<h4>Chapter 566: All Pretenses</h4>


    <strong><i>[Third Person].</i></strong>


    Meredith had barely taken a dozen steps down the corridor when Valmora rose within her with cold, coiled disapproval.


    <i>"You are making a mistake,"</i> Valmora said, her voice low and dangerous in Meredith’s mind. "<i>That creature should not be allowed to live."</i>


    Meredith did not stop walking, and she didn’t rush to utter a word yet.


    <i>"She is a shapeshifter,"</i> Valmora continued. "<i>A liar by nature. A survivor without loyalty. Even bound, she will look for cracks. Even obedient, she will wait for weakness."</i>


    <i>"I know,"</i> Meredith replied silently, her pace steady.


    <i>"Then why attempt to keep her?"</i> Valmora demanded. "<i>Why gamble with your life?"</i>


    Meredith’s lips curved faintly. "<i>Because I am not gambling."</i>


    Valmora bristled. "<i>Exin."</i>


    <i>"I already have a solution,"</i> Meredith answered calmly.


    A small pause followed. Valmora said nothing. Seeing that Meredith was so stubborn about this, she withdrew.


    Meredith knew Valmora was not appeased or convinced, but she didn’t care.


    ---


    By the time Meredith Xamira’s nanny returned to the bedroom, the arrangements were restored.


    Also, the guard resumed his position outside the door, posture alert but unobtrusive. Nothing about the hallway suggested that anything was amiss—no whispers, no raised suspicion.


    Everything was contained and controlled.


    Draven, after ensuring the security was back in ce, went looking for Meredith. He found her at her workstation.


    The familiar scent of herbs filled the room—bitter roots, crushed leaves, faint sweetness beneath it all.


    Meredith stood at the table, sleeves rolled up, hands methodical as she worked. Small vials were lined neatly beside her, and a dark liquid simmered gently over low heat.


    Draven did not waste time. "You’re really considering epting her," he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.


    Meredith did not look up. She nodded once. "Yes."


    His jaw tightened. "That’s a mistake."


    Meredith continued working, knowing he wasn’t yet done with hisint and worry.


    "She is not trustworthy," Draven went on. "It would be cleaner and safer to end this now."


    Still, Meredith said nothing.


    Draven moved closer, his voice lowering. "Meredith. She can be anything. Anyone. She can disappear without leaving a trace. Don’t you think this is dangerous?"


    Still, there was no word or sign of acknowledgement.


    He exhaled sharply. "What happens when she betrays you mid-mission? What happens when she decides survival matters more than obedience?"


    Meredith finally set the pestle down. "That’s why I’m working on the solution," she said evenly.


    Draven frowned. "What solution?"


    She turned to face him. "If Xamira chooses to serve me," she said, "she will drink this." Then she gestured to the vial.


    Draven’s eyes widened.


    "That," Meredith continued calmly, "is a poison."


    His gaze snapped back to her. "Meredith—"


    "One ss," she went on, unperturbed. "It won’t kill her immediately. But it will bind her life to mine."


    Draven stared at her,pletely stunned.


    "To survive," Meredith exined, "she will have toe to me every single day. I will give her the antidote, enough to reverse the effects for twenty-four hours."


    Realization dawned on him. If Xamira missed one day, or refused to return, or even tried to run away, she would die.


    Draven looked at Meredith as if seeing her for the first time.


    The gentle woman who listened patiently. The woman who took pains to prepare for an event just to care for poor, exhausted pack women. The mate who once flinched at the thought of bloodshed.


    She was still there, but nowyered, hardened and sharpened by power and necessity.


    Meredith smiled faintly. "With this n," she said softly, "do you think she would ever dare betray me?"


    Draven searched her face carefully—for glowing eyes, for signs of Valmora’s dominance. But there were none.


    This was Meredith, fully present, fully aware. And terrifyinglyposed.


    Draven said nothing. There was nothing he could say—not when he knew the logic was sound, not when time was short, and not when he had a meeting to attend in less than an hour. So, he turned and walked out of the workstation.


    Behind him, Meredith turned back to her herbs, her movements precise and unhurried as the poison continued to simmer.


    But only when she was sure that Draven’s footsteps fadedpletely, only when she was certain he had gone far enough, did she stop what she was doing.


    Next, she turned off the gas beneath the simmering pot, the soft hiss dying away, and then reached for the high stool beside her worktable. She climbed onto it and leaned forward, resting her forearms on the edge of the table, her body ckening for the first time in a while.


    A long, weary sigh escaped her.


    "It certainly is not easy to be a viin," she murmured to herself, her voice low and wry. "Wanda must have it hard, scheming against me and others... but I definitely have it worse right now, pretending to be one."


    She sighed again, rubbing her temples.


    Meredith knew Draven would misunderstand her. He already had. But that was eptable. As long as no one underestimated her, as long as no one mistook softness for weakness, she could live with that distance for a short while, even from the man she loved.


    Then her thoughts drifted back to Xamira’s bedroom. When Draven had suggested killing Xamira, she had known immediately she couldn’t agree.


    No matter what Xamira truly was, Meredith could not bring herself to consent to the death of the child she had grown attached to—the one she hadughed with, drawn with, worried over. She could not be part of that choice.


    And poison?


    She let out a faint, humourless breath. She didn’t have the heart for that either. Not truly. Not even to bind Xamira as a messenger.


    The truth was simple. She wasn’t brewing poison at all. What simmered gently in the pot was medicine. A bitter one, yes. Strong. Intimidating in smell and colour. But medicine nheless.


    The <i>’poison n’</i> she hadid before Draven was a deliberate illusion—a de made of shadow meant to frighten Xamira into submission, to ensure she never dared to betray her or test her boundaries.