Chapter 14 – Seeing the Cracks

Alexei

The lower armory is a different beast from the polished, parade-ground feel of the keep.

This place is functional, cold, and smells of whetstone, metal polish, and old leather. Racks of Silvercrest issue swords and axes line the walls. They’re all gleaming, perfectly balanced, and look like they’ve never really been used. Not with the intent to kill. Maybe for play-fighting.

Kieran is already there when Marcus escorts me in. He’s standing in the center of the room under a high, slatted window, a shaft of dusty light illuminating him like he’s on a stage.

He’s holding a massive Blackthorn blade. A brutal, practical piece of dark steel that looks utterly alien in his graceful, long-fingered hands. He runs his thumb along the flat of the blade, his expression focused. He looks like a scholar examining a weapon of mass destruction.

He doesn’t look up when I enter. I feel the deliberate snub, the performance of indifference, and it delight me. He’s re-established his in-charge, Alpha mask since our last encounter in his study. The polished, untouchable prince is back. I can’t wait to disrupt his equilibrium again.

“Marcus, you can wait outside please,” Kieran says, still not looking at me.

Marcus gives me a look that’s equal parts warning and disgust, then nods once to his Alpha and pulls the heavy door shut, leaving us alone. The thud of the closing door seems to suck the sound out of the room, leaving only the low hum of tension.

“Alpha,” I greet him, my voice deliberately pitched low and familiar, letting it curl into the quiet. “You sent for me. I’m touched. Another closer consultation? You know you can come to my room any time you want, right? There’s no need to wait for a formal invitation.”

He finally lifts his gaze, and his eyes are all business. He’s had time to rebuild his walls, and they're formidable. It’s a bit of a pain to have to redo what I’ve already accomplished before, but eventually I’ll obliterate them to dust and then he won’t be able to keep me out any longer.

“Basov. This steel just arrived from Blackthorn, part of our new training gear. It’s much heavier than our usual forgings. Vale claims it’s superior.”

“It is,” I say, sauntering closer. I stop a few feet away, deliberately casual.

“Redmaw warriors hate Blackthorn steel. It doesn't chip, and it holds an edge even after you’ve lodged it in someone’s spine. It’s ugly as sin, but it’s made for killing, not for hanging on a wall.”

Kieran’s lips thin, his dislike of my bluntness warring with his need for the information. “Show me,” he says. “What’s the difference?”

He holds the sword out, hilt first. I take it, and as I do, I let my fingers deliberately brush his.

His hand jerks back like he’s been burned.

A tiny, sharp intake of breath. He masks it instantly, turning away to inspect another blade on the rack, pretending to check its balance, but I saw it. I felt it. The jolt that went through him, the spark of panic in his eyes.

Bingo.

I test the weight of the Blackthorn sword. It feels good in my hand. Honest. Built for ending a fight, not staging one.

“The difference, Alpha,” I murmur, stepping up right behind him, deliberately invading his space, “Is intent.”

He freezes. He’s trapped between me and the rack of spears, his back to me. Heat spills from his skin like light from a flame. I can hear the sudden, frantic spike in his pulse that he’s desperately trying to control.

“Blackthorn steel is made to kill an opponent,” I continue, my voice dropping even lower. Pitching it so it sounds like an erotic declaration rather than an observation on the merits of weapons.

I lean down, my mouth close to his ear, my chest almost brushing his back. His clean, luscious scent fills the air, but underneath it, there's the unmistakable tang of a flustered Alpha.

“Your steel…” I reach around him, my arm bracketing his body, and pluck a decorative Silvercrest dagger from its sheath on the wall. The hilt is inlaid with useless, pretty stones. “…is made to look good, with no thought spared for how deadly it is.”

He’s not breathing. I’m almost certain of it. He’s rigid as a statue, trapped by my proximity, by the presence of an Alpha he’s trying to despise and failing.

“You flinch when I get close, Kieran,” I whisper, using his name like a key in a lock.

“Basov…” he grits out, his voice tight and strained. He sounds like he's being strangled.

“But not like a warrior,” I continue, pressing my advantage, my lips almost brushing the shell of his ear. “A warrior braces for a blow. You… you flinch like a man afraid of being… touched.”

I feel the shudder that goes through him, a violent tremor that has nothing to do with the cold in the armory. He tries to move away, but there’s nowhere left to go. I press my body lightly against his back, holding him in place with sheer presence.

“He really did a number on you, didn’t he?” I voice my educated guess. “Vale’s pretty little Blackthorn Omega. He broke your heart, didn't he? Broke it so badly you’re terrified to let another wolf even brush your arm.”

His reaction is explosive.

He spins around and shoves me back, his face pale, his eyes blazing with a raw, agonizing pain. The polished mask is gone. Shattered. All that’s left is the wound, naked and bleeding.

“My. Personal. Life. Is. None. Of. Your. Concern. Basov.”

Each word is a shard of ice, precise and sharp. He’s trembling, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides. He looks magnificent.

“Stick. To. Tactics.”

He doesn't wait for a reply. He turns on his heel and stalks out of the armory, shoving past a startled Marcus in the doorway, who had clearly been waiting just outside. The heavy door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing the final, definitive crack in his composure.

I stand there in the sudden silence, the heavy Blackthorn sword still in my hand.

Holy shit.

I was guessing, mostly. Poking at a bruise to see if it was real. I didn't expect to hit a raw, gaping wound.

He’s not just controlled. He’s wounded. Deeply. He’s not afraid of me as an enemy, he’s afraid of me as a man. He’s terrified of rejection, of feeling that kind of pain again. His entire Alpha persona, that cool, silver-tongued charm, it’s all a defense mechanism. An elaborate, beautiful suit of armor to hide a romantic, broken heart.

My wolf, which had been pacing with possessive, aggressive energy, suddenly stills. This changes everything.

The game isn't just about conquering the pretty prince anymore. It's not just about breaking through his control to get to the heat underneath. It’s about… him. The real, complex, wounded man beneath all that glitter. The one who sketches lonely landscapes and flinches from a simple touch.

A slow, predatory heat uncoils in my gut, sharper and more potent than simple lust.

I find this vulnerability, his raw, guarded heart, incredibly hot.

This is no longer a game of simple conquest. This is a siege. And I’m going to enjoy every second of smashing down his walls, piece by piece, until he finally lets me in.