Chapter 16

Jace Corowa

The curved surgical needle punched through the thick edge of my palm with a wet, biting crunch.

I didn't flinch. I sat on the edge of the narrow iron cot in my private quarters, staring blankly at the stone wall as I pulled the heavy black thread tight. Fresh blood instantly welled up, spilling over the fresh stitch to run down my wrist, but I ignored it. I tied off the knot with my teeth, cut the excess thread with my hunting knife, and reached for the bottle of harsh medicinal alcohol sitting on the crate beside me.

I poured it directly over the jagged, three-inch gash bisecting my right hand.

The chemical burn was blinding, a searing white hot agony that finally managed to cut through the deafening roar of my own pulse. I dropped the empty bottle. I leaned my elbows on my knees, burying my face in my good hand, and dragged in a ragged, shuddering breath.

I was losing my mind.

I was the Commander of the Imperial Guard. I had spent twelve brutal years clawing my way out of the subjugated Outback territories, bleeding on every continent this empire owned, burying my own humanity just to survive the political slaughterhouse of the capital. I didn't make mistakes. I didn't act on impulse.

Grabbing the Crown Prince’s broadsword by the naked blade in front of thirty armed guards wasn't just a mistake. It was a death sentence.

It was protocol, I told myself, staring at the blood dripping onto the toes of my heavy leather boots. Callan was out of control. A sovereign cannot butcher his own brother in the training ring. The empire would destabilize. It was a tactical intervention.

It was a pathetic, desperate lie.

I hadn't vaulted that iron railing for the stability of the empire. I hadn't intercepted that steel to protect the Sovereign bloodline.

I did it because Callan had cut her cheek.

I did it because the exact second the sharp, undeniable scent of wild honey and rain hit the stagnant air of the training yard, my entire biological framework violently short circuited. I didn't see the Second Prince kneeling in the red dirt. I saw an Omega bleeding. I saw a predator standing over something that belonged to me.

My jaw locked so hard my teeth ached.

Callan had seen it. I had masked my expression behind years of military discipline, but in that single, agonizing second when I refused to let go of his sword, the Crown Prince had looked into my eyes and recognized the raw, homicidal Alpha territoriality burning in my chest. He knew I was compromised.

A faint, scraping sound on the stone outside my door ripped me out of my thoughts.

My head snapped up. I reached for the hunting knife resting on the crate, my grip instantly slick with fresh blood from my torn palm.

The heavy iron latch of my door slowly lifted. The hinges didn't creak someone had oiled them from the outside. The heavy oak swung open just wide enough for a slender, cloaked figure to slip inside before shutting it completely, dropping the internal deadbolt with a soft, final click.

She stood with her back pressed against the heavy wood, the hood of her dark cloak pulled low.

"You shouldn't be here." My voice was a harsh, unrecognizable rasp that scraped like sandpaper against the quiet room.

Elouera reached up with trembling fingers and pushed the hood back.

My chest tightened so violently I couldn't draw a breath. She looked entirely wrecked. The red ironstone dust from the sparring ring was still caked into the knees of her breeches. Her face was deathly pale, making the dark, bruised circles under her eyes look like hollows. But it was the cut on her cheek that made the ozone in the room spike dangerously a harsh, jagged line of clotted blood standing out vividly against her porcelain skin.

"You are going to be executed," she whispered. Her voice was shaking, entirely stripped of the arrogant, mocking tone she used to play Prince Elian.

"That is my concern," I said coldly, standing up. I was a foot and a half taller than her, my broad shoulders completely blocking the dim light of the single oil lantern on the wall. I needed to scare her away. I needed to put distance between us before the failing suppressants in her blood dragged both of us under. "If the guards find you in my quarters after what happened today, they won't even wait for a tribunal. They will hang you from the North Tower."

"I don't care," she choked out.

She pushed away from the door and closed the distance between us in three frantic steps. I braced myself to push her back, to enforce the physical boundary my mind was desperately screaming for, but she didn't attack.

She reached out and grabbed my right wrist.

Her fingers were freezing. The contrast of her small, delicate hands against the thick, blood-soaked leather of my bracer was staggering. I froze entirely, every muscle in my body locking down as she gently turned my hand over, exposing the jagged, bleeding mess of my palm.

"You did this yourself," she breathed, staring at the uneven black stitches. Her thumb lightly brushed the undamaged skin of my wrist.

A violent, electric shock shot straight up my arm, settling like a heavy weight low in my stomach. The bitter, chemical scent of her suppressants was completely losing the war against her natural biology. In the enclosed space of my quarters, the scent of wild honey was so thick it was intoxicating.

"Let go of me, Elian," I warned, my voice dropping an octave, slipping entirely out of my control.

"Stop calling me that," she snapped, looking up. Her eyes were completely unguarded, swimming with a frantic, desperate guilt. "You ruined your hand for me. You threw away your command, your cover, your entire life... for a sparring match."

"I did what was necessary."

"You grabbed a broadsword with your bare hand!" she cried, stepping closer. The front of her cloak fell open, revealing the torn silk shirt and the heavy, restrictive linen bindings cutting brutally into her ribs. "Why, Jace? Why did you do it?"

I stared down at her. I could see the rapid, erratic flutter of her pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat. I could feel the blistering heat radiating off her skin, the fever of her suppressed heat fighting to break free. My Alpha instincts were clawing at the inside of my skull, demanding that I take her, that I claim her right here on the stone floor and tear the throat out of any man who tried to take her away.

I slowly pulled my hand out of her grip.

"Because I am tired of watching them hurt you," I confessed, the brutal, unvarnished truth finally bleeding out of me.

She stopped breathing. Her lips parted, her eyes widening as the space between us charged with a heavy, suffocating static. She didn't step back. She stayed anchored in my space, her gaze dropping to my mouth.

The absolute, terrifying realization hit me. She wasn't just reacting to my pheromones. She was feeling the exact same gravitational pull. The slow, agonizing burn that had been quietly torturing me for months was entirely mutual.

I raised my uninjured hand. I didn't care about the risk anymore. I didn't care about the Crown Prince or the rebellion. I traced the rough pad of my thumb directly over the uninjured side of her jaw, my fingers sliding into the heavy, dark silk of her hair at the nape of her neck.

She let out a soft, broken sound, leaning her entire weight into my palm.

I leaned down, the scent of her driving me completely blind. My lips were a fraction of an inch from hers. I could feel her ragged breath ghosting across my mouth.

The deafening, metallic pounding on the heavy iron reinforced door behind her shattered the silence like a mortar shell.

We both jumped apart, my hand dropping to the hilt of my knife instantly.

"Commander Corowa!" a harsh, barking voice yelled through the heavy oak. It was General Vane. The most loyal attack dog the Empress owned. "By order of Her Imperial Majesty, open this door immediately!"

Elouera’s eyes blew wide with pure terror. She spun toward the door, then back to me, her chest heaving against her broken ribs.

There were no windows. There were no hidden exits. My quarters were a solid stone box.

"Stand down and present yourself for arrest," Vane shouted, the heavy rattling of iron manacles echoing through the wood. "If you do not open the door on a count of three, we will breach the hinges."

"One."

I looked at Elouera. Her hands were covering her mouth, the stark reality of the execution block written entirely across her face.

"Two."