27

ALINA

Since my first night here, I’d learned to sleep lighter, trained my ears to catch even the smallest shift in air. So the second I felt it, I knew I wasn’t alone.

My fingers fumbled for the switch, and light spilled across the room. Sure enough, I wasn’t wrong. Claude sat on the bench by the window, a book open in his hand like he’d been there for hours. He looked so at ease it made me wonder how he’d even been reading in the dark.

Lycans might see well, but reading in pitch black?

“You’re right,” he said, voice casual as he shut the book with a quiet thud and stood up. “We can’t read in the dark.”

My lips parted slightly as I stared at him. Could he really read minds, or was I just that easy to figure out?

“If you’re wondering how I know what you’re thinking,” he added, gesturing loosely to his own face, “You’re expressive. It’s all written here.”

I held his gaze, trying not to let my thoughts show again. I’d wanted to snap back, deny it, but then I remembered what happened yesterday. Or was it already the next day?

I’d crawled into bed not long after Alexander left. I’d been drained, like my bones had been replaced with sand, and I could’ve sworn I’d slept for hours.

“Now you’re trying to hide your thoughts from me?” Claude pouted, mock offense painting his features.

I couldn’t tell if he was teasing or genuinely disappointed.

“Don’t bother. I’ll figure you out soon enough.”

A scoff slipped past my lips before I could stop it.

“You don’t believe me?”

He tilted his head, watching me. I didn’t know what part of me decided to match the motion, but I did. Mirrored him like a puppet with broken strings. Our eyes stayed locked.

“Should I?” I asked flatly.

His lips twitched, eyes gleaming. “Yes, you should,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve never lied to your face since you got here.”

“That doesn’t mean I trust you.” My voice didn’t waver. “Your brother is the most feared man on earth, the Lycan King. The Executioner. And you? You’re his second.”

He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. Claude didn’t earn his place by being soft. And Alexander didn’t strike me as someone who gave out titles out of sentiment.

“So you’re saying you don’t trust me?”

I stared at him, studying the line of his jaw, the unreadable stillness in his eyes. I wanted to believe he was playing, but not a single muscle in his face moved.

“You haven’t earned it.”

I expected another quip, some witty retort, but all he did was nod and press his lips into a thin line.

“Fair enough.” He placed the book back on the bench with care and turned toward the door.

From the bed, I watched him walk away. And the strangest thing was. I didn’t feel fear. I couldn’t explain why, but my gut didn’t scream at me to run. Not with Claude. Even though logic said I should be on edge, I wasn’t.

It was the opposite of how I felt around Alexander. With him, I was always tensed, always calculating every word. He carried danger like it was stitched into his skin. A walking time bomb. And I never wanted to be the one to trigger him.

Claude might smile while slowly twisting a knife in your back. You wouldn’t feel the pain until it was too late. But Alexander? He wouldn’t bother with subtext. You’d just wake up dead.

“You should rest,” Claude said as he opened the door, his back to me.

He didn’t step out right away.

“And really, stop locking your door. It’s pointless.”

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and collapsed onto the pillows. Maybe I was a prisoner, but no prisoner ever lay on bedding this soft.

The door opened again, and I sat up immediately, already knowing it was Claude. Maybe he’d forgotten something, another cryptic thought to drop.

“You want me to keep my door open so you can stroll in at will?” I asked, not even bothering to look up.

No response.

The door closed. Silence.

Then it hit me.

The scent.

I looked up.

Sharp.

Unmistakable.

Alexander.

He stood at the foot of my bed like a curse summoned in the dark. My breath caught. Even clothed and buried under a thick comforter, I felt exposed, stripped bare beneath his gaze.

“Who are you leaving your door open for?” he asked, voice cold enough to slice.

The man who’d held me through my panic attack earlier was nowhere in sight. This was the Executioner now, in full.

“N-no one,” I stammered, biting down on the simple words.

“I told you I detest liars, didn’t I?”

I would’ve taken his shouting over the calm he used. That still, detached tone was terrifying. I couldn’t gauge his mood, couldn’t sense how angry he truly was. I didn’t know where to place my next step.

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” His expression didn’t shift. “It was Claude, sir.”

The word tumbled out, an instinctive attempt to soften the blow.

“You’re on a first name basis.”

My heart sank.

He wasn’t asking. He was stating.

I hadn’t even realized I said Claude’s name aloud. And now, Alexander had drawn his own conclusions.

“No. I just call him that in my head,” I rushed to explain.

His nostrils flared.

It didn’t work.

“You think about him?”

There it was.

Checkmate.

There would be no right answer now.