CHAPTER 12 Fury Unleashed
1496 Words
Kiara
I didn’t volunteer to serve Ryden.
Not at first.
After the masquerade, the palace went quiet. Not peaceful quiet. Suspicious quiet. The kind that made your skin itch and the guards start patrolling in pairs, eyes darting like they expected someone to come crawling out of the walls.
Julise kept her head down. She’d been avoiding me since dawn after the heist and the confession, keeping herself busy cataloging, commanding, chopping, washing—things she normally handed off to someone else with a flick of her wrist. It was as if she’d taken every ounce of her fear, her guilt, her tension, and shoved it into the callouses of her palms.
And me? I gave her space. After my third failed attempt at conversation and her flinching at my voice like it stung, I stopped trying. She seemed like she needed the silence. Like maybe the weight of what we’d done—the scrolls, the theft, the ancient bloodlines tangled in our names—had finally caught up to her.
The scrolls and books we’d taken from Kier Malen’s hidden collection were still sealed, tied with obsidian-colored ribbon that felt warm to the touch. Magical. Old. Untouched for decades. Maybe centuries.
But that’s the thing about silence.
It expands. It grows teeth.
One day of space turned into three. Then—just three days after the masquerade—the server assigned to Ryden Fall’s meals was executed.
Word spread fast in the kitchens: poisoning, treason, maybe both. Some said the woman had been a rebel in disguise, others claimed she was just in the wrong hallway at the wrong time. Someone else whispered she’d been romantically involved with a low-ranked general, and the Alpha had been cleaning house.
All I knew was that the kitchen staff suddenly refused to go anywhere near the High Alpha’s wing.
"You think I want my head on a pike?"
"I’m not dying for stew."
"Let the Alpha get his own damn bread."
By the fifth refusal, the head cook—a squat woman with wrists thicker than her rolling pin and the temper of a volcanic god—was nearly foaming.
“If none of you ingrates serve that man his meal, I’ll drag my arthritic knees up there myself!” she bellowed, brandishing a ladle like it was a war hammer.
I sighed.
“I’ll take the damn tray.”
The entire kitchen went dead silent.
Lira, the head pastry chef with flour perpetually dusting her nose, gaped at me like I’d just volunteered to juggle live scorpions. “You? Since when do you have a death wish?”
I shrugged. “Better me than the old woman. She’d spill the soup and get us all executed.”
The cook’s face twitched with something halfway between gratitude and deep, resounding pity. “Fine. Don’t drop it and you’ll get a day off.”
I grabbed the tray. Silver with gold trim. Steaming duck soaked in rosemary glaze. White jasmine rice with saffron. Baby carrots caramelized to perfection.
“And if I do drop it?” I muttered under my breath. “At least I’ll die quick. If I don’t, I get a day off. Joy.”
Ryden’s wing of the palace was obnoxiously quiet.
No laughter. No clattering plates. No chatter. Just the sound of my own boots clicking against polished marble like some kind of death march. The walls here were lined with old tapestries instead of weapons. The air had the strange stillness of a sealed tomb. Regal, yes. But suffocating.
The guards at his door didn’t blink. “Name?”
“Mira.”
They didn’t nod. Didn’t write it down. Just opened the door.
The scent of steel and aged paper hit me first. Not opulence. Not roses. Ink, sweat, and something faintly smoky.
Ryden Fall sat at a long table near the window, shirtless beneath a half-buttoned vest, ink smudged on his fingers, a quill in one hand and a letter opener in the other. The room wasn’t as lavish as I’d expected. There were papers everywhere. Books with leather covers and frayed bookmarks. A sword rested on the chair beside him, casually within reach.
I dropped the tray in front of him with a clang.
He didn’t look up. “Put it on the table.”
The bond between us—it snapped taut when he spoke. Like a thread yanked. Like an old heartbeat waking up. It made me want to crawl into his lap and trace the lines on his palms. So, naturally, I sassed him. “Wow, what a brilliant idea. I was gonna balance it on my head.”
His head snapped up.
Oh, this was gonna be fun.
“You’re new,” he said.
“The last girl was executed.”
Ryden Fall had the kind of face that made people shut up. Not just handsome—that would have been easier. It was the way his gaze settled on me like he was measuring the weight of my bones. Calculating. Cold. Curious.
“Name?”
“Mira.”
He eyed me like I was a suspicious stain on his favorite rug. “Taste it.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The duck. Then the rice. Then the carrots.”
“I didn’t cook it.”
“I didn’t ask if you cooked it.”
“So you’re assuming I’m suicidal enough to poison myself for you?”
“Yes.”
I snorted, grabbed the fork, and took an exaggeratedly large bite of duck. Chewed loudly. Swallowed. Made eye contact the entire time. Did the same with the rice. Then the carrots.
“Happy?” I asked, mouth still half-full.
He leaned back, studying me. “Why would someone volunteer for a job with a death rate?”
“I was bored.”
“Are you always this glib?” “Are you always this nosy?”
Silence stretched between us.
Then—to my horror—the bastard laughed. Just a short, sharp exhale, like he hadn’t meant to let it out.
“Congratulations,” he said. “You’re my new royal server. And taster.”
I stared. “No, thank you.”
“Wasn’t a question.”
“I work in the kitchens.”
“You work here now.”
“This is a joke.” “Then laugh.”
I wanted to flip the tray. Maybe the entire table. Instead, I turned and left without another word.
Julise wasn’t thrilled.
“He what?” she screeched, nearly dropping a bowl.
“Made me the royal taster.”
“Mira. You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll learn something. He doesn’t know who I am.”
“That doesn’t make him safe.”
“Neither are we.”
The next morning, I showed up late on purpose.
Ryden was shirtless when I walked in.
Of course he was.
I didn’t blush. I didn’t stammer. I definitely didn’t stare.
(Okay. Maybe I stared a little.)
“You’re late,” he said, pulling on a tunic like he hadn’t just been flexing his stupidly perfect abs.
“You’re half-naked.”
“You’re observant.”
I dropped the tray. “Is the food poisoned today?”
“Probably. Check.”
I took a dramatic bite of bread. “Nope. Just terrible.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Or I’ll poison it myself out of mercy.”
He actually grinned at that.
Then ruined it by adding, “You’re wearing a corset tomorrow.”
I choked. “Excuse me?”
“New uniform.”
“I’d rather wear a sack of rats.”
“Noted. But you’re still wearing it.”
I pointed the fork at him. “I will stab you.”
“Promises, promises.”
By day three, he wrinkled his nose. “You smell like wolfsbane.”
I froze. s**t.
“I work in the kitchens. It’s everywhere.”
“Again with that nonsense? You’re going to stop wearing it.”
“And what, smell like roses?”
“Soap.”
“You can’t order me to change my scent.”
“I’m the Alpha King. I can order you to jump off a bridge.”
“Would you? That sounds fantastic compared to this conversation.”
He sighed. “Just wash.”
OnI threw a grape at him.
He caught it. Bastard.
By the end of the week, I realized something horrifying:
I was enjoying this.
The banter. The way his eyes darkened when I sassed him. The fact that he let me sass him. The dangerous thing wasn’t his temper. It was his attention.
Worse?
He was enjoying it too.
Every time he laughed or leaned too close or gave me that slow, assessing glance—it made our bond tighten. It made my purpose blur.
Because I was here for a reason.
And it wasn’t to flirt with a tyrant over possibly poisoned carrots.
- Writer
