BLACKMAIL
659 Words
Elora
After class, Lysander finds me the way he always does now—quietly, instinctively, like he’s been walking toward me long before he actually sees me.
The hallway is nearly empty. Late afternoon light spills in through the tall windows, warming the stone floors. I’m tired in a way sleep won’t fix.
He doesn’t touch me at first.
Just stands close enough that I feel it.
The pull.
It’s subtle, constant—like a low hum beneath my skin. When he finally takes my hand, it feels like relief more than desire, like my body has been holding its breath all day.
“My wolf’s been restless,” he says, voice low. Honest. “He misses you. Your scent. It’s… grounding.”
My chest tightens.
That word again.
I exhale slowly. “What did you want me to do, Lysander? I can’t live at the castle.
Not like him. Not without history pressing in from every direction.
He studies me, head tilted slightly, eyes sharp with something that makes my pulse stumble.
And then—
That glint.
The one that means he’s already decided something reckless.
“Actually,” he says carefully, “you could, your whole family could.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. “That’s crazy.”
“The castle has multiple wings,” he continues, entirely too calm. “There’s a cottage on the east grounds—cozy, private, perfect for your family , Four bedrooms. And a guest house not far from it. Three bedrooms. Your uncle and his family could stay there.”
I stare at him. “You’ve thought about this.”
“I almost came to your house at two in the morning,” he admits smoothly.
My breath hitches.
“Elora,” he says, stepping closer, arms sliding around my waist with a confidence that makes my knees weaken. “A royal’s feelings are… more intense when it comes to their mate.”
His voice drops.
“Don’t make me suffer.”
I laugh despite myself as he presses a kiss to my forehead. Then my nose. Soft. Playful.
For one suspended moment, the world feels small and safe and dangerously sweet.
“Gross.”
We freeze.
I turn.
My six year old brother Rowan stands a few feet away, arms crossed, face pinched in disapproval far beyond his years.
“You guys are gonna get cooties.”
I groan. “Rowan—”
“I’m concerned for you, Elora,” he says solemnly. “I gotta tell Mom and Dad you kissed a boy.”
“I am warning you—”
“Two candies,” he interrupts. “I say nothing.”
I blink. “Are you blackmailing me?”
He grins. “Uncle Caspian said if I want to negoteatate—”
“Negotiate,” I correct automatically.
“He said I gotta offer something no one can refuse.” Rowan tilts his head. “Is it working?”
Lysander snickers outright.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You are unbelievable.”
Lysander watches Rowan with open amusement, then thinks—not for the first time—
I knew Caspian was a menace.
Later that evening, the warmth doesn’t last.
It never does.
The first signs are subtle.
A symbol carved into the fence near the Merrow house. Not a threat yet—just a reminder. A shattered moon, half-hidden beneath the wood grain.
Then whispers.
Anonymous messages passed through pack channels. Words like dangerous, precedent, corruption.
Someone leaves a note folded too neatly on the Merrow doorstep:
Know your place.
I stare at it longer than I should.
This is the cost, I realize.
Not just of love.
But of asking a world that rejected me to let me stand at its center.
And the most terrifying thought of all?
Part of me isn’t afraid.
Part of me is angry.
And that resentment—quiet, long-suppressed—is beginning to wake up.
- Writer
