Chapter 4: Thorns Before the Throne
1313 Words
It didn’t feel like a sudden, painful break when I was rejected, like I thought it would—no clean tear, no jagged wound. It was more like this heavy feeling, like drowning, but with no water. Then, this man’s voice, sharp and clear, cuts through my thoughts. "Selena."
Not mine. Not Lyra. Not the name carved into the bond I’d felt burning in my chest just moments ago.
The courtyard shifted. Breath caught in the throats of every noble, every servant, every soldier lining the edges of the stone steps.
He stepped forward—tall, broad-shouldered, cloaked in gray so fine it looked like ash woven into silk. His jaw was shadowed with stubble, but clean enough to look intentional. Not unkempt. Calculated.
His golden eyes locked on Selena.
Not once did they flick toward me.
The bond, which had surged only moments before, had dulled to a low throb—muted like someone had thrown a heavy cloth over it.
Selena placed one hand delicately over her chest, surprise blooming across her face with practiced grace. “You—Your Grace…” she said, dipping in a shallow curtsy. “This is… unexpected.”
Unexpected my ass.
I watched from the archway, still hidden in the shadow of the tower. Unseen.
Unwanted.
Unclaimed.
My wolf snapped her teeth, agitated and confused. She knew what the bond felt like. We both did. That thread didn’t belong to Selena.
But no one else knew that.
And the prince had just said it out loud.
“My fated mate,” he announced clearly, “has been revealed to me.”
He turned slightly toward the crowd, not to me. Still not to me.
“I do not accept the bond.”
A collective gasp rippled through the nobles. The words were a razor. Not just for me.
For the realm.
To reject a mate was rare. Publicly? Unheard of.
To do so while pointing at the wrong woman, while staring straight at the girl who'd orchestrated the deception?
That was theater.
And war.
“Let me explain something to you,” Toren had once said, crouched beside a fire deep in the rebel tunnels. “The royal court doesn’t trade in truth. It trades in symbols. Appearances. Everything you are means less than what they think you are.”
Right now, they thought Selena Vale was a chosen mate.
And they thought I was no one.
No title. No claim. No place.
A shadow cast aside.
And it was working.
Selena’s lashes fluttered. “I understand, Your Grace,” she said, breath trembling just enough to seem genuine. “If the bond frightens you, I won’t press it.”
There. A line painted as compassion, not conquest.
She was playing him—and winning.
But Lucien wasn’t blinking.
“I do not fear the bond,” he said.
She tilted her chin. “Then why refuse it?”
His answer came like frost sliding over glass.
“Because I choose my fate.”
The crowd ate it up. The nobles murmured about strength, autonomy, and breaking tradition. Rewriting destiny.
But all I heard was the beat between his words.
Not you.
Not her.
And in that heartbeat, something inside me shattered—not with pain.
With clarity.
He was lying.
Not just to the court. To me.
He knew.
He knew I was the one.
And he still looked away.
Later, I slipped back into the stone corridors like a wraith, ignoring the servants who nodded, the guards who avoided eye contact.
Back in the west wing, I found a door half-ajar—one of the disused chambers near the upper balconies. I shut it behind me and braced against the old vanity, chest heaving.
My breath was fire in my throat.
Why now?
Why like this?
The bond hadn't lied. My wolf wouldn’t mistake that kind of connection.
So what game was Lucien Thorne playing?
Was it to protect me?
Or destroy me quietly?
I don’t remember how long I stood there, but by dusk, I was walking the halls again, just moving, no real direction. The palace walls felt like they were closing in—every hallway whispering, every archway hiding something.
Eventually, I made it to the solarium—a high glass dome overlooking the northern ridges.
The last light of the day spilled through fractured panes, casting the floor in streaks of rust-orange.
And he was there.
Alone.
Prince Lucien stood, facing the window, his arms folded behind his back, his cloak hanging heavy from his shoulders.
He didn’t move when I entered. Didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
The silence stretched.
He finishes with, “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
I step forward, slowly. “Do you reject me? Or are you lying about who you were rejecting?”
He turns.
Those golden eyes hit me like fire. But this time, I don’t flinch.
“You felt it,” I said. “Same as I did.”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t deny it.”
“But you denied me.”
He walked toward me, measured, deliberate. Every step is a controlled concession.
When he stopped barely a foot away, I saw it. The faint scar across his collarbone. The way his shoulders held tension was like it was armor.
Not broken. Not fragile.
Trained.
"You don't understand what it truly means," he stated softly.
"But I know what the bond feels like," I countered.
He shook his head once. “It’s not that simple. You think fate brought us together. But fate doesn’t see consequences. It doesn’t care who dies because of it.”
“And you do?” I snapped. “Then say it. Say the truth. You know I’m your mate, and you rejected me anyway. Why?”
His voice dropped lower. “Because if I claimed you, he’d have you killed.”
The words hit me like ice.
“Who?”
“My uncle.”
King Malrik.
I swallowed hard.
“You think he doesn’t already know who I am?” I asked.
“He suspects. But suspicion isn’t enough. As long as no one claims you, you stay out of the line of succession. Out of the court’s spotlight. Out of his crosshairs.”
“You think hiding me will protect me?”
“I think making you his target would get you buried.”
I wanted to scream. Punch. Rip the curtains from the walls. Anything to match the fire surging through me.
Instead, I said:
“Then you should’ve told me. Not fed me to the wolves.”
“I had to play the part.”
“What part is that, Lucien? The coward? The liar?”
He stepped closer again. I could feel the heat from his skin.
“No,” he said. “The prince who survives long enough to strike when it matters.”
I turned away before I let myself believe him.
Because if I believed him, I’d forgive him.
And I wasn’t ready for that.
Not yet.
“I won’t be your secret,” I said, walking toward the door. “And I won’t stay quiet.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he said behind me.
I paused.
Then he added, “Just… don’t trust anyone in this palace. Especially not the girl they think is your sister.”
My blood went cold.
“What do you mean?”
But he didn’t answer.
He just walked past me, leaving the solarium in shadow.
I didn’t sleep that night. Again.
I sat in my borrowed chamber and stared at the bandage wrapped around my wrist.
The mark beneath it pulsed faintly—warm, insistent.
Still there.
Still mine.
But fading.
Just before dawn, a servant slipped something under my door.
A scrap of parchment.
No seal.
Just a single line.
She switched the names.
- Writer
