Chapter 4

Elouera's POV 

Jace’s footsteps faded down the corridor, but the phantom pressure of his gloved fingers on my broken rib remained. I stood frozen against the stone wall, my lungs burning as I fought to draw a full breath through the tight linen bindings.

He knows I’m faking.

The realization was a block of ice in my stomach. Commander Corowa didn't know the whole truth; he couldn't possibly know I was an Omega, or a woman but he knew the weak, pathetic Prince Elian was a carefully constructed lie. If he exposed me to the court, the Empress would have me executed for treason before the sun set.

I had to get back to my chambers. I had to swallow another dose of the suppressants, no matter how much they made me vomit, and figure out how to neutralize the Commander.

I pushed off the wall, wrapping my arms tight around my waist. The pain in my side was a sharp, jagged hook pulling me down, but I forced my legs to move. I bypassed the grand stairwell, opting instead for the servants' corridors narrow, drafty stone halls that smelled of lye and damp earth.

I turned the corner toward the gallery arches.

The scent hit me first. Thick. Intoxicating. Suffocating.

Crushed cedar and woodsmoke.

My boots skidded to a halt on the flagstones. It was an Alpha’s pheromone drop, heavy and intentional, designed to force submission from anyone with a weaker biology. The air grew immediately dense, pressing against my throat like a physical hand.

Leaning casually against the center archway, blocking my only exit, was Duke Stirling Vance.

He looked like something out of a heroic painting, sun-bleached bronze hair falling effortlessly over a ruggedly aristocratic face, a smirk permanently etched into the corner of his mouth. He wore a deep blue velvet doublet, completely unbuttoned at the top to expose the tanned, muscular curve of his throat. He looked relaxed. Bored, even.

But his eyes striking, predatory green were pinned right on me.

"Going somewhere, little prince?" Stirling drawled, his voice a smooth, mocking purr that bounced off the stone walls.

I immediately rounded my shoulders, dropping my gaze to his expensive leather boots. I began to tremble, letting my breathing hitch into short, panicked gasps. I had survived in this court by being nothing, by being a joke. I had to maintain the illusion.

"Duke Vance," I stuttered, my voice cracking perfectly. "I was just returning to my quarters."

Stirling pushed off the archway with a lazy grace that belonged to a much deadlier man. He didn't walk toward me; he sauntered. Every step he took pushed another wave of that heavy cedar and smoke against my skin. My suppressed Omega biology clawed at the inside of my chest, a desperate, humiliating instinct screaming at me to bare my neck, to submit to the dominant male in the room.

I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, using the sharp pain to anchor my mind.

"You left the war room in an awful hurry," Stirling noted, coming to a halt just two feet in front of me. "It was quite a pathetic display. You looked like you were going to wet yourself when my uncle raised his voice. I think the royal hunting hounds have better posture when they’re begging for scraps."

"I was not feeling well," I whispered, taking a deliberate, clumsy step backward.

My back hit the cold stone wall. I was trapped.

Stirling chuckled, a low, cruel sound that vibrated right through my bones. He stepped fully into my space. He was so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, smell the faint trace of expensive wine on his breath beneath the overwhelming Alpha pheromones. He raised his arms, planting both hands flat against the stone wall on either side of my head, caging me in.

The panic I projected was an act, but the claustrophobia was entirely real. My fractured rib screamed in protest as I pressed myself flat against the wall, trying to shrink away from him.

"You're never feeling well, Elian," Stirling mocked, leaning down so his face was inches from mine. "You're always flinching. Always hiding. Tell me, does it exhaust you? Pretending to be a man when we all know you’re nothing but a spineless little mistake?"

He enjoyed this. He hated the Empress for using him as a political pawn, plotting to marry him off to solidify her military power. And since he couldn't strike at the Empress, he took his humiliation out on her "useless" son.

I squeezed my eyes shut, letting my chin tremble. "Please, Stirling. Let me pass."

"Open your eyes," he commanded.

The Alpha compulsion in his voice wasn't a suggestion; it was a biological order laced with pure dominance. My eyes snapped open against my will. My heart hammered violently against my ribs.

Stirling's mocking smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. His green eyes searched mine, dipping down to my lips, which were bruised and bleeding from where I had bitten them. The heavy scent of cedar in the air suddenly spiked with something darker, something strangely heated.

The slow burn of the suppressant failure was rising in my blood again. The fever was coming back, stoked by the sheer terror and adrenaline of the last hour. I could feel the flush creeping up my neck, heating my cheeks.

"You're sweating," Stirling murmured. He didn't sound mocking anymore. He sounded completely disoriented.

Slowly, deliberately, he raised one hand from the wall. I flinched, turning my head away, fully expecting a backhand. Instead, the bare knuckles of his large hand brushed against my burning cheek.

The contact was like a spark hitting dry kindling. A violent, electric jolt ripped through my system. I gasped, my chest heaving against the tight linen bindings.

Stirling froze. His fingers lingered on my skin, burning hot against my fever. He didn't pull away. His breathing hitched, suddenly matching the frantic, shallow rhythm of my own. He leaned closer, his nose grazing my temple, taking a sharp, involuntary inhale of the air right against my skin.

My blood ran entirely cold. If he caught even a fraction of the wild honey and rain beneath the sweat and fear

"Why are you burning up, Elian?" Stirling whispered, his voice completely stripped of its usual arrogance, replaced by a ragged, dark tension.

His fingers slid down from my cheek, trailing heavily along my jawline to grip my chin. He forced my face up, making me look into his darkened, dilated eyes.

"And why," Stirling breathed, his thumb pressing dangerously against my racing pulse, "does your heart feel like it's trying to fight me, when your body is begging to submit?"