Forbidden Love

Chapter 4: Behind Locked Doors

The grip on her locket didn’t slacken as Damian dragged Elara through the deserted, echoing corridors of the castle's royal wing. He moved like a shadow in the night—swift, silent, and unstoppable. Elara’s small feet scrambled to keep up with his massive strides, her heart hammering so violently against her ribs she feared it might burst.

He didn't take her to the dungeons. Instead, he shoved open a pair of heavy, gold-trimmed oak doors, pulled her inside, and slammed them shut behind them. The loud thud of the heavy iron bolt sliding into place felt like a death sentence.

This was his private sanctuary. The room was vast, smelling of rich leather, dark cedar, and the intoxicating, dangerous wildfire scent that belonged solely to him.

Damian let go of the locket, turning slowly to face her. The lack of physical contact left a sudden, freezing ache in Elara’s chest, but she didn’t have time to process it. She stumbled backward until her spine hit the dark velvet drapes of his grand bed, her eyes wide with terror.

"Sit," Damian commanded, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that brooked no argument.

Elara sank onto the edge of the mattress, her knees completely giving out. She curled her hands into the threadbare fabric of her apron, trying to stop her fingers from shaking.

Damian didn't approach her immediately. He paced the room like a caged beast, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles jumped. Finally, he stopped, towering over her, his golden eyes cutting through the dim candlelight.

"Your name," he demanded. "And do not dare lie to me again."

"E-Elara," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Just Elara. I don't have a family name."

"Elara," Damian repeated, the name rolling off his tongue like a dark vow. His eyes tracked the erratic pulse fluttering in her throat. "Who gave you that locket, Elara? Who spun the seal that managed to blind my wolf’s senses for eighteen years?"

"I don't know!" Tears of frustration and fear finally spilled over her lashes, hot against her cold skin. "I swear to you, I don't know! I was raised by an old man named Rowan. He was a servant here... he found me as a baby. When he was dying, he gave me the locket. He told me never to take it off. He told me it would keep me safe. That's all I know!"

Damian froze mid-breath. The name struck him like a physical blow. "Rowan?"

He stepped closer, his shadow completely swallowing her. He reached down, his large, calloused fingers gripping her chin again, forcing her head up so he could search her dark eyes. "Rowan the Chronicler? The rogue high-sorcerer who vanished eighteen years ago after the Blood Coven m******e?"

Elara gasped, her lips parting. "I... I don't know. He was just old Rowan to me. He was kind."

"Kind?" Damian laughed, a dark, humorless sound. "Rowan was the most wanted sorcerer on the continent. My father spent a decade hunting him. If Rowan hid you... if he used his final breaths to bind your power into a silver shell..." Damian’s eyes widened slightly as a terrifying realization took hold. "You aren't just some stray witch practicing parlor tricks in the kitchens. You carry the bloodline of the High Coven."

"No... no, it can't be," Elara sobbed, shaking her head against his grip. "I'm just a maid. I scrape grease off pots. I don't want power!"

"It doesn't matter what you want," Damian whispered, his gaze dropping to her lips. His thumb brushed against her jawline, and that same electric shockwave rippled through both of them, tighter and more demanding than before. "The power wants you. And my wolf... my wolf wants you more."

He was losing control. His fangs pricked his lower lip, the scent of his own blood driving his inner beast wild. He hated witches. His ancestors had bled fighting them. Yet, looking at this terrified, beautiful girl in her ragged clothes, all he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her and tear apart anyone who dared to look at her.

"Look out the window, Elara," Damian rumbled softly, his breath fanning her cheek.

Through the heavy glass, the horizon was beginning to turn a pale, fragile grey. The first rays of dawn were breaking over the distant mountains.

Sunrise.

The exact moment Elara's eighteenth birthday began.

Suddenly, a sharp, deafening CRACK echoed through the quiet room. Elara gasped as a violent wave of heat erupted directly from her chest.

The silver locket didn't just spark this time—it violently shattered. Tiny shards of silver rained down onto the floor, dissolving into gray ash before they even hit the stones.

Elara arched her back, her mouth opening in a silent scream as the suffocating dam inside her soul completely broke. A massive, terrifying wave of ancient, raw power exploded outward from her body. The heavy velvet drapes blew backward, the candles snuffed out instantly, and a brilliant, ethereal blue light flooded her veins. Her ordinary dark eyes bled into a glowing, luminescent, shocking sapphire blue.

Damian staggered backward a step, his arms coming up to shield his face from the sheer force of the elemental wind whipping through his chambers.

But as the magical shockwave washed over him, something else happened.

The air didn't taste like an enemy anymore. The crushing weight of the witch-fire hit his senses, and instead of triggering his hatred, it snapped a heavy, golden, unbreakable chain straight into his soul.

Inside his mind, the giant, ruthless Alpha wolf that usually roared for blood suddenly fell to its knees. It bowed its head, letting out a low, submissive, and profoundly desperate whine.

Damian’s breath hitched. His golden eyes locked onto Elara, who was hovering an inch off the bed, surrounded by a halo of glowing blue fire, her breathtaking beauty fully unveiled.

His soul recognized her. His wolf recognized her.

She wasn't his enemy. She wasn't just a captive witch.

She was his fated mate.