Chapter 47
Chapter 47
WADE
“Leave p>
That bastard’s words echo in my skull long after we leave the execution grounds. They shouldn’t stick, but they do.
The corridor leading to the royal guest wing is dim, narrow, stone walls sweating with the night’s damp. Torches burn low, throwing uneven shadows that jump across the walls like restless ghosts. My boots hit the floor with heavy thuds the sound bouncing off the enclosed space. Ariel’s clinging to my arm like a fucking barnacle, head leaned against me, sighing like she’s just survived a goddamn war.
I don’t shrug her off. I don’t pull her closer either. My mind’s not here.
It’s back there–execution grounds. That brief flash of movement. A hooded figure in the shadows, watching. The way the body stiffened when Ariel gave the order. The glint of eyes catching torchlight, just for a heartbeat.
My heartbeat picks up again, like my chest hasn’t caught up to the fact that it’s over. I tell myself I imagined it. My head’s been screwed since Sorin. Anyone would be after what she pulled. But fuck, it felt real.
And then there’s the King.
That moment earlier when he appeared out of nowhere, a broad shadow slicing through the crowd like he owned the damn place–because he does. He had a woman in his arms. Hooded. Limp against his chest but not lifeless. He held her like she was… precious. Like something that belonged to him.
I’d brushed it off at the time. Didn’t even see her face. But now, in this quiet hallway, the image plays again, sharper. The way her body curved into his. Protective. Familiar.
My jaw tightens. No.
It can’t be.
Sorin’s gone. Dead. I buried that part of me when she chose to burn everything we had down to ashes. She couldn’t have survived. And even if she did–she wouldn’t… No. She wouldn’t be with him.
Ariel lets out a soft whimper and tugs my arm gently, pulling me out of the spiral. “Wade… I’m exhausted,” she says,
her voice small, fragcile, like she’s auditioning for some tragic play. She presses closer, her hand rubbing her stomach like some dramatic heroine. “The baby p>
I swallow my irritation. “Yeah,” I mutter. “We’ll rest when we get back to the room p>
She beams faintly, satisfied, and keeps leaning,
When we step into our quarters, the warmth of the fireplace greets us, smoke faint in the air, mingling with the scent of polished wood and something floral–probably whatever crap the servants used to freshen the sheets. The door shuts behind us with a muted click, sealing us inside the cocoon of forced domesticity.
11:31 Sun, Jan 4
Chapter 47
95
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A strange hollowness settles in my chest. Like I left something back there without realizing it. It gnaws quietly,
and I shove it down.
Morning comes gray and slow, sunlight bleeding weakly through the fogged glass. The guest wing bustles with movement–Omegas darting in and out, folding expensive clothes into trunks, stacking luggage, shouting over each other in their rush to prepare for departure. The distant courtyard is still choked in thin mist, smoke from the pyres curling into the sky like thin fingers. The faint burnt smell seeps in through the open window, sour on my tongue.
I lean against the frame, arms crossed, watching the scene below. My reflection stares back faintly in the glass -hollow–eyed, jaw set, like I’m waiting for something I can’t name.
Behind me, Ariel’s in full peacock mode. She’s perched on the edge of the bed surrounded by fabric and jewels, tossing orders at the servants. Her voice is sharp, annoyed–not sad. She’s complaining that the executed woman wasn’t Sorin. Scoffing that they punished the wrong person.
“Can you believe it?” she huffs. “All this time, and she slips away like a rat. Of course it was her. Everyone knows it. But no, they kill some random nobody instead—what a waste p>
Her voice grates against the silence. I move behind her, bend down, and kiss the side of her neck. Light. Automatic. Just to shut her up.
“Enough,” I murmur. “It’s done p>
“She’s still out there,” Ariel snaps, twisting to look at me. Her eyes flash. “You don’t believe me, do you p>
I keep my fcace neutral. “I believe she’s dead. And that’s all that matters p>
The words taste like ash the moment they leave my
mouth.
Ariel turns back with a scoff, throwing a silk gown onto the floor in some fit of irritation. “You’re too soft, Wade. You always were with her p>
I don’t take the bait. She throws little tantrums like this all the time–dramatic gestures, sharp words–but underneath, I know what she’s doing. Needling. Testing. She wants me fully hers. Wants Sorin’s ghost gone from between us.
But Sorin’s ghost is stubborn.
It lingers.
My attention drifts again as Ariel starts barking at the maids about packing order, like anyone gives a shit. My gaze catches on a memory I didn’t mean to unearth.
The woman in the King’s arms.
I hadn’t seen her face. But my eyes had tracked downward, like they always do when I’m checking for tells.
And I saw it.
Her ankle.
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The tattoo.
A crescent moon, inked just above the bone.
My breath catches.
It was Sorin’s idea, that tattoo. We were dumb teenagers, drunk on love and rebellion. She’d laughed when the ink bled a little, teasing me for flinching. We promised we’d never hide it. Said it’d be our secret mark–our way of finding each other no matter what.
I can still see her sitting on that flat rock by the river, swinging her legs, silver eyes shining as the moonlight hit the wet ink. I remember the curve of that crescent like I remember my own damn name.
And the one I saw that night… it was the same. Exact.
My fingers curl slowly at my sides, nails biting into my palms.
No. No, no, no.
Lots of people have moon tattoos. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.
But the image won’t fucking fade.
It sits there in my mind, burning.
And for the first time in a long time, doubt wedges itself deep, sharp and col as fuck.
Cedella
Cedella is a passionate storyteller known for her bold romantic and spicy novels that keep readers hooked from the very first chapter. With a flair for crafting emotionally intense plots and unforgettable characters, she blends love, desire, and drama into every story she writes. Cedella’s storytelling style is immersive and addictive—perfect for fans of heated romances and heart-pounding twists.