Chapter 9: Sorted for
1305 Words
Wake up, Dante. My Chamber. Now.
I recoil.
Not due to pain. Not due to fear.
But due to him.
Even miles away, my father's voice slices through the link like a knife covered with ice. His rage hums in my bones, thrumming under my skin like static before a tempest.
There is no good morning. No respite. Only his voice. Only this cold sternness that glides down my spine and drags me out from the warmth of sleep.
I shove the leftover thoughts of her away.
That girl. That. human girl.
She has no place in my head. Not after all of it. Not now. But she lingers in my mind, clings like smoke, and I hate the fact that it's the only gentle thing in a world built of steel and war.
I stand up.
The sheets are still indented with my body, but I don't look back. I don't get the luxury of hesitation. Not when my dad stands watching in the distance. Not when I can feel the restlessness pumping through the bond like a time bomb about to go off.
I don't bother with full armor—I just put on a shirt, skip the coat, and let the cold seep into my skin. Maybe I'm worthy of it.
The halls are still, but the air? It crackles. The silence before a kingdom falls. Before there is blood. Before a name disappears.
The doors to the meeting hall swing open before I even reach for them.
And he is there.
Lord Volmore. My father. My velvet executioner.
He does not look in my direction. He does not have to. His very presence flattens the room. His voice resonates the emptiness like prophecy.
Mr. Virello is sitting already, tense and white, the image of a man whose walls are going to crush him.
"Dante." My name is formal. A reminder. I am not a son here. I am a soldier. A weapon.
I take a seat. My shoulders knot. My fists bunched.
Mr. Virello has the first word. Of course. "I—I received a message from Stella," he prattles, his voice a cracked thing. "She apologized. Told me she didn't wish to shame. the family."
Shame.
The word trembles through me like something evil. I laugh, almost. But what I feel is too deep in my throat to spit out.
She ran. Disappeared. Left me at the altar like some helpless fool. And now her sorry is going to fix everything?
"She said she was going somewhere. where she couldn't hurt us anymore."
My father's silence is louder than a thousand screams. Then: "So she just disappears?" His tone is flat. Deadly.
"She made a choice," Virello whispers.
My father leans back, fingers together, the image of mastery carved in granite. "You both made choices. And now you've both reaped what you sowed."
Virello flinches, but he tries to salvage it. "We'll come up with another plan. I'll make this—"
"No," my father says, the word dropping like a guillotine. "It's too late. The damage is done.".
I couldn't keep quiet anymore. My voice is deep, cutting in. "The media is already on fire. My bride was human. An ordinary girl with no status. No family. Her face is everywhere. Magazines. Blogs. Pack networks. You made us a joke."
Virello seems to want to dissolve into the floor. He knows. He knows the weight of the mistake.
And yet. I feel almost sorry for him.
Almost.
“I can’t control the media,” he says, desperate.
But it’s not about the media. It’s about honor. Blood. Power. And he’s thrown all of it away.
My father rises. That one movement is enough to silence the room completely. “You’ve failed your pack. You’ve failed us. You’ll be lucky if the Virello name survives this.”
Virello doesn’t argue. He just bows his head and leaves, the ghost of a man.
And now it's just me.
My father's eyes are colder than the wind outside. "This is on you now, Dante. You'll clean up the mess. You'll restore what's been broken."
How? How do I fix a scandal that already has the whole supernatural world whispering?
But I nod anyway.
Because I have to.
Because I always do.
Because in this kingdom, failure has no room for corrections. It burns.
----
Liana's POV
I have no idea how long I've been out—minutes, hours, maybe centuries. Time is a fraying thread, stretched too tight and coming undone.
Then the knock.
Not gentle. Not polite. No, it's the kind of knock that punches the air from your chest. I jerk upright like I've been slapped awake, my heart a crazed beast thrashing against my ribcage.
The dress.
It's still on me.
God.
This cursed, choking gown. It hugs like a second skin, heavy and cruel, as though it is aware I never had a choice. As though it wants to remind me that everything about it was not up to me. My skin skitters beneath tulle and lies. Everything hurts—my shoulders, my back, my head, my soul.
I'm embalmed.
The knock again. Harder than before. As if the person on the other side of the door is trying to shake the room off its hinges, or maybe just me into submission.
And then she's there.
Another of them.
The door creaks open and she slips in like she owns the air I breathe. Plain clothes wrapped in her arms, lips pressed into a line so thin it might disappear. She doesn't ask. She commands.
"Good morning, Lady Volmore. Change, please."
Lady what?
Lady Volmore?
Again?
What in the actual f**k is a Volmore? A royal house? A vampire clan? A perfume company? Do I look like I care?
I don't even blink anymore. I'm too tired to blink. Too hollow to be angry. My emotions are like broken crayons melted into one useless, muddy color.
She doesn't budge. She simply stands. Staring and waiting. Like a guard dog, but with a smile.
I want to scream. I want to challenge who she thinks she is. I want to rip the veil from this whole sick fantasy. But all that escapes my lips is nothing. Thick. Bitter. Defeated.
I nod.
Because what else can you do when you're trapped in a dollhouse with no doors?
She hands me the clothes. Simple, soft. Gentle cotton maybe, but it might be a straitjacket.
My fingers shake as I remove the wedding dress. It slips down my body with a whisper of satin, as if goodbye, as if it knows something I don't.
The coldness of the air on my skin and I am naked, peeled, as if the world is watching through a two-way mirror.
I change slowly. Not out of modesty—please, that left with my sanity—but because every movement feels like walking through water, like dragging grief behind me in a weighted sack.
The new dress is. fine. Normal. Comfortably bleak. Which is worse somehow. It makes this feel real. Permanent.
When I’m done, the girl steps back in. Still no expression. Still no soul behind those eyes.
"You are being sorted for," she tells me, as if that clarifies everything.
Sorted?
Sorted for what?
A job? A punishment? A mating ritual? Human sacrifice?
My mind struggles for answers but comes up with only fear. My lips open once more, and this time it is not silence—it is nothing. Nothing gets out.
I want to cry. I want to laugh. I want to rip her hair out and shove it down her throat just to get some kind of response from her.
And instead, I just stand there. Breathing. Just breathing.
Because maybe if I just keep on breathing, I won't disappear completely.
- Writer
