(Erin_Goodwin thinks Gabriel’s villainy is off the scale? Ooops, thats not his best yet.)
She stepped inside and shut the door softly behind her. The lock clicked automatically.
Isolde let out a long breath and leaned against the door for a moment, finally allowing herself to relax. Her shoes pinched, her dress itched, and her mistress had kept her on edge all day with her mercurial moods and sharp tongue.
The maid crossed the room, passing the tiny round table piled with folded laundry, her travel case. It was bare, but clean. A single bed, a water basin, and an armoire.
Isolde moved to the window and parted the curtains. Blood City still pulsed with life beyond the glass.
She pressed her fingers to the window pane, letting the cold seep into her skin.
She didn’t expect the sharp knock that came at her door just seconds later.
She spun around, staring at the door as if it had suddenly come alive. What did she want again? Wont she leave her in peace?
She could pretend she wasn’t in. She could feign sleep.
She assumed it was Lady Sharona again—needing her to fetch something, to clean up another mess. It wasn’t even morning yet; the city still cloaked in that ghostly silence that stretched between night and dawn.
Isolde shuffled toward the door. Her body was weary, but her mind was worse—frayed and sore from the constant barrage of cruelty she’d endured since yesterday. Since he left.
After the prince had walked away... after the mate bond had ignited and settled inside her, after that soul-deep tether wrapped itself around her very being, declaring to the ancient magic of the world that they were meant to be—he had looked at her like she was a burden. Like she was a mistake.
The pain of it hadn’t even fully registered before Sharona’s voice descended like poisoned arrows.
She had wasted no time. As soon as the prince was gone, her lady had turned on her, unleashing venom. Isolde remembered every word, each syllable carved into her memory.
’You think you are worthy of a king? Have you seen his wife? You could never measure up.’
’What did you do? Hire a sorcerer to mate you with the most powerful vampire royal?’
’You are so pathetic...’
All of that—and more—had spilled from Sharona’s lips in less than five minutes. And she hadn’t even been done.
It had taken everything Isolde had not to collapse onto the floor, curl into herself and wail. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t.
The knocking came again, more persistent now.
Maybe Sharona was drunk. Maybe she’d forgotten something in the halls. Maybe she wanted to drag Isolde out into the cold and remind her again of what she wasn’t.
Isolde inhaled sharply and unlocked the bolt.
The door creaked open slowly.
Two men stood in the hallway. One of them wore the uniform of the Blood City Royal Guard, and a long sword sheathed at his side. His expression was unreadable but firm.
Isolde’s eyes snapped to him.
He was not vampire. That much was clear in an instant.
The breadth of his shoulders. The earth-warm hue of his skin, and well the beat of his heart.
He was a werewolf. That unmistakable energy radiated from him in waves—a barely leashed wildness that pulsed with every breath he took. His presence filled the hallway, quiet and commanding.
Isolde began to fidget, stepping instinctively behind the doorframe, one hand gripping the edge. Fear rose in her chest, coiling tightly. What did they want from her?
Her mind raced—had Lady Sharona finally accused her of something? Had the prince sent these men to exile her? To imprison her?
She swallowed thickly, trying to form words, but they caught at the back of her throat. Her heart pounded against her ribs.
"Its okay... Miss... The queen requests your presence." The werewolf said.
Her fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the doorframe.
"The... the queen?" she repeated, voice barely more than a whisper. "Like the Blood City queen? The king’s wife?"
She had to be sure. Had to hear it again, just in case her ears had played tricks on her. Just in case this wasn’t happening.
The werewolf simply nodded.
And with that nod, everything inside her collapsed into chaos.
The wife of the man she had just found out—less than a day ago—was her fated mate. That queen. That woman.
It meant only one thing.
She wouldn’t live very long on the face of the earth.
You think you’re worthy of a king? You could never measure up.
She had no right whatsoever to be mated to him. A simple maid. An orphan girl with no family name, no land, no rank.
And now... now she was being summoned by the queen herself?
"We have to leave now," the royal guard said firmly, stepping forward.
His tone was less gentle than the werewolf’s as if he had already judged her worth and found her lacking.
Isolde’s legs wobbled. Tears burned behind her eyes.
"Please... I... I don’t want to die."
"Nothing is going to happen to you," the werewolf said.
But Isolde didn’t believe him.
So she stepped out into the hallway with them. She kept her head low, eyes scanning the shadows, body shaking with quiet sobs she refused to let fully escape her.
They didn’t bind her hands or drag her out.
But in a way, it felt like a walk to the gallows.
Luna stood barefoot on the carpet, practically bouncing on her feet.
Her energy was wild and barely restrained—restless. She paced the room with excitement, her robe brushing against her legs as she moved between the arched windows and her vanity mirror, unable to keep still.
She couldn’t wait for Damien to leave.
She had her duties both as queen and royal envoy but today, they would all have to wait. She would ignore them.
Because she was racing against time.
Doctor Thessa came in and gave her daily dose of blood transfusion while Damien stood around waiting as she also checked on the baby’s growth.
(Throwback question: Who can remember the first scene Damien called Luna ’a fucking bitch.’)