Chapter 4 BENEATH THE MASK

Ashen's point of view

I couldn't stop thinking about him.

The boy moved like water and struck like lightning. Every time he entered a room, I felt my wolf stir. It was more than suspicion. It was pull,an invisible thread that tightened every time Nicholas breathed too close or blinked too slowly.

It was unnatural.

Unnerving.

Unexplained.

And I didn't like what it made me feel.

Desire was one thing. Curiosity, another. But this... was deeper.

A whisper in my bones. A voice in my blood.

I paced the war chamber alone, firelight dancing along the stone walls. My wine sat untouched on the table, lips of the goblet stained but full. The hilt of my dagger dug into my palm as I clenched it, eyes drifting again to the memory of Nicholas's face.

Something about him was off.

Too graceful. Too quick. Too... familiar.

Was it sorcery?

I needed answers. And there was only one person in this palace twisted enough to provide them.

"You feel him, don't you?" Dominica whispered before I spoke.

She was already seated on her cushion, surrounded by inked scrolls, skulls of birds, melted wax, and a single blue flame that burned without fuel. The chamber smelled of smoke and crushed lavender, thick with secrets.

I narrowed my eyes at her. "You're not allowed in my head."

"I'm not," she said, smiling. "But your energy is bleeding. Your aura's cracked like a mirror. Who is he?"

"'He' is a slave."

"Slaves don't haunt kings."

I ignored that. "Tell me. What do the stars say?"

Dominica moved slowly, deliberately, like a spider weaving a story. She spread a scroll across her lap, dipped a feather in dark ink, and whispered to the flame.

When she looked up, her pupils had shrunk to slits.

"The stars are shifting," she breathed. "The balance is in motion. The wolf you thought yourself to be,king of blood and claw,will meet his equal."

"Equal?" I scoffed. "I have no equal."

"You do now," she said. "And the person is already here."

My heart pounded once,hard and loud.

I need details Dominica, details.

---

I tried to put distance between us.

Assigned him to the stables. Then the library. Then the outer wing.

But wherever I went, he followed,without trying. Always near. Always seen.

And I kept watching.

At the training grounds, he outpaced seasoned warriors. At council gatherings, he stood too still, too calm for someone enslaved. His gaze wasn't broken,it was sharp. And the strange thing was... my wolf didn't growl.

He leaned toward him.

As if recognizing something I couldn't see.

Two days later, the kitchens prepared for the Spring Banquet,an annual celebration of bloodlines, territory claims, and Lycans showing off their dominance in a blur of flesh, meat, and power.

I ordered every servant scrubbed, dressed, and marched through the great hall for inspection.

Nicholas was nowhere to be found.

But a girl... caught my eye.

Small. Fragile-looking. Skin dusted with flour and arms covered in faint burns. She moved like a shadow behind the wine trays, her gaze always down.

I might've passed her by.

But her scent-

Faint. Familiar.

It tugged something in me.

I paused, watching her from the dais.

Dominica noticed. She always did.

"New kitchen girl," she whispered beside me, her eyes never blinking. "Just arrived from the southern caravans."

"Name?"

"Does it matter?" Her voice was syrup-sweet. "She'll be gone by dawn if you don't like her."

I looked away.

But a part of me didn't forget her.

What I didn't know... was that Nicholas had already seen her.

And nearly broken.

He thought I wouldn't notice how he tensed when she walked in.

But I did.

And so did Dominica.

Her fan fluttered slowly as she leaned toward me. "He knows her."

I raised an eyebrow. "Nicholas?"

She nodded. "He tried to hide it. But when she entered the hall, his eyes followed her like a starved pup. It wasn't lust. It was recognition."

I turned my head, narrowing my gaze toward him.

He stood at the edge of the hall, perfectly still,until Nicolina passed by. Then something flickered in his eyes.

Fear?

Longing?

Pain?

Dominica smiled.

The kind of smile that made my wolf bristle.

"I'll set the stage," she whispered. "Let's see if the mask cracks."

I didn't ask what she planned.

I rarely did.

Dominica was more poison than prophet-but effective. Her traps never snapped until they'd already drawn blood.

---

That night, the banquet roared on,meat torn from bone, goblets overflowing, music echoing through vaulted ceilings. I sat on the throne-like chair carved from obsidian, watching, drinking, and waiting.

Nicholas entered late, hair damp, chest gleaming with sweat from a forced "cleaning."

He stood behind my chair,my personal guard for the evening.

I could hear his heartbeat.

Too fast.

Too loud.

Then she walked in.

The kitchen girl.

Dressed in plain linen, carrying a tray of roast boar. Her steps were even. Her eyes low.

But Nicholas-

His whole body locked up.

It was like watching a puppet snap its strings.

His jaw clenched. His fists curled.

I watched, breath shallow, as he dropped his gaze,not to the food, not to the court,but to her.

Dominica's voice purred beside me, "There it is."

She had done it.

Lured the girl into the lion's mouth just to watch the reaction.

I turned to Nicholas slowly. "Do you know her?"

"No, Your Majesty," he said too fast.

His voice cracked.

Dominica smiled wider.

"She reminds me of someone," I said casually. "Perhaps a former servant?"

Nicholas shook his head. "I wouldn't know."

Dominica rose then, gracefully, moving down the dais with a goblet in hand. She walked straight to Nicolina and offered the drink with a smile too sharp to be real.

The girl took it, wide-eyed.

Dominica turned back toward Nicholas.

And watched.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Then Nicholas-no, he-glanced at her.

Not lustfully.

Not curiously.

But protectively.

As if watching a family relative walk into a pit of snakes.

Dominica's eyes gleamed.

That was the moment she knew.

She stepped back beside me, lips near my ear.

"She flinched."

"Who?"

"Nicholas," she said. "He looked at her like blood."

I frowned. "Explain."

"They're connected," she said. "Siblings, maybe. More than that. Look at how he breathes when she's near."

I turned slowly, watching the boy behind me.

His hands trembled.

His jaw clenched again.

But what struck me was something else.

Not fear.

Guilt.

Dominica leaned in again, softer this time. "He's not what he says he is."

And then, with a smile wicked enough to raise the dead, she whispered:

"I think she's a liar, the kitchen girl."