Chapter 1: Hope is a Weapon
Age 25 — East Wing, Velloran Estate
The velvet curtains barely stopped the warm summer sun from entering the luxurious room. The floors were heated marble. The bed, wide enough for three, sat untouched except by the alpha who owned it.
Lucas Oz Kilmer lay curled at the base of a tall dresser, ribs sharp beneath translucent skin, the silk of his discarded robe clinging to his fevered body like a second betrayal. His lips were split from dehydration. His scent, which had previously filled rooms and turned heads, had faded into something brittle and hollow.
He hadn’t bathed in days. The bathing room, like the bed, like the fire, like the fresh food arranged so delicately on the high buffet table, was off-limits. His bond mark, once a vivid gold, had dulled to a pale smudge. Velloran hadn’t touched him in six months.
Not since the last failed heat.
Not since the alpha leaned close to his face, nostrils flared in disgust, and said, "Three years and not even a miscarriage. What a waste."
Then he made his biggest mistake.
He’d asked Velloran, with a trembling voice and tear-lined eyes, whether the problem might not be his alone. Whether it could—possibly—be the alpha’s fault.
The silence that followed had been worse than a slap.
Velloran’s ego flared, as fragile things do when touched. His pride, bloodline, and image as a virile, powerful lord had all cracked in that moment. And Lucas, soft-voiced and desperate, had been the one to shatter it.
What came next killed the last sliver of trust he had. The last shard of belief that mateship meant protection.
Velloran did the unthinkable.