The Skilfull Assassin

~ Rhys ~

Seated on his dining chair by the rounded table of his balcony in the connecting parlour to his bed chamber, Rhys glared at his arm resting on the glass top. He sat in his breeches, legs wide, back resting against the chair with an intimidating air. 

Only a few hours had slipped away, yet those hours were far too long in such a vulnerable state of unconsciousness. While Amira may have dealt a potentially fatal blow to Rhys, the opportunity was ripe for others to exploit his weakened condition. He had many enemies. Fortunately, Rhys proved more robust than most believed, regaining consciousness after mere hours rather than enduring days of incapacitation.

The royal physician attended to his ribs, stitching the last of his injuries. Rhys’ teeth ground together every time he heard the wheezing of his breath.

“Punctured lung and neck, not to mention the aconite in your bloodstream. The assassin was close this time,” the physician commented, watching him warily. Even if the king hadn’t been poisoned by the aconite blocking the connection to his wolf, Rhys would struggle to heal. The wounds ran deep, each strike a testament to the seething fury behind them.

But Rhys was the Alpha King for a reason. He wasn’t meant to be so easy to kill.

Rhys waved the physician off, aware that his stitches were done. The man tidied his equipment quickly, and a maid helped remove the bowl of bloodied water and cloths. While they packed everything away, Rhys ignored the gaze burning holes into the side of his face as he thought more and more of the she-wolf who attacked him.

The she-wolf with mismatched eyes. Eyes Rhys could never forget. Amira. Formerly known as Amira Desai, heir to the Desai Dukedom, daughter to Alpha Dashiell of the eradicated pack, Shadow Moon. 

He should have figured it out years ago. When rumours spread about a rising leader in the rebels, a woman of deadly beauty and mismatched eyes named Amira, he should have known it was his old childhood friend. 

The term "friend" held too much weight for their past relationship. After all, they were just children, with one struggling to articulate words.

Rhys thought Amira had died. Well, it was self-evident she was alive and very passionate in her attempt to kill him. The fury in her eyes surpassed any memories of their past together as if their shared experiences meant nothing. He wasn’t sad or hurt by it. If anything, it flared his temper in response.

Not only did Amira try to kill him and lead the rebellion group against him and his rule, but she was his mate. That abysmal thing was his mate. Rhys rubbed his chest where a strange ache was until he finally looked at his Beta.

“I need a drink,” he muttered, standing from his seat and hissing from the sudden movement. 

“Sit,” Baltir sighed, then held his hands up, not meaning to disrespect the Alpha by giving him orders. “Get Alpha Rhys a strong drink. Everyone else leave.”

Rhys tipped his head back, closing his eyes, not wishing to be disturbed by anyone, that included Baltir. Rhys could tell from the shifting of Baltir's feet and the energy surrounding him that his friend was barely holding back his questions.

A glass of dark brown liquid was placed before him. The maid curtsied and scurried away, happy to be dismissed. Baltir sat on the other seat facing him before the small round table. He was pouring his own glass of whiskey, waiting for Rhys to talk to him. 

“It’s not like you to let them get away,” Baltir began before sipping the contents, his grey eyes locked on him. "The trackers struggled to pick up a scent. The assassin has skilfully escaped."

Rhys downed the whiskey in one gulp, relishing the burn of the contents as it coursed down his throat and enveloped his stomach with a sinking warmth. Baltir arched his brow but poured the Alpha another drink. 

Rhys kept his friend waiting as he opened the golden cigar box. Baltir tsked and moved it out of his reach. "Your lungs are punctured," he hissed, glaring at Rhys before bowing his head submissively and pouring the king another drink.

Rhys sighed, letting it go.

“She was my mate,” Rhys muttered, his voice filled with anger. He stared into the glass in his hand, lost in the memories of Amira’s eyes filled with such fury and murderous intent, even with the revelation that he was her mate.

As he was disgusted by her, Amira mirrored his disgust like he was beneath her. He scoffed and downed his newly poured whiskey, ignoring Baltir’s stare.

“The assassin is your mate?” He asked slowly as though he was trying to comprehend what Rhys said. 

Rhys nodded, tapping his finger against the glass before pouring another glass of whiskey. The alcohol’s effects weren’t hitting yet, and he wanted to numb the pain inflicted by that wretched rogue. By… his mate. 

“Not anymore. We rejected each other,” Rhys replied, feeling that strange ache in his chest again. 

Baltir jumped up. “You rejected her?! Rhys, do you know what this means?! How could you-”

“Amira rejected me as I did her,” Rhys snapped, glaring at his Beta. He knew why Baltir was so upset. But he wasn’t about to accept a rogue intent on killing him as his mate. That was no Luna. 

“Amira?” Baltir’s eyes flicked between the kings from across the table he now leant his hands against. “You had time to talk?”

Rhys glanced outside the patio doors leading to the balcony. Was this how Amira entered his quarters? It was high, though, and guards would see a figure climbing onto his balcony. It was always a weakness to his bed chambers, but he wouldn’t move. He wouldn’t accept his deceased parent’s room. 

“Rhys?” Baltir urged his voice deeper from annoyance.

Baltir was the only one permitted to speak to him in such a manner. He sometimes took advantage of their friendship more than necessary. Nevertheless, even his wolf exhibited a level of tolerance towards him, which spoke volumes, considering his vicious nature.

With a sigh, Rhys told Baltir precisely what happened, how Amira seduced him, acting like Jasmine, allowing him to get close enough for her to sink that dagger into his neck and ribs. By the end of it, the bottle of whiskey was almost finished.