Chapter 4: The Mate He Cannot Feel

“Lyra, put your head down!” Mara hissed.

Lyra could not. Her eyes were locked on the King. Her whole body burned.

Kael Draven was exactly as Ember had described. Six foot four. Black coat. Dark hair falling over a pale, hard face. A jaw sharp enough to cut paper.

And his eyes. Silver. Cold. Searching.

They swept across the courtyard like a blade, passing over hundreds of bowed heads.

They passed over her.

Wait, Lyra thought. Wait, look back.

They did not stop.

What? said Ember, stunned. He did not feel it?

Feel what?

The bond! It is screaming inside me! It should be screaming inside him!

Lyra stared as the King walked past, five feet from her, close enough to smell pine and cold rain. His shoulder brushed the air beside her.

Nothing. Not a flicker.

Fated mates, said Ember slowly, are supposed to know each other at once. Instantly. Like lightning. But I have been locked away so long that my scent is buried under his. He is feeling something. He cannot find where it comes from.

So he is my fated mate, Lyra said, and he does not know.

Yes.

And I do.

Yes.

That is the most inconvenient thing I have ever heard.

Welcome to magic, said Ember.

Brannock scurried forward, bowing so low his beard swept the stones. “Your Majesty! Silverfang is honored beyond words! Please, come inside! We have prepared a feast!”

“Later,” said Kael.

Brannock stopped. “Later, Your Majesty?”

“I want to walk the grounds first.” Kael’s voice was calm and flat. His eyes kept moving. “Something is wrong with the air here.”

Wrong? thought Lyra. Is that what he calls it?

He feels the pull, said Ember. He does not understand it.

Celeste glided down the steps. Her silver dress shone. She placed a delicate hand on the King’s arm.

“Your Majesty, I would love to show you the gardens. My father says you are very particular.”

Kael looked at her hand. Then at her face.

“No,” he said.

Celeste’s smile cracked at the edge. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said no.” He lifted her hand off his sleeve, gently, the way you lift a fallen leaf. “You are not what I am looking for.”

A wave of whispers rolled through the crowd. Celeste’s face went white, then pink. Behind her, two girls snickered.

Mara dug her nails into Lyra’s arm. “He just rejected Celeste in front of everyone,” she breathed. “I think I love him.”

“Don’t,” said Lyra. “He is a king. Kings are trouble.”

“You are looking at him like he is a cake.”

“I am looking at him like he is a problem.”

Kael turned away from Celeste. He began to walk down the line of kneeling servants.

Lyra’s heart pounded. She kept her eyes down. Her cheeks were burning.

Do not look. Do not look. Do not—

His boots stopped.

The King was standing in front of Mara. Mara made a noise like a startled mouse.

His boots moved again. They stopped in front of the next girl. Then the next. He was looking at every servant, every maid, every omega, searching their faces one by one.

Then he reached Lyra.

Here, said Ember. Here here here.

Lyra stared at his boots. They were polished black leather with tiny silver buckles. They were a perfect, expensive color. She wondered what they cost. She did not look up.

Kael did not move.

The silence stretched until Lyra thought the whole world was holding its breath.

“You,” he said, very quietly.

Her blood turned to ice.

“Look at me.”

She slowly raised her head.

His silver eyes met hers. Time stopped. For one wild second, she saw something move behind them, fierce and golden, like a lantern being lit.

He feels it, whispered Ember. He feels it!

Then it was gone. The King blinked. His brow furrowed.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“L-Lyra, Your Majesty.”

“Are you a wolf?”

The question hit like a slap. All around them, the pack held its breath.

Lyra lifted her chin. “No.”

“Then why do you smell of…” He stopped. Frowned. His nostrils flared. “No. It is nothing. Forgive me.”

He stepped away. He walked on down the line.

Lyra sat on her heels, trembling, with her ears ringing.

He almost knew, said Ember. He almost knew.

Almost is not enough.

Be patient. The bond will grow. Every time he gets close—

I am not interested in waiting, Ember. I want a plan.

What kind of plan?

The kind where I make a king fall in love with a woman he does not even know exists. Lyra smiled grimly. Do you know how many hostile mergers I closed on less?

Ember groaned.

That night, the great hall blazed with candles. Long tables groaned under roast birds and sweet pies. Warriors sang. Wine flowed.

Lyra carried trays. She kept her head low and her ears sharp. She noticed everything.

Kael sat in the seat of honor. He did not eat. He did not drink. He watched the room with those silver eyes like a man hunting a ghost.

Celeste sat at his right. She had recovered quickly. She was smiling brightly, speaking in a sweet, bell-like voice about harps and gardens and moonlight. Kael answered in single words.

“Your Majesty,” Celeste said at last. “You seem restless. May I ask what you are looking for?”

“A scent,” said Kael.

“A scent?”

“Something I felt this afternoon.” He rubbed his chest, as if it ached. “A pull. It started in the courtyard. It has not stopped since.”

Lyra froze with a pitcher in her hands.

Across the hall, Brannock sat up straight. Torin, the King’s Beta, leaned forward. Every wolf within earshot went silent.

Celeste’s eyes widened.

Then they gleamed.

Lyra saw it happen. She watched a girl realize that a king had just described a fated bond to a room full of strangers, and that none of them knew whom it belonged to.

Celeste put a hand to her heart. Her voice trembled, sweet as honey.

“Your Majesty,” she whispered. “It is me. I felt it too.”

Silence.

Kael turned slowly and studied her face. Lyra’s pitcher began to slip. She caught it at the last second.

“You felt it,” Kael said.

“Since this afternoon.” Celeste’s eyes brimmed. “I did not want to say so in public. But it is true. I am yours.”

No, Ember snarled. No. NO. She is lying.

Lyra’s knuckles turned white on the handle.

Kael looked at Celeste for a long, terrible moment. Then he said, in a voice no one in the room could read, “Perhaps.”