Chapter 2: Kiss Before Goodbye

Raenerys walked into the den with the quiet confidence of a predator entering its domain. Her black trench coat swept behind her like the wings of a dark angel, contrasting with the rich brown of her waistcoat and black shirt. Every detail of her attire—the gloves, the tailored trousers, the black boots with ornamental buckles—spoke of control, power, and precision.

Acheron stood by the door, arms crossed, his gaze locked on her. He watched her with undisguised admiration, a smirk playing at his lips. He had witnessed her transformation, from the vulnerable woman she once was to the imposing force she now exuded. The way she moved, like a storm ready to break—he was mesmerized. She wasn’t just stepping into their den; she was claiming it.

The room was thick with anticipation. Every eye was on her, and the silence was suffocating. She wasn’t just an outsider; she was a legend. Raenerys the Conqueror—her name sent ripples of fear and awe through every corner of the den. No one dared move, each waiting for the smallest misstep, as though their very lives hung in the balance. But they all knew better than to challenge her. Fear couldn’t stop her; uncertainty couldn’t touch her. Her thoughts were unreadable, her presence unmistakable.

As she approached the center of the room, their alpha spoke, his voice laced with a calm arrogance, but the undertone of wariness was unmistakable.

“We don’t remember inviting such an extraordinary guest to our place.”

Raenerys didn’t flinch. Her lips curled into a small, dangerous smile. “I’m fond of surprises. Watching the shock register on people’s faces is a hobby of mine. It’s always better when they don’t see it coming.”

Acheron smirked to himself, clearly entertained by Raenerys’ casual dominance. The show had only just begun, and he was enjoying every moment of it.

The alpha tilted his head, his eyes narrowing in appraisal. Tension thickened the air, a tangible force between him and Raenerys. Yet Acheron remained a silent observer, leaning against the doorframe, his expression unreadable.

Without warning, the alpha signaled to his wolves, ordering them to block her path. The movement was swift, but Raenerys didn’t flinch. She didn’t move an inch. Her stance was rooted in composure—unbothered, unmoved.

“Get her head,” the alpha commanded coldly. “She’ll make a beautiful decoration for the upcoming festival.”

For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy. The wolves rushed at her, eager to obey, but Raenerys didn't even acknowledge their approach. In an instant, one of them dropped to the ground—his head severed from his body in a flash.

The room stilled. No one had seen her move. Not a single step. Not a whisper of sound. A low intake of breath rippled through the gathered crowd. Even the alpha, for the first time, seemed rattled. His eyes narrowed, studying the woman before him, though his calm facade faltered.

Raenerys glanced at her bloodstained hand. Slowly, almost thoughtfully, she raised it to her face, tilting her head as she examined the crimson that coated her palm. A slow smile tugged at her lips, pure amusement flickering in her eyes.

This was her pleasure. Bloodshed. Terror. The kill. She thrived on it, and no one was going to stop her thirst. Not even this pack of wolves.

Her gaze lifted, sharp and dangerous, as she watched the chaos unfurl. Another wave of the alpha’s followers rushed toward her, but once again, they were no match. Raenerys moved with lethal grace, her body flowing over the fallen like a goddess of death, each step marking the end of another life. The blood that splattered across her form seemed to only enhance her power, as though it fueled her further.

Acheron’s gaze never wavered. He was entertained, yes, but he was also patient—content to let Raenerys dance her deadly dance. He wasn’t here to interfere. The moment the alpha tried to flee, however, Acheron moved swiftly, stepping in front of him, blocking his only escape.

The alpha’s face twisted in fear. He trembled, trying to step back, but Acheron’s stance was unyielding. The contrast between the alpha's desperation and Acheron's calm demeanor couldn’t have been starker. The alpha’s trembling hands were no match for the peaceful boredom that hung over Acheron like an impenetrable shield.

“Who are you? L-let me leave... please! Spare me!” the alpha stammered, his pride shattered as he dropped to his knees in front of Acheron.

Acheron’s impassive expression flickered, and then, like the first crack of thunder, a low, sinful chuckle escaped from his lips. His laughter, dark and satisfying, filled the room, causing a ripple of unease to sweep through the remnants of the pack.

He was entertained. The alpha’s fear, his trembling… it was all so delicious. But Acheron’s amusement was short-lived. The laughter faded as quickly as it came, replaced by a cold, calculating expression. Before the alpha could scramble to his feet, Acheron’s hand moved with inhuman speed, severing the alpha’s head from his body. The room fell into an eerie silence, save for the dripping of blood.

Acheron’s handsome face was streaked with crimson, but he didn’t seem to notice. The blood smelled like victory—sweet, intoxicating victory. His gaze shifted upward, as if to take in the sky. The night was thickening, the darkness creeping in.

And then, he sensed her—the woman he was waiting for.

Raenerys strode toward him, her movements light despite the blood staining her clothes, her face, her hands. She didn’t seem to care about the carnage around her. As she approached, their eyes met—silent communication passing between them. Acheron’s gaze roamed over her, but he didn’t flinch at the sight of her blood-soaked form. She did the same, assessing him, before stopping in front of him. They stood there, locked in their unspoken understanding.

Raenerys’s eyes flicked briefly to the lifeless alpha at Acheron’s feet before she leaned into him, her head resting gently against his chest. Acheron’s voice, calm as ever, broke the stillness.

“Can we go home now, my feisty wolf?” His words, devoid of emotion, seemed to carry the chill of the night air, brushing against Raenerys’s skin and making her shiver. She nodded silently, and together, they adjusted themselves, preparing to leave.

Their mission wasn’t to take down every pack in the east. This was just a taste—an example. A warning. An invitation. The rest would fall in line. Raenerys knew it. She was confident they would all join their cause.

They walked away, leaving the bloodied den behind them.

Raenerys’s voice, firm and final, broke the silence between them. “Only you will return to the West to keep an eye on the den. I will head straight North.”

Acheron gave her a side glance, his curiosity piqued, but he nodded in agreement. “What are you going to do when you see him again?”

Raenerys faltered for just a moment, caught off guard by the question. She looked up at the sky, her thoughts wandering to the men she once loved but now despised. The weight of the past threatened to surface, but she pushed it back down. Her eyes narrowed as she imagined what the reunion would be like. But no matter what, she wasn’t going back to that woman. Not anymore.

“I’ll probably refrain from wringing his neck. It takes a lot of self-control, but I will,” Raenerys said, her voice steady, though there was a flicker of something beneath the surface. She didn’t want to worry Acheron, to make him think she couldn’t handle the journey on her own. But deep down, she wasn’t so sure. She wasn’t sure about how she’d react when she faced Nevil again. If anyone needed to be surprised, it was him. Nevil Lancaster had no idea what was coming.

She glanced at Acheron, who remained silent, deep in thought as they neared the port. His movements were efficient, almost mechanical, as he pulled the anchor. She watched him, his face unreadable, his eyes opaque—like always. Those eyes, once so frightening to her, now seemed oddly familiar.

Raenerys couldn’t help but remember the first time she had met him. His eyes had haunted her with a chill she hadn’t understood then. Even now, they still unsettled her, but she was no longer afraid. Acheron’s presence was like a shadow—always there, never entirely seen, always elusive. He was a mystery, one that no matter how many months they’d worked together, she still hadn’t quite unraveled. He showed her only what he wanted her to see, just like he did with everyone else. Unlike Nevil, Acheron wasn’t someone you could control, and that made him dangerous in ways she couldn’t predict.

She didn’t even know why Acheron hated his own family, why he left the North to begin with. He never spoke of it. All she had was his silence, and in that silence was everything he didn’t want her to know.

Then Acheron spoke, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Nevil is tricky and manipulative. He wants everything to go the way he plans. He treats everyone like puppets—like they’re all just pieces on his board.” His voice was sure, and Raenerys felt a surge of respect for his certainty. He knew his brother, in a way that only someone who had lived with him could. Acheron wasn’t guessing; he was speaking from experience.

She watched him, her gaze sharp and focused. Her mind absorbed every word, every subtle change in his tone. Acheron turned his attention to her, his eyes flickering with something—was it regret? It was hard to tell, but Raenerys didn’t miss the fleeting moment of vulnerability.

In that instant, Acheron’s thoughts wandered, his mind drifting back to a time before all of this, before their complicated, bloodstained partnership. Acheron remembered a time when he saw Raenerys as a child, a time when he had been too caught up in his own world to really understand her. She had been Nevil’s friend, not his. Nevil had been the one who reached out, the one who befriended her.

What if… What if Acheron had been the one to approach her? What if they had met under different circumstances? If it had been him, not Nevil, who had been there for her when she was young, would things have turned out differently? Would Raenerys have been like this, standing before him now, bloodstained and full of cold fire?

Acheron almost laughed at himself for thinking about it. The past was gone, and so were the choices that came with it.

But it didn’t stop the question from lingering.

He’s not capable of loving anyone other than himself. Acheron is selfish—always has been. Raenerys knows it, and she doesn’t need to be told. To him, she’s just a means to an end, a bridge to get him what he wants. Nothing more. He’s worse than Nevil, and he’ll never have any romantic feelings for her. Acheron knows who he is. He’s a goal-driven man, obsessed with winning, with getting what he wants, no matter the cost. Failure and loss are not options for him.

“I know all of that, Acheron.” Raenerys shook her head, her voice steady but tinged with something that almost seemed like resignation. She reached out, a gesture that might have been seen as an attempt at comfort, but Acheron caught her wrist before her hand could make contact.

Raenerys blinked up at him, her gaze searching his face, trying to understand what he was doing. The shadows of night wrapped around them, with only the moon offering a sliver of light. The wind tousled Acheron’s hair, and his eyes—those inscrutable eyes—held something she couldn’t name. There was a strange intensity in the way he looked at her, but she didn’t mind. They were used to these moments, these fleeting exchanges of power, control, and need.

Acheron didn’t care for her the way a lover might. He treated her like a toy—something to use when it suited him. Likewise, Raenerys used him for warmth and comfort, for a fleeting sense of connection. It was all transactional.

“Don’t forget to come back to me, Raenerys,” he said, his voice low, strangely deep—an odd blend of command and something else.

Raenerys nodded, her eyes briefly flickering to his before she averted them, feeling a strange shift in her chest. Before she could fully register the feeling, Acheron’s lips were on hers.

His kiss was unlike any she’d felt before. It wasn’t the usual roughness, the cold, calculating passion that often accompanied his touch. This was different—gentler, softer. The warmth of his lips melted through her, a quiet storm that swept over her in a way she wasn’t prepared for. It felt like a volcanic eruption contained in a fleeting moment of intimacy. Raenerys’s mind spun, overwhelmed by the sensation, momentarily forgetting everything else—Nevil, the mission, the year of plans she had waiting for her.

Acheron pulled away, his breath ragged. For a brief moment, the space between them felt impossibly small. He stepped back, breaking the spell.

“You should go,” he said, his voice returned to its usual impassive tone. “I’ll leave after you.”

Raenerys stood there for a moment, blinking as she tried to steady herself, her breath still uneven. She tore her gaze from him, the intensity of what had just happened making her heart race. As the sensation of his kiss still lingered in her chest, she forced herself to look away. Her eyes fell to the ship waiting to carry her northward, the task ahead still on her mind.

But something had shifted. And no matter how hard she tried to push it down, the feeling of uncertainty gnawed at her, reminding her that maybe, just maybe, there was more to their connection than either of them had allowed themselves to see.

Raenerys stood at the edge of the ship, the soft hum of the boat cutting through the water beneath her, but her mind was far from the journey ahead. She couldn’t shake the image of Acheron standing on the shore, his gaze fixed on her like an unreadable puzzle. His intensity lingered in her thoughts, even as the ship slowly pulled away from the beach.

She tried to push him from her mind, focusing on the immediacy of her mission. There was no room for distraction—not now. Acheron was just another tool, another piece in the game, and she had no time to get lost in whatever that moment between them had been. Acheron had his own plans, his own goals. She had hers.

The wind tugged at her hair as she leaned over the side of the ship, her eyes scanning the dark horizon ahead. The North awaited her—Nevil and the tangled web of her past there. That was what mattered. That was the reason she was on this ship. Not Acheron, not whatever strange, unsettling connection they shared. Focus.

She exhaled sharply, letting the night air clear her head. The ship’s steady rhythm began to ground her, each pulse of the waves a reminder of the path ahead. There would be time for everything else later.

But for now, she couldn’t afford to think about Acheron.

. . .