The broken flower

The past few decades, Selene has tried so desperately to ensnare my attention, weaving schemes with the patience of a spider.

But fortunately, my wolf had no intentions of wanting to lay with her again, not after what she did. The memory of it still curdles my blood, a cold fury that even sixty-three years hasn’t thawed. She tried to forcefully conceive my child by drugging me with vervain during what I had foolishly believed was a moment of short pleasure.

A calculated, desperate ploy to bind me to her forever. Fortunately, the poison only affected most of my vampire side, leaving the wolf in me lucid, disgusted, and utterly repulsed.

“Get off my table, Selene, and cover up yourself.”

My voice is a blade of ice, but it might as well be a dull spoon for all the effect it has. She remains in her provocative position, though the practiced, seductive smile on her face falters, cracking the mask of confidence she always wears. A heavy sigh escapes me, a sound that carries the weight of decades of irritation.

I rise from my chair, the scrape of wood against stone a punctuation to my displeasure. I reach for a couch spread, a thick, royal purple throw and drape it over her exposed body, the gesture not one of care but of erasure, covering a sight I find as appealing as rot.

“You still have not forgiven me,” she stated, her voice a fragile whisper that was meant to inspire guilt. Her eyes remain downcast, but the tremor in her voice is a performance I’ve seen a thousand times. It’s not sorrow; it’s the frustration of a predator whose trap failed to spring.

I don’t grant her a single word of acknowledgment. I simply make my way to the heavy oak door, my boots echoing on the marble floor. I open it without bothering to look back, the finality of the slam a more eloquent goodbye than anything I could say.

“Why don’t we just send her back home? You just keep her here like a wall decoration. A dusty, unwanted, conniving wall decoration.” Lupus growls within my mind, his wolfish impatience a hot spark against my consciousness. I can feel him pacing in the cage of my soul, hackles raised, wanting to expel the intruder from our territory.

“Well, I could have,” I mind-link back, the mental pathway a cool stream connecting our thoughts. “A public dismissal would shame her family, a slight that would echo through the courts for centuries. For the sake of her family’s name and pride, that’s the only reason I’ve not sent her away yet. Her father was a loyal ally. The insult would spark a political wildfire.”

“She’s getting too bold. Your forbearance only emboldens her sick fantasies,” Draven, my ancient and cynical vampire half, adds with a tone of cold logic.

“A proper introduction to Aylin might suffice. The scent of a true mate bond is a territorial declaration no vampire would dare challenge. It would be a bloodless declaration of war on her ambitions.” I agree. Vampires, with all their intricate laws of blood and covenant, dare not go after mated ones. The bond is sacred, a line etched by fate itself.

I turn the corridor, my steps quickening with a pull that has nothing to do with direction and everything to do with destiny.

The air itself seems to change, growing warmer, sweeter, leading me to Aylin’s… no, Ivory’s room.

I enter silently, the tension in my shoulders immediately beginning to dissolve. She’s still sleeping, the rise and fall of her chest almost enchanting, a rhythm more potent than any magic. The soft morning light filters through the sheer curtains, gilding her in an ethereal glow.

She’s perfect. Not just in the symmetry of her features, but in the quiet, resilient energy that clings to her even in sleep. She’s like a delicate flower that has grown through a crack in stone, a wounded, delicate flower that has known nothing but harsh conditions yet still found the will to bloom. The primal, protective instincts of both wolf and vampire roar to life within me, a silent vow to be the sun and soil she was always denied.

I move with a predator’s silence, settling into the velvet-lined chair close to her bed. I take in every inch of her, from the tiny scar near her brow to the way her fingers twitch, dreaming.

I long to touch her, to confirm this isn’t a cruel dream. Slowly, cautiously, I push back a stray strand of her hair, a silken thread of midnight, and she immediately reacts. Her eyes flutter open, and in their depths, I see a whole history of fear and survival.

IVORY’S POV

My eyes snap open, and the world is all wrong. Instead of the damp, familiar stone of my quarters, I see an ornate ceiling of painted frescoes and chiseled gold. Instead of the smell of mold, there’s the scent of spices and clean linen. And instead of safety, there’s him.

My heart seizes, a rabbit kicking against my ribs, as I see the King’s hand hover just above my head, frozen in a gentle act I don’t comprehend.

A sharp gasp tears from my throat, and I flinch violently, a reflex honed by years of pain, sinking further into the impossibly soft mattress as if it might swallow me whole. My body tenses, bracing for the blow that must follow such a transgression, even his.

“Oh… uh.” The King of the supernatural world stutters, his immense form retreating.

He snatches his hand back as if burned, letting it fall clumsily onto his lap. The sight is so jarring, so utterly out of place with the monster I’ve heard about in whispered stories, that my mind simply blanks.

“How do you feel?” he asks, his deep voice uncharacteristically rushed. “Do you need the doctor? I should get you food.” He stands abruptly, his chair legs making a soft sound on the rug as he heads for the door, his regal composure replaced with a flustered scramble.

A sliver of instinct, not courage, but a desperate need to understand my fate—overrides my terror.

“Wait… your majesty.” The address tastes like ash and protocol on my tongue. He immediately halts, spinning around to face me with a speed that is pure vampire, yet on his face is not anger, but a wide, hopeful smile that looks almost… unpracticed. It’s the smile of a man who has been given an unexpected gift.

“Why am I h… here?”

My voice drops to a near-inaudible whisper, far lower than I intended, my throat still raw. His dark eyebrows furrow in genuine confusion, as if I’ve just asked the most profoundly stupid question he’s ever heard.

He looks at me not like a king appraising a broken servant, but like a man wounded by a simple question.

“Because you’re important to me.” His voice held a fragile, quiet sadness that resonated deep in my chest, but I quickly dismissed it. I had to be mishearing things. It’s a trick, a game.

There is no world, no reality, where a Lycan-Vampire King pities a cursed, packless omega like me. I am nothing. Less than nothing. I am a cautionary tale.