Chapter 3: The Blood-Stained Treaty

"Don't move. Just sit there and look pretty."

Kaelor’s voice was a low vibration in the back of the armored SUV. His hand sat heavy on my thigh, fingers digging into the thin silk of the robes he forced me to wear. He wasn't looking at me. His eyes were glued to the rain-slicked streets of the neutral zone, but his grip was territorial.

"I’m a scholar, Kaelor. Not a mannequin," I muttered, trying to shift my leg.

His grip tightened. I could hear the leather of his glove creak. "Tonight, you’re whatever I say you are. The Ashclaw Clan thinks I’ve gone soft. I’m showing them I have enough to spare."

I looked out the window. Neon signs blurred into jagged streaks of red and blue. People called the "Goddess Virus" a curse from the heavens—the plague that had wiped out nearly every woman in the clans. But sitting this close to Kaelor, I could smell the truth. It wasn't a curse. It was the sharp, metallic tang of a lab-grown weapon. It was the same chemical scent clinging to Kaelor’s skin now, mixed with the bitterness of the drugs his own men were using to keep him sluggish.

I watched his reflection in the glass. He flinched when a motorcycle backfired three lanes over. His back never touched the seat; he stayed coiled like a spring, eyes darting to the rearview mirror every five seconds.

The Beast King was terrified.

He wasn’t scared of the other clans. He was scared of the monster inside him that he couldn't control. And I was the only one who knew his leash was fraying.

The SUV pulled up to a brutalist concrete building—the Ashclaw stronghold. Kaelor hauled me out by the arm, keeping me tucked against his side. The guards at the door didn't look at my face; they looked at the heavy collar around my neck and the way Kaelor’s thumb traced my jawline.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of wet fur and gunpowder. Voren Ashclaw sat at the head of a massive table, flanked by six enforcers. He was a lean, hungry-looking man with eyes like a vulture.

"Kaelor," Voren drawled, leaning back. "I heard you picked up a new pet. I didn't realize you’d started collecting Vaelis trash."

Kaelor’s chest surged. A low, wet growl started in the back of his throat—a sound no human should be able to make. The table groaned as he leaned his weight onto his palms. His eyes were shifting, the irises bleeding into a predatory, molten gold.

"Watch your tongue, Voren," Kaelor hissed. "Or I’ll rip it out and feed it to the strays."

Voren just laughed. He pointed a finger at me. "Why? For this? He’s a pretty distraction, Kaelor. But he makes the Dreadfang look like a joke. You’re bringing a doll to a war council. It's pathetic."

Kaelor’s chair flew backward, hitting the wall with a deafening crack. He lunged across the table, his hand clawing at the wood and leaving deep gouges in the polished surface. The Ashclaw guards leveled their rifles.

"Actually," I said, stepping forward. My voice cut through the tension like a blade. I didn't wait for permission. I didn't look like a slave. "I find it funny that the Ashclaw Clan focuses so much on 'distractions' when your own territory's shipment of raw suppressants was hijacked three nights ago."

Voren froze. The room went silent.

"What the f**k did you just say?" Voren snapped.

I adjusted my collar, leaning against the table with a bored expression. "The logistics were sloppy. Using the North Docks during a lunar cycle? That's amateur. But I guess when you’re busy counting another man's 'pets,' you lose track of your own inventory. It happens to people with... limited brain power."

Voren’s face turned a violent shade of purple. Kaelor stopped his growling. The gold in his eyes receded, replaced by a look of stunned, dark amusement. He looked at me as if he were seeing a weapon he’d forgotten he owned.

"The boy has a tongue," Kaelor purred. His hand settled on the back of my neck. This time, it wasn't a threat. It was a caress. "And he’s right. You’re slipping, Voren."

The air in the room changed. There was a sudden, heavy heat between Kaelor and me—a tether of shared secrets.

Crack.

The sound of the first sniper round shattered the high windows.

I didn't even see the shooter. I just felt Kaelor’s massive body slam into mine, throwing us both to the floor.

"Get down!" he roared.

Thwip.

A second bullet buried itself in Kaelor’s shoulder. He didn't scream. He just gritted his teeth, his blood hot and sticky as it sprayed across my face.

"Kaelor!"

"Stay behind me!" he barked. He pulled a handgun from his waistband and started barking lead back through the shattered window.

I looked toward the street. The shooters weren't wearing Ashclaw colors. They were wearing the charcoal tactical gear of the Navia Syndicate.

My father.

Don Malrec wasn't trying to rescue me. He was trying to erase me. I was the witness to his debts and the evidence of his weakness. He wanted me dead so I couldn't be used against him.

"Check your collar," Kaelor wheezed. His breath was coming in short, pained bursts.

I reached up, my fingers trembling as I felt the underside of the leather band. There it was. A small, hard lump the size of a grain of rice. A tracker.

"Oh, you motherf**ker," I whispered. My father had used me as a beacon. He’d sent me here to lead his hit squad straight to the Beast King’s throat.

Voren Ashclaw hadn't moved to help. He was standing in the corner with a cold, calculating smile. "Looks like your toy brought some friends, Kaelor. Maybe I should just let them finish the job."

"You b**tard," I spat. Voren knew. He’d played both sides, hoping the Syndicate would do his dirty work for him.

"Move! Now!" Kaelor grabbed me, using his own body as a shield as we sprinted for the exit.

The drive back was a blur of muzzle flashes and screaming tires. By the time we reached the safety of the Dreadfang manor, Kaelor was gray. His shirt was soaked through with blood. I dragged him into the master suite, ignoring the guards who tried to interfere. I shoved him down onto the massive bed.

"Sit. Don't move," I commanded.

I grabbed a medical kit. My hands moved with the clinical precision I’d practiced in secret for years. I cut away his shirt, my breath hitching at the wound. The bullet was lodged deep in the muscle.

"Why didn't you run?" Kaelor asked. His voice was a rasping shadow of itself. He watched me work, his amber eyes pinned to mine. "In the chaos... you could have disappeared."

"And go where?" I snapped, digging the forceps into the wound. He hissed, his fingers tearing the bedsheets. "Back to the father who used me as a suicide bomb? To a city that wants me in a cage?"

I pulled the bullet out. It dropped into the metal tray with a heavy clink.

"I have nowhere else," I whispered.

Kaelor reached out, his bloody hand cupping the back of my head. He pulled me down, his mouth crashing into mine. It wasn't a romantic kiss. It was a collision. It tasted of salt, iron, and desperation.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine. "You’re not a prince of Navia anymore, Aradaa. You’re mine. And we are going to burn your father’s world to the ground."

He reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a heavy, custom-made black handgun. He pressed the cold steel into my palm.

"No more silk robes," he growled. "Tomorrow, we start the hunt."

I gripped the gun. The weight of it felt right. The sickly scholar was gone.

"I’ll kill him myself," I said.