Chapter Seventeen
1119 Words
Draven
The pounding on the door started as a dull thud in the distance of his dream.
Draven stirred, his eyes snapping open before his mind caught up with him. The ceiling above him loomed high, supported by beams of dark wood carved with old runes. Light filtered thinly through the tall windows, turning the chamber gray-blue. It was too early. Too quiet. The kind of morning that deserved silence, not someone beating down his door like a drunk soldier.
He was not ready for the day yet.
The pounding came again, louder this time. He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. Whoever thought it wise to wake him at this hour had better come bearing news of war. Or death. Someone important would need to have died for this disturbance to make sense.
“By the gods,” he muttered under his breath, sitting up slowly. His dark hair was mussed, falling across his forehead. He rubbed at the back of his neck, the familiar stiffness of a restless night lodged deep in his muscles.
“Come in,” he barked toward the door. His voice was gravelly from sleep, but it carried well enough in the vast chamber.
A pause. Then a sharp female voice came through the wood. “Are you decent?”
Draven froze mid-reach for the pitcher of water on the bedside table. He knew that voice. His jaw clenched.
“Kaelen,” he muttered, cursing softly. Of course.
He raised his voice again. “Why would I not be decent?”
“You know why,” she shot back without hesitation.
He pushed off the covers and swung his legs to the floor, the stone beneath his bare feet cold enough to wake him fully. His room was large, cavernous even, with a high ceiling supported by carved beams. A fireplace dominated one wall, the embers from last night still faintly glowing. The bed behind him was massive, a heavy frame of blackwood draped in crimson sheets, more suited to a warlord than a king.
“Kaelen,” he said, pulling a shirt from the armchair where he had discarded it last night. “That was a long time ago.”
“Mhmmm,” came her skeptical hum from outside.
Draven tugged the shirt over his head and strode across the chamber toward the door, irritation quickening his steps. He yanked it open with a rough pull. His sister stood there, arms folded, one brow arched as if she had caught him in some sin.
“What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
Kaelen opened her mouth, but he lifted a hand, cutting her off. “Never mind. Spare me. What are you doing here anyway?”
Her expression shifted. “It is about your mate.”
The word mate struck him like a spark against tinder. He hissed through his teeth, the sound low and dangerous. His shoulders stiffened.
“Is she dead?” The question slipped out sharper than he intended, his mind already reaching for the bond he pretended not to feel. He would have known. He would have felt the tearing of it if she were gone. Right? Right?
Kaelen’s eyes widened. “No! She is not dead. Why would you ask that?”
Draven exhaled through his nose, slow, heavy. He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing back a step. Relief was an emotion he refused to name.
“What about her then?” he asked at last, his tone clipped.
Kaelen stepped closer, lowering her voice though no one else was near. “Can she be moved from the dungeon? Her living conditions there are really, really bad. Last night I went there to—”
“You went to the dungeons?” Draven’s growl rolled out before she finished. His eyes flashed, his posture looming.
“Yes,” she shot back, lifting her chin. “I went there, and she was being starved, Draven. Starved”
His hand tightened on the doorframe, knuckles white. The thought unsettled him in a way he did not want to examine. “What do you want me to do then?”
Kaelen did not flinch. “You can still lock her up if you must. But under better conditions.”
He scoffed, turning away from her and pacing across the length of the room. His boots thudded against the rug that stretched from the bed to the hearth. “The council would not like that.”
Kaelen’s laughter was soft, incredulous. “Since when have we cared about that?”
Draven glanced over his shoulder, his mouth twitching at her choice of words. “We?” He raised a brow. “There is a we now?”
She followed him into the chamber, skirts whispering across the floor. Without hesitation she shoved at his arm, playful but firm. “Do not be difficult.”
He gave her a look, half amused, half warning. “Do whatever you want, Kaelen.”
“Great.” She clapped her hands together as if the matter were already settled. “So, I will have her moved to a room in the west wing.”
Draven froze mid-step, then spun on her. “What? No!”
The words came out harder than intended, but his chest tightened at the thought. The west wing was far too close. Too close to him. To his chambers. To his private halls. Having the rogue within reach was dangerous. It was dangerous for his reputation, for his rule, for the fragile control he clung to.
“Yes, Draven,” Kaelen said cheerfully, as if she had not heard him. “That is what I am doing. Thanks for agreeing with it.” She smiled, turning toward the door.
His voice followed her. “I did not agree to—”
The door slammed in his face, the sound echoing through the vast chamber. “Anything,” he finished to the empty air.
Silence settled again.
He stood there, fingers flexing at his sides, jaw tight. He could reopen the door. He could stride after his sister and insist Seraya remain chained in the dark where she belonged. He could order Kaelen’s decision reversed, or even move Seraya to one of his distant estates where he would never have to feel her presence.
He could do that.
But he did not.
Instead he turned back into his chamber, the grand emptiness suddenly pressing down on him. The bed, the hearth, the carved chairs by the window, the fine furs tossed over the back of a couch. On some level, deeper than he dared admit, he wanted Seraya close.
And that realization scared him more than anything.
- Writer
