His eyes darkened back to their normal deep blue. The strange, prophetic quality vanished, replaced by his usual controlled composure.
He straightened slightly, as if realizing he’d said too much. Or revealed too much.
"I apologize, High Alpha. I got carried away."
My eyes narrowed on him, deciphering just what exactly was going on. "Is there something you want to share, Dmitri?" My voice was sharp.
"No, High Alpha." His expression was unreadable. "Fatigue. It won’t affect my duties."
I held his gaze for a long moment. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t elaborate.
Whatever he was hiding, he wasn’t sharing it now.
But I would watch him. Closely.
"See that it doesn’t," I said finally.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the silence stretch. Then I asked, "What do you know of the Order of the Black Moon?"
His expression didn’t change. Not even a flicker. "Terrorist group. Goal still unclear. They’ve been active for approximately ten years. Small cells, well-organized, difficult to trace." His tone was clinical. "They target pack structures. Sabotage. Assassinations. Chaos for chaos’s sake, it seems."
I watched him carefully. Gauging every micro-expression, every shift in posture.
Either he truly knew only what was public knowledge, or he was exceptionally good at hiding his thoughts.
"We have a prisoner," I said. "One of theirs. Captured not too long ago after a targeted explosion."
Still nothing. His face remained a perfect mask. "I heard about the incident. Wolfbane was involved to incapacitate your convoy."
I nodded. "Tomorrow, you will be in charge of extracting information from him. Consider it your first official duty as beta."
"Understood, High Alpha." His expression didn’t change. No hesitation. No reaction.
As if I’d just asked him to review supply reports instead of torture a prisoner.
Either he was completely unbothered by the prospect, or he’d expected it.
He rose, bowed his head respectfully, and left without another word.
I sat there after he’d gone, staring at the closed door.
Dmitri Kozlov was hiding something.
Multiple somethings, likely. But I was no where dense enough to believe Anyone who would work so hard to be the beta of the high Alpha would not gave some hidden agenda. Even Veronique, had had hers. Every candidate that got far enough into the selection process to step foot into this mansion had secrets.
That included the winner, Dmitri Kozlov.
But whether those secrets were a threat or an asset remained to be seen.
For now, I would watch. And wait while letting him believe I couldn’t see the mask on his face.
I opened my eyes, groggy from the sleep I fell into the moment we had come back from the ruins.
I had barely made it to my bed before collapsing onto it, every muscle screaming in protest. The adrenaline had fully worn off now, leaving nothing but pain and exhaustion in its wake.
Now, awake again and, there was still little difference.
I didn’t have the energy to get up. "Come in," I called weakly.
The door opened, and Vladimir stepped inside carrying a small black case.
I tried to sit up. Failed. Gave up and just turned my head to look at him. "I’m fine."
"You’re not." He crossed the room with that predatory grace of his and set the case on the bedside table. "Sit up."
I gritted my teeth and forced myself upright, wincing as bruised ribs protested. "Happy?"
He didn’t answer. Just opened the case, revealing various medical supplies—salves, bandages, vials of what looked like glowing liquid.
"I can do it myself," I said.
"You can barely move." He pulled out a small jar of silver salve. "Shirt off."
My eyes widened. "Excuse me?"
"I need to assess the damage. Shirt. Off."
Heat flooded my face. "I’m fine, really—"
His pale eyes pinned me in place. "Lilith. The Luna Duel is in three weeks. Every injury that doesn’t heal properly is a weakness Veronique will exploit. Now take off your shirt."
I hesitated, then slowly pulled my training shirt over my head, wincing as the movement pulled at bruised muscles.
His expression didn’t change as his eyes swept over the damage. Purple bruises already blooming across my ribs, my shoulders, my arms. A particularly nasty one on my collarbone where one of Konstantin’s throws had hit dead-on.
Well, I didn’t have much in the way of assets to look at.
So I guess that was a plus.
I obeyed, presenting my back to him.
Silence. Then I heard him unscrew the jar.
"This will be cold," he warned.
Then his fingers touched my shoulder blade.
Cold didn’t begin to describe it. It was like ice directly on bare skin—but beneath the cold, there was something else. A tingling warmth that spread from where he touched, sinking into the bruised muscle.
"What is that?" I managed.
"Treatment," His fingers moved to the next bruise, spreading the salve with careful precision. "You’ll be functional by morning instead of bedridden for days."
His touch was clinical. Professional. But my body didn’t seem to care about that distinction.
Every place his cold fingers brushed sent sparks racing across my skin. The bond hummed between us, and I could feel his presence—steady, controlled, but with something beneath it. Something carefully contained.
He moved to a bruise on my lower back, and I couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through me.
His hand paused. "Did that hurt?"
"No," I said too quickly. "Just cold."
He resumed his ministrations, fingers tracing the edges of each bruise with maddening slowness.
I needed to say something. Anything. Before this silence stretched into something I couldn’t pretend away.
His fingers moved higher, across my shoulder blade, then paused.
I felt him trace something—slow, deliberate. A different texture beneath his touch.
My entire body tensed.
No. Please don’t ask. Please—
"So!" I blurted out, the word coming out too loud, too desperate. "That Silas guy. Vane, right? The one with the shadow magic." The words tumbled out in a rush. "That was wild. I mean, using literal shadows to fight like some kind of—I don’t know—horror movie villain? Is that normal here? Because that seemed really not normal even by magical standards and—" Newest update provıded by novᴇlfire.net
He traced the scar, his touch more than lingering, cutting me short. His grazing finger was knowing like he knew what I had been trying to avoid.
My back arched instinctively, trying to escape the touch.
His hand followed. Pressed firmer against the scar.
Through the bond, I felt it—a cold rage so intense it made my own breath catch.
"Vladimir—" I started, my voice trembling.
His fingers traced the full length of the scar. Every. Single. Inch.
Like he was memorizing it. Like he needed to know exactly what had been done or how it had been done...
His breathing was still too controlled. Too deliberate.
Like he was holding something back with every ounce of his considerable will. Akin to a caged beast...
Yet, I let it happen, arching more and more the closer he inched to my waist band.
Two words. Flat. Answering my rambling question about Silas as if the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened.