Chapter 5
I slipped past him into the warmth of the solar.
A roaring fire blazed in the hearth, illuminating the massive room with flickering amber light. Alpha Cassian stood by the arched window, stripped to his leather breeches and an unlaced linen shirt that revealed the thick, corded muscle of his chest and the dark tribal tattoos spiraling up his neck.
He held a goblet of dark wine in one hand. The moment the door clicked shut behind Marcus, Cassian’s head snapped toward me.
His golden eyes flared with that familiar, possessive heat—the look a wolf gave an elk he had already brought to its knees, deciding whether to devour it or play with the carcass a little longer.
"Vesper," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that rattled the windowpanes.
He set the goblet on the windowsill and crossed the room in three long, predatory strides. He didn't ask for the scroll. Instead, he reached out, wrapped a broad, calloused hand around the back of my neck, and yanked me forward until my chest collided with his rock-hard torso.
His nostrils flared as he leaned down, burying his face into the curve where my neck met my shoulder.
He inhaled deeply, his hot breath washing over my skin.
"You smell of him," Cassian growled, his grip on my neck tightening until the iron collar bit into my windpipe. A dark, ugly vein pulsed along his temple. "You smell of pine needles, snow, and Soren’s arrogant fucking court."
I let my eyes roll back slightly, my mouth falling open in a soundless gasp for air. My hands came up against his chest, fingers curling weakly into the fabric of his shirt, pushing against him with the pitiful strength of an Omega who knew she was entirely at his mercy.
He liked the fight. He always liked the small, useless struggles.
His thumb pressed hard into the tendon behind my ear, forcing my head back until I was forced to look up into his fierce, golden gaze.
"Did he touch you?" Cassian demanded, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register Alphas used to assert absolute ownership. "Did that ice-blooded bastard lay a single hand on what belongs to Emberfell?"
I shook my head rapidly, wide-eyed with terror, letting my lower lip tremble.
Cassian’s gaze dropped to my mouth. For a second, the geopolitical war brewing across the continent vanished from his mind, replaced entirely by the raw, suffocating desire that had been festering in him for months. He leaned in, his lips hovering an inch from mine, his woodsmoke scent threatening to drown out the air in my lungs.
"You’re a useless little thing," he whispered against my lips, his voice thick with lust and disdain. "Mute, weak, carrying a bloodline that died out before my grandfather was born. But you’re mine, Vesper. Every drop of your silent blood belongs to the hearth of Emberfell. If Soren had put a finger on you, I would have burned his fortress to ash before the Blood Moon even rose."
He shoved me away suddenly, breaking the intoxicating pressure.
I stumbled back, catching myself against the corner of a heavy oak sideboard, coughing soundlessly as I massaged my throat where his fingers had left red impressions.
"Give me the scroll," he commanded, stepping back toward the table.
With shaking hands, I reached into the satchel and drew out Soren’s birch-parchment cylinder. I approached the table with bowed shoulders and laid it flat before him.
Marcus stepped up beside his Alpha, his hand resting on the hilt of his short sword. "Is the seal intact?"
"It’s intact," Cassian said, inspecting the silver wax with a sharp, analytical eye. He snorted in derision. "Soren thinks he’s so refined with this soft tallow. Let’s see how much southern timber he’s willing to beg for."
Cassian drew his hunting knife and cracked the seal with a brutal slice. He unfurled the parchment, pinning the edges down with two heavy iron paperweights.
I stood three paces back, folded into the shadows of the room, my amber eyes fixed on the floorboards.
Cassian read slowly, his thick brow furrowing as he traced Soren’s ornate script.
"He agreed," Cassian muttered, a savage grin spreading across his face. "The arrogant fool actually agreed to the summit at the Moonstone Altar. He accepts the division of the Whispering Pass, provided we yield the eastern marshlands."
"And the invocation clause?" Marcus asked, leaning over the table. "Did he tamper with the wording of the ancestral blood-pact?"
Cassian leaned closer, his eyes skimming over the altered verses—the very lines I had meticulously rewritten in the cold dark of the fissure.
"He tried to play with the cadence," Cassian scoffed, pointing a blunt fingernail at the Primordial runes. "Look here. He changed the rhythm of the third stanza to mimic the northern rite. He thinks adding some archaic northern gibberish makes him look like a scholar."
Marcus squinted at the parchment. "Can you read it?"
"I know enough of the old symbols," Cassian said dismissively, waving a hand. "My father made me memorize the High Old Tongue when I was a boy. It’s just the standard renewal verse. *'Let the strength of the Valley be gathered into the Vessel of Divine Judgment...'* It’s an ancient hymn to the Moon Goddess, meant to sanctify the ground before the blood is drawn. Soren thinks he’s being profound."
Cassian threw his head back and laughed—a booming, triumphant sound that echoed off the stone walls.
"He walked right into the cage, Marcus," Cassian sneered. "He thinks this summit is about timber and borders. He has no idea what we’re bringing to that mountain."
"The third draft?" Marcus asked, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial rasp.
"The final draft," Cassian corrected.
He turned toward me, his golden eyes blazing with cruel ambition.
"Come here, stray," he ordered.
I stepped forward, keeping my head bowed, my boots shuffling softly against the rug.
Cassian opened a heavy iron-bound drawer beneath the table and pulled out a thick roll of dark vellum—parchment made from the hide of an elk calf, dyed deep crimson, the edges bordered with runes etched in real gold leaf.
"Look at this, Vesper," Cassian said, grabbing my chin once more and forcing me to look at the crimson scroll. "This is the real treaty. Not the garbage Soren just sent, and not the pathetic truce our grandfathers signed a hundred years ago."
I stared at the golden runes, letting my eyes widen in feigned incomprehension.
"You can't read a word of it, can you?" Cassian chuckled, his thumb rubbing against my lower lip in a mocking caress. "A hundred years alive, and you don't even know your own family’s alphabet. Pitiful."
He let go of my chin and tapped the center of the crimson scroll with the flat of his blade.
"This is the Primordial Annulment," Cassian declared, his voice ringing with absolute, terrifying conviction. "When we reach the Moonstone Altar under the Blood Moon, Soren will sign his version, and I will sign mine. But the moment our blood touches the stone, my clan’s shamans will activate the hidden ward buried in these gold-leaf runes."
He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.
