Chapter Four

Three days had passed since the double burial of the Veyr royals. Beyond the estate gates, reporters crowded together, desperate for answers about the brutal assassination—and the sudden crowning of the new head of the Veyr empire.

Across the territory, one question hung in the air.

What would Killian Veyr do?

Everyone knew the answer would come with blood.

“My Lord, Magnus Solis has sent another spokesperson,” Ciel said, stepping quietly into the hallway.

Killian’s expression darkened.

The old crow bastard had already sent three spokespersons. Every one of them had delivered the same message: the Crows denied any involvement in the ambush, claimed they had been framed, and demanded the immediate release of their captured prince.  

He turned to Ciel, his second-in-command. A cold edge flashed in his eyes.

“Send this one back as ashes too. Tell Magnus my answer hasn’t changed.”

Ciel bowed. “Yes, my Lord.”

He turned and walked away.

Killian pushed open the oak doors of the private lounge. The room was dark and smelled faintly of leather and smoke.

“Shouldn’t you be a little less miserable?” Draven called from the couch, leaning back with an irritating grin. “Your engagement party with Kenna is tonight, after all.”

To secure his new crown, Killian needed a mate—and an heir—fast.

Kenna was the perfect political choice. Beautiful, wealthy, adored by the public, and the late queen’s sister. Marrying her would strengthen his claim and silence the old lords who still whispered that he didn’t belong on the throne as the son of their father's mistress and half-brother to Venris.

But every time Killian thought about marking her, something inside him recoiled.

It wasn’t that Kenna wasn’t beautiful. She was.

She simply wasn’t his.

For years, he had buried the ridiculous hope of finding a true mate. The chances were almost nonexistent, only one in a thousand for dragons found their fated mates. Still, somewhere beneath all the blood, power, and duty, he had wanted one.

Someone who would look at him and know him.

Someone whose scent would make the beast inside him go quiet.

Someone whose mark would feel like it belonged in his scales.

He wanted children born from that bond—not some political heir produced to secure his crown.

But those were dreams.

Dreams that had died with his brother.

Now he would marry Kenna, produce an heir, and pretend the hollow place inside him didn’t exist.

“The problem is Magnus and his pathetic bird of a son,” Killian growled.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and struck a silver lighter. The flame illuminated the fury in his eyes before disappearing behind a cloud of smoke.

“They start a fucking war, slaughter my family, and now they want to sit down and negotiate?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Draven drawled. “To use the pawn to pull their strings?”

Killian slowly turned his head and a humorless smile touched his lips.

“No. I don’t want to negotiate with the Solis.”

He wanted revenge.

Not peace. Not an apology.

He wanted the Solis bloodline to become a warning whispered to children.

He wanted Magnus to watch everything he loved crumble before him. His family. His name. His empire.

Killian wanted Magnus to choose which son would die first. 

Their ash scattered on Venris and his mate's grave would be the only true apology. 

He took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes turning cold.

“No,” he repeated. “I don’t want their pawn to control them. I want their pawn to make their  destruction sweeter.”

“Everyone is watching to see how you handle this, cousin,” Draven said, “So what are you going to do with our little Crow prisoner downstairs?”

Killian’s eyes hardened. “What do you think? I’ll send his head back to his father in a box before the week is over.”

“Such a waste,” Draven sighed. “I hear the prince is exquisite. Delicate. Beautiful. Pure Crow royalty.” He chuckled. “Men would pay a fortune for someone like that in my club. Hell, I’d keep him myself. Put him on a leash and—”

“Enough.”

Something dark had twisted inside Killian’s chest.

He had never wanted men. Never even looked twice at one. The thought of touching another man had always disgusted him.

Yet, against his will, an image surfaced.

Raven-black hair.

Pale skin marked with bruises.

Those frightened blue eyes staring up at him from the cold stone floor.

Killian’s fingers tightened around his cigarette, he crushed the image immediately. He distasted males, and a crow was even worse. 

Filthy. Poisonous. Treacherous.

“You wouldn’t mind giving him to me, would you?” Draven asked, clearly enjoying himself. “I could put him to good use.”

Killian’s jaw clenched. “He’s my pawn to break. Not yours to touch.”

Draven’s grin didn’t ease, “Just be careful. You know what they say about that holy relic bloodline. They are supposed to be masters of dark seduction.” His eyes gleamed with amusement. “One look into those sad little eyes, and you might find yourself caught in his web.”

Killian gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Seduce me?” He looked genuinely repulsed. “That pathetic little Crow?”

The very idea made his stomach turn.

He could barely stand the sight of the creature. The thought of those pale hands touching him, those blue eyes looking at him with anything other than fear was sickening.

“I’d sooner cut off my own cock and throw it into a fire than let a Crow touch me.”

Draven burst out laughing.“I’m only warning you. Though, speaking of that bird…”He paused. “I heard he’s… different.”

"Different?"

"They say he can get pregnant."

Killian’s eyes flared with dark interest, then he let out a harsh, barking laugh. "You've been spending too much time in your own clubs, Draven. You're losing your mind."

"I'm serious!" Draven insisted, "I used to have an insider who worked right under Magnus years ago. He told me Magnus sent his boy away because of that. They say he bears some kind of sacred rose mark. Isn't that bloody fascinating? A male vessel that can actually carry a child?”

Killian didn’t buy it for a second. A male getting pregnant? The thought was absurd.

"If any of that ridiculous fairytale were true," Killian mused, "why hasn't Magnus agreed to my terms and begged for his precious 'sacred rose' back?"

"Well, you asked him to send the head of his older son and surrender every Solis shipping port," Draven pointed out, "That's telling him to carry out his own death sentence,” 

Before Killian could reply, a firm knock sounded at the double doors.

Ciel walked inside, bowing slightly as he held out an encrypted phone. "Magnus Solis is on the line."

Killian snatched the device, pressing it to his ear.

"You sent all my envoys back dead," Magnus’s aged voice echoed through the speaker.

"I gave you my conditions," Killian said coldly.

"What kind of insane condition is that?!" Magnus snapped back. "What the hell do you want? I told you our family had no hand in your brother's death! Your demands are delusional!"

The old man's blatant denial made the fire in Killian's blood burn hotter. "I take it the black rose means nothing to you, then? Tell me, Magnus... is he less important to you than your other son?"

Silence stretched over the line. Killian smirked, feeling Magnus’ fury.

"I’m not a patient man, but I’ve been generous," He murmured. "He’s down here rotting in my dungeon, begging for his father to save him. Surely you wouldn't be so cruel to your own flesh and blood?"

"Do whatever the fuck you want with him!" Magnus spat, his tone suddenly cold and detached. "I don’t care!"

Killian’s smirk faltered slightly. Was the old bastard acting tough? Playing apathy was a classic mob tactic to make the captor think the hostage had no leverage, hoping to force a lower ransom.

"I also heard an interesting piece of gossip," Killian added, "That this little relic of yours is rather special... fertile, even?"

A long beat passed. When Magnus spoke again, his voice was no longer detached—it was trembling with raw rage. "Can you hear yourself? A male getting pregnant? Don’t start a full-scale war because someone set my family up. If anything happens to Rosen, my house will burn your territory to the ground!"

Rosen. What kind of soft, delicate name was that for a Crow?

Killian ended the call, squeezing his fist, and heat erupted from his palm, incinerating the phone into a puddle of slag that dripped onto the carpet.

How long would Magnus apathy last when he started torturing his pretty prince?