<h4>Chapter 243: You Know Who I Am</h4>
Lucivar’s eyes narrowed, his lips curving with the arrogance of a man who had no need of titles tomand respect. "You know who I am," he said smoothly. "And yet I was informed you didn’t grow up around here."
"I have seen your pictures numerous times, my lord," Isolde replied quietly. Her eyes darted up to meet his, then down again.
"I am also informed," Lucivar continued, stepping further into the room, "that you are the king’s mate, bound by the blood goddess herself."
Isolde’s chest tightened. She hated the chains of destiny she never asked for. Her lips parted, but the admission came out clipped, resigned. "I guess I am."
Lucivar studied her with sharp intensity, his gaze lingering as if dissecting her soul. She was beautiful in a softer way than Luna—gentle curves, wide eyes, a quiet vulnerability that might have made her easy prey for others. He leaned back against a chair, perfectly at ease, his posturenguid yet coiled with power. "I have a proposition for you, Isolde."
Isolde’s throat went dry. She folded her hands before her.
"Tonight," Lucivar said, "you wille with me to my castle. You will lie with the king..."
She shook her head almost immediately, though her voice came out softer than intended. "My lord, the queen approached me with this a few weeks ago also." Her fingers twisted together as the memory washed over her—the humiliation, the shame, the way her body had burned beneath the weight of Damien’s rejection. "I do not have any idea why. But the king would hear nothing of it. He almost had my head."
The shame of standing in Damien’s chambers, forced to hear his scorn, still echoed in her bones.
"Did he now?" A slow smile curved across his lips. "How like him. Proud to a fault, blind to necessity." His gaze softened briefly as his thoughts turned elsewhere, and his next words carried a surprising warmth. "And how like her, too. The queen. To swallow her pride and ask such a thing of you. She truly was remarkable. A queen in every sense. If only the council lords, and the entirety of Blood City, had seen that."
"You will lie with the king tonight," Lucivar added. "He will mark you." The phrase lingered in the air.
Isolde’s lips parted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "If I may ask questions, my lord..." She hesitated. "Why is it important that the king mark me or... be with me? He has a wife. A wife he clearly loves, beyond anything the bond between us dictates. Why would I—why would I want to be with a man who doesn’t want me?"
Lucivar’s smile was faint. "You cannot ask questions," he replied smoothly. "But like I said, this is a proposition." He rose from his chair in one fluid motion, circling her. "After tonight, if it all goes well, you will have the position of royal concubine. You will have your own castle, your own staff. You will have the world..." He leaned down, his breath ghosting across her ear, his words hot, deliberate, wickedly tempting. "...except the king."
Isolde’s throat tightened. "I don’t understand."
"I mean tonight is all you get with the king. One night. One chance. After that..." He gestured idly with his hand, as though sweeping the matter aside. "If at any point in the future you desire someone else—you will have my blessing. You will bepensated. Protected."
Isolde’s shoulders slumped as she exhaled a long, shaky sigh. This was a chance—perhaps the only chance—to w her way out of the pathetic, half-lived existence she’d been dragging herself through since the day she was born.
What did she have in this world to throw that chance away?
And yet... her stomach knotted with longing. To lie with him. To be marked by him. To feel his touch.
Her eyes flicked back up to Lucivar, who was watching her with unnerving patience, as though he could see every war raging inside her.
*****
Gabriel weed the council members into his home that night, a sly smile curving his lips as he counted them silently. There were more faces than he had expected, more shadows filing into his richly lit hall than he had dared to hope for. Support. The tide was shifting, and it was shifting in his favor. For centuries he had been nting seeds, carefully, quietly, feeding doubts, whispering truths twisted just enough to curdle in the ears of the right men. Now those seeds were sprouting, and the sight of it thrilled him.
Duran, ever efficient, ushered the men into the private parlour. The chamber was more conference than drawing room—long polished table, velvet-backed chairs. It was meant for plotting, and tonight, it served its purpose well. Duran moved silently between them, pouring crimson drinks into crystal sses, the liquid gleaming. He bowed once Gabriel’s guests were settled, then melted away, leaving his master alone with his prize.
"Lord Gabriel," began Lord Mason, always the first to speak treachery. He sat rigid. "We need you to get your affairs in order. We may be taking you into hiding by tomorrow."
Gabriel arched a brow, his lips parting in a softugh that rolled through the room, smooth and mocking. He tilted back in his chair, one arm drapedzily across the rest as though this were no more than an evening of idle gossip. "Me? Into hiding? You speak as though I am prey. I assure you, my lord, I am very much a hunter."
The humor drained from Mason’s expression. "You must have heard the rumor," he pressed, lowering his voice as though the walls themselves might betray him. "That the king is dying. It spreads faster than fire in dry fields. When that is confirmed, we must keep you safe. Without you—" he hesitated, searching for the right words, "there is no viable alternative."
Gabriel’s eyes gleamed, the smile curling deeper, more dangerous now. He leaned forward. "Damien is not going to die." He let the words hang a moment, savoring the flicker of confusion in their eyes. Then, like a dagger slipped between ribs, he twisted. "But tell me—do you all still believe Damien is fit for the throne? Truly?"
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