Second Session With Kael

I shoved the doors open and there he was, standing by the window like a sad, beautiful vampire who’d lost his cape.

He turned.

“You came.”

The way he said it (like I’d just handed him oxygen) made my stomach do a backflip.

“I said I would,” I squeaked, then immediately wanted to evaporate.

We sat.

Across from each other.

The chairs felt too close and too far at the same time.

I opened the notebook.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

My hands were shaking.

The pen looked like it was having a seizure.

He just… stared.

I stared back.

Staring competition. Great start, Ariana. Ten out of ten professionalism.

What do I ask what do I ask what do I ask.

Childhood trauma?

NO. Too fast. He’ll yeet me out the window.

Hobbies?

Yes. Soft questions first. Hard ones later.

I’m a genius. A sweaty, terrified genius.

I cleared my throat so hard it sounded like a dying goose.

“So… any, uh… hobbies?”

He blinked.

Once.

Slow.

Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

Like I’d just asked the king of lycans if he collects stamps.

I was going to die.

This was how I died.

Except I didn't, because in the next moment, I heard him say,

“I write poems,” he said, voice low, almost shy. “A lot.”

The murder king writes poems.

My brain short-circuited so hard I felt the smoke coming out my ears.

I just stared.

Mouth open.

Pen frozen mid-air.

He glanced up, saw my face, and his eyes went downcast like a kicked puppy wearing a crown.

“Good… good,” I managed, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old. “Poems are… words. Beautiful words. Very… wordy.”

His lips twitched, but the sadness stayed.

Then he dropped the bomb.

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Two nights ago… I hurt you. Badly. I’m so sorry.”

My brain blue-screened.

He was apologizing.

The guy who almost turned me into a human PEZ dispenser was apologizing.

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

Just a tiny squeak that probably sounded like a dying mouse.

His ears—his actual ears—went pink at the tips.

Cute, my traitor brain supplied.

No no no, focus, he almost murdered you, do NOT find the murder king cute—

“It’s fine,” I blurted. “It’s...it’s fine. You stopped. That means you can control it. To some extent. Which is… good. Great. Super."

Bree was losing her tiny wolf mind in my chest.

(Hug mate! Mate is sad! Hug him now!)

Bree, I swear to god, I will muzzle you. I’m already light-headed, do not make me pass out in front of the hot—DANGEROUS—king.

I gripped the notebook so hard the spiral started bending.

He was still looking at the floor, shoulders curled in like he was waiting for me to scream or run.

I couldn’t scream.

I couldn’t run.

Because the apology in his voice was real.

And for one stupid, terrifying second,

I believed he meant it.

The silence after his apology stretched like a burnt chicken’s funeral: thick, smoky, and nobody knew what to say.

Then the little bell on the mantel chimed.

Hour over.

Freedom.

I shot up so fast the chair screeched.

Notebook to chest. Ready to bolt.

“Lady Elena.”

His voice stopped me at the door.

I turned.

He was standing now, rubbing the back of his neck like a nervous teenager who’d just grown into his shoulders.

“Would you… walk with me? In the garden?”

He kept talking, words tumbling out. “I’m sure you haven’t seen the whole palace, and with your mother and sister only visiting once a week, you must get lonely—”

He was rambling.

The cold-blooded murder king was rambling.

My brain short-circuited.

(Mate loves us mate loves us mate loves us)

Bree was basically doing cartwheels in my ribcage.

Bree, I swear on instant noodles, I will sedate you.

Roundy?

Dead. Silence.

Weird.

I looked at Kael.

Big violet eyes. Pink-tipped ears.

Waiting.

There was no harm in a walk… right?

But he’s the king.

What if the guards see me using their monarch as a personal tour guide?

Do they chop heads for that?

Is that still a thing?

(You’re his mate, you’re basically the Luna!)

Bree, I am NOT the Luna, I am a walking identity crisis, shut UP.

I swallowed.

“Yes,” I heard myself say. “I’d love to, Kael.”

His whole face lit up.

Like I’d just handed him the moon with extra cheese.

We walked side by side down the corridor.

Our hands swinging.

Almost touching.

Almost.

Almost.

Every time our knuckles brushed, tiny fireworks went off in my veins.

I was so doomed.

And the worst part?

I couldn’t stop smiling.

Wait—what? Why am I smiling like an idiot?

Cold face. Cold face. Professional. Ice queen. Do not grin at the murder king.

I wiped the goofy smile off so fast my cheeks hurt.

Then I heard it.

Low, warm laughter.

I whipped around.

Kael was laughing. At me.

Head tilted, eyes crinkled, the whole devastating package.

Understandable. He’s crazy, after all.

Bree wouldn’t shut up either, just a constant purr rattling my ribs like a happy lawnmower.

We kept walking.

The palace opened up in full ridiculous glory: marble everything, chandeliers that probably cost more than small countries, maids scurrying like scared mice.

Then we passed the training hall.

Doors wide open.

Shirtless lycans sparring.

Sweaty.

Grunting.

Abs for days.

I stopped.

Stared.

Mouth open like a cartoon character.

Someone growled.

Low. Possessive. Right behind me.

I jumped a foot in the air, slipped on literally nothing, and started falling backward like a drunk flamingo.

Oh god oh god I’m dying, fake psychiatrist found dead in palace hallway, headline writes itself—

A hand snatched my waist mid-air.

Warm.

Strong.

Lavender and something wild.

I opened my eyes.

Violet eyes.

Lavender scent.

Kael.

His arm locked around me like I weighed nothing.

My back against his chest.

My brain:

ERROR 404. BRAIN NOT FOUND.

Bree: full-on howling (MATE MATE MATE)

I squeaked. Actually squeaked.

He didn’t let go.

His voice rumbled against my spine.

“Careful.”

I was on fire.

Everywhere.

I was never going to recover from this.