Chapter 7: Taking his life

Once she had finished, the maids returned for the tray and bore it away without a word, though their relief at the empty bowl was plain on their faces. Ten minutes later another group arrived, carrying a basin of steaming water and an armful of towels.

They worked around her wounds with great care. Soft ribbons of steam curled up from the basin as they wiped the unbroken skin with a soapy cloth, rinsed it clean, and patted her dry with towels warmed by the fire. The water carried a faint floral scent, some herb she could not name, and warmth seeped into skin that had almost forgotten it. Despite her indifference, some small, distant part of her found it pleasant.

More than once she caught them looking. Their glances darted to her face and fled whenever she met them. Their curiosity was plain as day. They wished to know who she was, and why the cold Alpha of Frostveil kept a bleeding stranger within his own east wing, guarded by his own trusted soldiers and fed from his own kitchens. Their eyes strayed to her hands, her hair, the wounds she bore, and the questions hung above their heads, unspoken and unanswered. None dared to ask. Someone had forbidden it, and none among them cared to learn the price of disobedience.

When they had finished, a third and smaller company of maids arrived bearing a plain white nightgown. They dressed her in near silence and departed as quietly as they had come. The chamber stilled again, and only the low crackle of the hearth remained to keep the darkness and cold at bay.

Yet the night's cold pressed in regardless. Estella drew the blanket to her chin and felt it all the same, creeping through the wool as though the fabric were air. Frostveil's chill was no mere winter that outsiders could turn aside with warm clothes. It was a sovereign of its own, and it was the reason the kingdom was the least visited in all of Shkrade. No matter how many layers one wore, nothing could shield the skin from the unforgiving cold.

Estella had been drifting toward sleep when the door opened, and her eyes snapped open at once.

A vein pulsed at her temple when she saw Adrian step through in loose dark-gray night robes, the fine fabric slipping from his shoulders. The firelight caught the dark silk and softened none of him. She pushed herself upright against the headboard, ignoring the ache in her head.

“What are you doing here?” Her frown was harsh and her patience already worn thin.

He did not answer at first. He crossed the room to the bed without haste, and only when he reached it did he speak, his tone flat and almost bored. “This is my castle. I may go wherever I please.”

He got in beside her without waiting for a response, the mattress dipping under his weight, and said nothing further.

Estella did not believe he had come here for anything so simple. Why would he want to share a bed with her? Still, whatever his intentions, he kept a respectable distance... for now.

The fire popped in the grate, flinging long, restless shadows across the ceiling. Firelight moved differently from daylight: warmer, unsteady, catching gold along the edge of the blanket and the sharp line of his jaw where he lay beside her, then retreating as the flame guttered low. It was the only warm thing in the chamber, the only part of it that did not seem to belong to the cold outside. Estella found herself watching it instead of him, if only because it was far easier to look at than his face.

Disgust won against her tolerance eventually. She shoved herself toward the far edge of the mattress, putting as much distance between them as the bed allowed, her expression twisted with it.

“Move as far as you like.” His voice was low and mocking. “Doors, walls, the whole width of this bed, none of them will carry you beyond my reach.”

“You say that as though I should be afraid.” she said, scoffing with her eyes narrowed.

“Are you?”

“Should I?” Estella shot back.

Adrian said nothing more, and neither did she.

She let the silence settle, and behind that silence she allowed her imagination to go wild... And bloody.

Adrian Lykas on his knees, no longer sprawled across his own bed as though he owned the very air around him, no longer wearing that arrogant, supercilious expression on his face... His voice finally breaking as hers had broken in the snow, begging her for his life, begging for mercy. A mercy she had no intention of granting. She pictured his composure, that infuriating stillness he wore like armor, cracking apart beneath her hands instead of the other way around. The image warmed her more than the fire did.

'Soon... It will come to pass soon. I just need to be patient.'

It was a small comfort. She took it anyway. There wasn't much else on offer.

Estella fought to stay awake. She kept her eyes open to watch him, to see whether he was scheming, and perhaps, if she was patient enough to wait until he slept...

However, her body had other plans. The same dragging weariness that had plagued her for months settled over her before an hour had passed, drawing her eyes shut no matter how hard she fought it. She hated that her body would fail her now, at a moment that mattered. In the end, her willpower gave way, and sleep took her.

Adrian watched her go. In the dying firelight he studied her face, his own expression empty. After a while, he closed his own eyes and let himself drift into a deep slumber.

———————

Estella woke sometime past midnight in near-total darkness. The fire had burned down to a bed of embers and the room had gone cold and still around her, though her werewolf eyes could still make out every shape in the dark. For a moment she lay disoriented, unsure how long she had slept. Then her ears caught the sound of someone breathing beside her.

She did not move at first. She only listened to Adrian's breath, deep and even, the unmistakable rhythm of a man asleep. But Estella was not so easily convinced. She turned her head slowly, wary of even that small motion. He lay on his back, both hands resting on his toned midriff. She watched him for a long moment, searching for any sign of pretense, and after several minutes she found not a trace of one. Adrian was truly asleep, wholly unguarded, a sight she had never once seen before.

Her heartbeat quickened. This was her chance, and perhaps the only one she would ever get.

She eased herself upright inch by careful inch, mindful of the mattress shifting beneath her. A part of her regretted having shoved herself to the far edge of the bed, since it left more distance to cross, but that did not matter now. Her golden eyes glowed, like a fox in the winter that had finally sighted its prey. She held her breath and crossed the gap, every nerve in her body screaming at her to hurry.

Soon, she was within striking range, and her shadow stretched over his.

Even in the dark she could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, the open line of his throat, the Adam's throat glistened faintly under the light with each breath, utterly undefended. Her gaze climbed higher, and for the first time she saw Adrian's face up close while she wasn't in battle with him. She could not deny this man's beauty. He was handsome, exceedingly so. His silver-gray hair, brows like drawn blades, lashes pale and enchanting, a jawline that might have been carved by a sculptor with great finesse. His lips, too, were lush enough to give any woman pause.

Any woman, that is, but Estella Montharne. She was impervious to such things.

It was a pity he had to die tonight.

Her fingertips sharpened into claws, each point catching a cold, lethal gleam, their tips gleaming with a cold, lethal light. She had imagined a dozen ways to end this man's life since the day they first met, and now the moment had come. There was no hesitation at the thought of taking a life, for she had already taken countless of them. Nothing remained but the cold, absolute purpose of a killer.

She raised her hand above him, her claws catching the last dull glow of the hearth.

And she struck.