency that demanded attention. "However, I know that your blood carries a primal curse. I know that the Mate Bond is volatile, and I know that the shame of your rejection by Damon Vane has left you with a deep, chaotic drive for revenge. You are emotionally compromised and politically unstable."
I finally spoke, allowing the human emotion—the devastation and fear—to show on my face. "And the King, your ruler, chose me anyway. He chose the risk."
"The King chose a calculated risk," Rhys countered, his eyes sharp and unforgiving. "I am here to ensure that calculation does not prove faulty. I have known Demetrius since he was a pup. I know his fears, his burdens, and his absolute priority: The Lycan Kingdom. Not the Lycan King. The institution."
My internal world tilted. The institution. He wasn't protecting Demetrius the man. He was protecting the throne itself, the stability of the entire Lycan race. This explained his cold neutrality.
"You believe the King is too emotionally invested in this farce to see the danger," I whispered, realizing the depth of the power structure.
"The King is Fated," Rhys stated, his expression chillingly fanatic. "But he is also human, and prone to weakness. I, however, am a Lycan devoted entirely to order. My loyalty is to the preservation of power, the continuity of the Lycan line, and the defeat of the Human Hunters. If you, Esmeralda, cause even a ripple of doubt in the King's judgment, if you attempt to use that Mate Bond to influence him, or if you simply fail in your assigned role—"
Rhys suddenly produced a knife from beneath his uniform, the metal dull and practical, utterly unlike the ceremonial blades of the court. The sudden, violent shift in the air made my body freeze.
"—I will terminate your function," he finished, his voice never rising above its even rumble. "I will not wait for the King's order. I will not seek his permission. I will eliminate the threat before it compromises the stability of this Citadel. Do you understand the difference between my duty and his?"
Fear—raw, wet, suffocating fear, spiked through me. This was the first time since my capture that my death had been articulated so clinically, so absolutely. I saw the pure, unyielding devotion in his eyes, and knew he would do it without a second thought, viewing it as a necessary cleansing.
I forced myself to meet his gaze, gripping the desk so hard my knuckles were white. "I understand," I rasped, the word sticking in my dry throat. "Your duty is to the Crown. Not the man wearing it."
"Precisely," Rhys confirmed, his mouth thinning into a tight, satisfied line. He tucked the knife away, the silence in the room returning to the terrifying echo of his threat. "The Mate Bond is irrelevant. Your strategic value is temporary. Do not overstep, Luna. You have no allies here, only guards awaiting instruction."
He bowed stiffly, a movement of pure formality, and then turned and left the room, leaving me alone with the devastating weight of his honesty.
I didn't move for several minutes, waiting until the last trace of his scent had dissipated. My legs felt weak, and my entire body was shaking uncontrollably, a storm of panic and suppressed adrenaline.
He would have done it, my inner omega screamed. He would have killed me right here, and Demetrius would have merely issued a cold press release about a tragic illness.
The terror was immense, but so was the revelation. Rhys was the true power behind the throne, the cold, pragmatic logic that held Demetrius's kingdom together. And Rhys had just confirmed the King was vulnerable, not just to me, but to the entire world, because he had sacrificed his own survival for the throne.
Tears finally welled in my eyes, but they were tears of exhausted, desperate defiance, not surrender. I wiped them away fiercely.
If Rhys is working for the Kingdom, and the King is compromised, I thought, pushing the notes back across the desk. Then my only path is to save the King, not for his love, but to destabilize Rhys's power. The true battle is not against the Hunters; it's inside this fortress.
My strategy had just changed. I had to find out what weakness Rhys was protecting the Kingdom from, and I had to find it before he carried
out his chilling, absolute promise.