The Goddess and the Rogue King's Curse

6 - How dare she?!

Killian

My boots echo across the stone floor, each step deliberate, each one a warning. The violet torchlight flickers as I enter the kitchen, casting jagged shadows across my mask. My gaze sweeps the room, landing on Elira sprawled on the floor, clutching her cheek like a wounded martyr.

For crying out loud!

Then my eyes meet Grace’s.

She stands perfectly still, arms loose at her sides, expression unreadable. But her eyes—those eyes—hold nothing but boredom.

My voice slices through the silence. “Explain.”

Elira gasps theatrically while clambering to her feet. “She struck me, Killian! Unprovoked!”

Grace raises a brow. “You mean when you grabbed my hand and slapped yourself with it?”

Elira’s lips part, but no words come.

This is nothing new when it comes to Elira. It’s becoming a habit when new girls arrive. She gets jealous and tries to run them out of the pack. I should have put a stop to it before now, and I thought I had. But it seems that she’s up to her old tricks again.

I don’t blink. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Elira shakes her head. “She’s lying, Killian!”

I breathe deeply through my nose. “So, you’re telling me that this human girl managed to hit you, an Alpha, hard enough to knock you off your feet? For no apparent reason?”

Elira nods. “She caught me off guard, Killian.”

I narrow my eyes. That’s three times she’s called me by my given name. Only a handful of people are permitted to do so, and Elira is not one of them. “What did you call me?”

“I’m sorry, my King.” She mumbles. “But this woman struck me! Ask anyone here, and they’ll tell you.”

I look at Wendy, who nods. I then look at Miriam, and she closes her eyes, not wanting to say anything.

“Miriam?” She looks at me, chin wobbling.

I watch as Grace gently takes her arm. I narrow my eyes a little because I didn’t expect Grace to be so caring toward another person.

“It’s okay,” Grace whispers. “I know you’re scared, but I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Huh. Interesting.

Miriam looks at me and shakes her head, which tells me that Elira is lying.

I look at Wendy. “You wouldn’t be lying to me. Would you, Wendy?”

Wendy’s eyes widen, and she swallows hard. “My King?”

I huff a laugh and look at Elira. “I saw everything.”

Elira freezes. “W-What do you mean?”

“I’ve had the scrying runes active since dawn,” I continue, voice low and lethal. “Every room. Every angle. Including this one. Even if I hadn’t, did you honestly think I would believe this pathetic act?”

Elira shifts on her feet, her composure cracking. “She’s dangerous! She shouldn’t be here—she’s human!”

I step closer, my presence suffocating. “And you think that gives you permission to stage a scene in my kitchen?”

“She’s beneath you,” Elira hisses. “She’s nothing.”

Grace tilts her head. “Funny. That’s exactly what I thought about you.”

Elira lunges, but I catch her wrist mid-motion, my grip like iron. “Enough. How dare you attempt to attack someone right in front of me? As if acting like a child to frame someone wasn’t bad enough! Did you really think I would take your side?”

The room holds its breath.

“I didn’t.” She whispers, tears in her eyes, as if it would bother me.

I turn to my Beta, still standing behind me, not making his presence known. “Remove her.”

He nods and motions to two guards, who appear from the hallway, flanking Elira.

“You can’t do this!” She shrieks as they grab her arms. “I’m your mate!”

I shake my head and sigh. “I am not your mate, Elira. If I were, do you honestly think I wouldn’t take your side?” I move toward her. “I have never been your mate. I am done with this bullshit. You will spend the next week in the cells. Give her ten lashes for disobedience, and ten more for her lies. Now, take her!”

Elira’s scream echoes down the corridor as she’s dragged away.

“Back to work, all of you!” I yell, causing everyone but Grace to scurry back to what they were doing.

Grace exhales slowly. “Well. That was dramatic.”

I turn to her, wondering how she’s so calm. This isn’t the Grace, Steele told me about. He told me that if anyone crossed Grace, she’d attack immediately. But she didn’t; she stood there and took it.

“You didn’t retaliate.”

“I didn’t need to,” Grace shrugs. “She did it for me.”

I study her for a long moment. “You’re not what they think you are.”

Grace shrugs again. “Let them think whatever they like. I’m curious how far they’ll push.”

Now I see it. She’s playing the long game. I bet she has all sorts of ideas rushing through her head on what she’s going to do to Elira for what she did here today.

I smirk, slow and sharp. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Grace steps closer, her voice a whisper. “I’m not playing. I’m waiting.”

My eyes darken behind the mask. “For what?”

She smiles. “For the moment, I stop pretending.”

‘Leave!’ I tell my staff who have just come into the room through the mind link.

The kitchen empties in silence, staff scattering like leaves in a storm. Only Grace remains, arms crossed, leaning against the counter as if she owns it.

I stand across from her. I don’t speak at first. I just watch her. She fascinates me, and I don’t know why.

Grace breaks the silence. “So. Is that how mornings usually go around here?”

I chuckle darkly. “Not unless I’m bored.”

She smirks. “Then I’m guessing you’re bored often.”

I step closer, slow and deliberate. “Why didn’t you retaliate?”

“You expected me to?”

“Well, it’s not like I haven’t heard the stories of how volatile you are, Grace.”

She smirks. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Killian. Besides, I already told you. I didn’t need to do anything. She was her own worst enemy.”

I tilt my head. “You let her humiliate herself.”

Grace shrugs. “She wanted a reaction. One that would see you punish me. But I am no fool. I know how to play games and win. I gave her silence. That’s worse.”

A pause. The air between us thickens.

“You’re not what they think you are,” I muse.

Grace’s eyes gleam. “You said that. But what do you think I am?”

I study her. “Not human. Not harmless. Not sane.”

She smiles. “Three for three.”

I lean against the counter opposite her, folding my arms. “You’re testing them.”

“I’m testing everyone,” She says. “Including you.”

“Careful, Grace. I don’t break the way others do.”

This time, she steps forward, close enough that I can feel the heat of her body against mine. “Neither do I.”

Damn it!

‘I want her,’ My Lycan growls.

‘Be quiet, Nash!’

‘I will not!’ He yells inside my head. ‘Why don’t you just tell her who you are?’

‘Because she wouldn’t remember, Nash. It was a long time ago.’

‘And she’s a Goddess, Killian. They don’t forget important things.’

I scoff. ‘It wasn’t important, Nash.’

‘Whatever.’ He mumbles, then goes quiet.

A beat passes. Then I speak, quieter. “Why didn’t you tell them who you are? You don’t need to hide if you don’t want to.”

Grace’s voice is calm, but sharp. “Because I want to see how far they’ll push me before they beg me to stop.”

My lips curve beneath the mask. “You enjoy the game.”

“I enjoy the truth it reveals.”

I nod slowly. “You’re dangerous.”

Grace leans in, her voice a whisper. “And you like that.”

I don’t deny it. I don’t because I’m enjoying watching Grace act high and mighty, even without her powers. She doesn’t need them to be who she is.

Another pause. Then I say, “You’re not here to be coddled, Grace. You’re here to be contained.”

Grace’s smile fades. “You think you can contain me?”

“I think I can try.”

She steps back, eyes narrowing. “Then try harder. Because I’ve got to be honest, this is child’s play.”

This woman is going to push every one of my buttons until I snap. I can see it now!

I straighten. “You’ll be assigned to the East Wing permanently. You’ll work. You’ll be watched. And if you step out of line—”

“You’ll break me?” She asks, voice mocking.

I shake my head. “No. I don’t need to do anything. I’ll let Balorien do it.”

Grace’s gaze flicks to the walls, the runes pulsing faintly. “Then I hope your kingdom’s hungry.”

I turn to leave, my cloak trailing behind me like smoke.

Before I reach the door, Grace calls out, “You know she’s not your mate, right?”

I pause.

Didn’t she hear me already say that Elira wasn’t my mate?

“She’s obsessed,” Grace says. “You’re not hers. You never were.”

What’s going on?

I glance back, mask gleaming. “And you think you know who I belong to?”

Grace smiles, slow and wicked. “No. But I know who doesn’t deserve you.”

What the hell is this woman playing at now?

I don’t respond. I walk out, the door closing behind me with a hiss of magic.

I stand in the shadowed corridor just beyond the kitchen, the scent of scorched bread and pine still lingering in the air. The door had closed behind me, but Grace’s voice echoes in my mind.

‘I know who doesn’t deserve you.’

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. But the words landed like a blade between my ribs.

Does she remember me somewhere inside her?

Why else would she speak those words, exactly as she did all those years ago?

I walk slowly toward the scrying chamber, boots silent on the stone. The torches dim as I pass, the runes along the walls pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat. Balorien knows my moods. It bends to them.

Inside the chamber, the mirror shimmers. Grace’s image flickers—her smirk, her defiance, the way she hadn’t even blinked when Elira tried to frame her.

She’s not afraid of anything, even me. But she should be.

I remove my mask.

The air shifts.

The scars beneath are jagged, cruel reminders of the night I nearly died. The night I stopped being a Rogue and became a King. The night the Lion King’s emissaries left me bleeding in the snow, my pack scattered, my name forgotten.

The snow had fallen in silence that night—thick, heavy, suffocating. It blanketed the forest like a burial shroud, muffling the sounds of breath and blade. I had been eighteen, still raw with power, still reckless with hope. Abandoned by my mother, beaten by my father, I had nothing. I began to realize that I was more than my father had made me believe. So, I killed him, and I ran. At sixteen, I had already gathered Rogues and built a small pack that numbered twelve. Rogues, all of them. Broken. Fierce. Loyal.

The night it happened, my pack had gathered near the river’s edge, beneath the shadow of the old stone bridge. The moon hung low, its surface tinged with blood. The air tasted of frost and warning.

I had sensed it first.

A shift in the wind. A silence too deep. The scent of polished steel and Royal blood.

I had no idea that we’d wandered too far into territory that didn’t belong to us.

Then they came.

Not Lycans. Not Rogues.

Soldiers of the Lion King—cloaked in silver, eyes burning with sanctioned cruelty. They didn’t speak. They didn’t warn.

They attacked.

They outnumbered us ten to one, and we stood no chance.

I had shifted mid-strike, claws tearing through armor, teeth sinking into flesh. My pack fought like demons, howling into the night. But we were outnumbered. Outmatched.

One by one, we fell.

I remember the scream of my then Beta, a boy named Riven, as a blade pierced his heart. I remember the sound of bone snapping beneath my own ribs. I remember the moment I was dragged to the ice, held down by six warriors, and my face was slammed into the snow.

And then the blade.

It wasn’t meant to kill.

It was meant to mark.

It was meant to leave a warning to all who crossed the Lion King.

They carved into my cheek, slow and deliberate, a message written in blood: You are nothing. You are Rogue. You are forgotten.

I didn’t scream.

I watched the moon.

And when they left me there—bleeding, broken, alone—I crawled to the river, dipped my hand into the freezing water, and swore an oath.

I will not die here. I will not be forgotten.

I built Balorien from that oath.

Stone by stone. Scar by scar.

I gathered the remnants of the Rogue world—those who had been cast out, hunted, betrayed. I gave them a home. A kingdom. A King.

And I wear the mask not to hide the pain—but to remind myself of it.

I made Balorien great from that pain. From that rage. From the bones of those who underestimated me.

And now Grace stands in my halls, wearing defiance like armor, daring me to break her.

She’s not sane, but neither am I.

I touch the edge of the mirror, and it ripples. Her image sharpens—Grace in the East Wing, staring at the cracked glass, whispering to herself.

I lean in, voice low. “What are you waiting for?”

The mirror doesn’t answer. But I know.

She’s waiting for the moment she stops pretending.

And when that moment comes, I will have to decide whether to contain her or crown her.

I replace the mask, the metal cool against my skin. The weight is familiar. Comforting.

But something has shifted.

She’d seen me. Not the scars. Not the mask.

Me.

And that is dangerous.

Now, standing in the scrying chamber, watching Grace defy the world with a smirk and a whisper, I feel the echo of that night stir in my bones.

Grace is dangerous.

She was divine.

And she is precisely the kind of chaos I had built Balorien to survive.

Or burn for.