Chapter 22: Terms Written in Silver

The heavy iron doors clicked into place with a dry, final thud. The echo rattled against the frost-covered stained glass, then died entirely in the drafty expanse of the great hall.

The council leader’s footsteps faded down the stone corridor outside, leaving behind the smell of cold cedar and expensive printer ink.

The silence between Reymond and me felt thicker than the winter air pressing against the high arched windows.

"Power-transfer experiment," I said. My voice didn't shake. It was flat, hard, and devoid of any warmth. I turned slowly, every joint in my body stiff, and walked toward him.

Each step measured. Intentional. The distance across the hearth vanished in three breaths. I stopped so close I could smell the stale salt of dried blood on his tactical vest and the faint, bitter pine scent he always carried.

"My blood," I said, repeating the council's words as if testing them for weight. "Listed as the primary source."

I searched his silver eyes. They were shuttered, drawn tight behind an expressionless wall. He didn't look away, but he didn't offer a defence either.

"Seven years ago," I said, keeping my gaze locked on his. "When you found me bleeding in behind the estate. Was that the first extraction?"

Reymond didn't flinch. His jaw didn't even tighten. "Yes."

The simplicity of the answer hit harder than a physical blow. No hesitation. No stuttered denial. Just the flat architecture of truth.

"You told me I had a choice," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "Sign the contract or face my father. There was never a choice. You were always going to take me. The contract just made it legal."

"Natalia"

"Don't," I cut him off, raising a single finger. My hand stayed steady, though the skin over my forearm throbbed where the royal magic had split it hours earlier. "Don't give me the speech about how you had to do it for the syndicate. Don't tell me you carried the weight of the northern packs on your back. Tell me why you let me believe I ran away. Why let me spend seven years looking over my shoulder, thinking I was safe in some dingy diner in the lowlands, when you knew every drop I spilled was logged in a ledger down here?"

Reymond let out a slow, heavy breath. The dominance bled out of his posture, leaving behind something ragged and grey.

"My father was dying," Reymond said. His voice was stripped of its usual commanding gravel, reduced to a dry rasp. "The southern council was tightening the border roads. If the Smith Syndicate lost its apex standing, every pack from here to Geneva would have torn us apart for scraps. The scrolls in the sub-archives weren't legends, Natalia. They were blueprints. They said a royal Walker heir carried blood that could anchor an Alpha’s pulse permanently."

"So you hunted me."

"I tracked the signature," he corrected quietly, his eyes fixed on the silver ring on my finger. "When I found you behind that lodge, you were half-frozen. The extraction kit was in my coat. I didn't plan on bringing you back here. I planned on taking what the scrolls asked for and leaving you with enough blood to survive the night."

"And then?" I asked.

"And then I touched your wrist," he said, the words heavy and slow. "And the extraction needle stayed in my pocket. I brought you to the border road instead. I set you up with cash, a clean identity, and a standing order for my scouts to keep every southern bounty hunter fifty miles away from your door."

"How generous," I muttered. "You left me alive so I could be a free-range blood bank."

"No," Reymond said, and for the first time, a flicker of raw frustration crossed his face. "I left you alone because the moment I looked at you in that snow, the experiment stopped being an order from a dying man. I couldn't touch you again. Not like that. Not ever."

"That’s supposed to make me feel better?" I stepped closer, pressing my chest against the leather of his vest. "You lied to me every single day we’ve spent under this roof. Every time you told me I was safe here, you meant safe inside your cage."

Reymond opened his mouth to answer, but his shoulders suddenly hitched. A sharp, violent shiver rolled down his frame, a physical break in the iron discipline he always maintained.

He didn't argue. He didn't try to pull me closer or spin another justification.

Instead, he did something that completely dismantled the space between us, and dropped.

His knees hit the cold stone with a dull, heavy crack that echoed off the high rafters. He didn't fall as an Alpha yielding to a Queen in a formal ceremony. He fell like a man whose spine had finally snapped under the weight of his own architecture.

"Reymond"

"Every power surge I felt these past weeks," he confessed, his voice cracking as his forehead nearly touched the tips of my boots. "The strength, the accelerated healing after the courtyard fight... it came from you."

I froze.

"It's still coming from you," he murmured, his face pressed against the cold stone floor, his hands gripping the hem of my coat as if he were drowning. "I can feel it now. Like a current under my skin. It hums in my veins every time you walk into the room."

He slowly raised his head. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and blazing with a tortured, desperate hunger that had nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with ruin.

"And I can feel it draining you," he whispered.

The air in the great hall turned instantly cold. The roaring fire in the hearth seemed to shrink, casting long, jittery shadows across the stone floor.

My vision hitched. A sudden, sharp pain flared behind my eyes, as if a needle had been driven straight through my temples. My knees wobbled, the stone floor tilting beneath my boots. I swayed forward, catching myself against his shoulder.

A hot, metallic taste flooded the back of my throat. I raised a hand, pressing my fingers to my upper lip, and pulled them away.

A single, shocking trickle of silver-flecked blood escaped my nostril, catching the firelight before tracing a slow, bright path down to my lip.

Reymond stared at it, his face draining of every last trace of colour. The first physical cost of the parasitic bond had arrived.