Chapter 18: Invitation to War
The room was too warm, too quiet, and too full of useless silence. Misty Kilmer paced barefoot across the marble floor of her private parlor, her silk robe half-tied, cigarette long since burned out in the tray. The golden sunlight that filtered through the sheer curtains did nothing to soften the sharp line of her jaw.
Her heel tapped again. And again. And again.
"He’s being debuted," she spat, eyes narrowing at the pale morning headline blinking across her tablet screen. "House D’Argente to Present New Heir at Baye Gala. Sources say northern alpha interest is already confirmed."
She didn’t need to scroll down to know what name would be in the whispers.
Lucas.
Not Kilmer. Not even Velloran. D’Argente.
"Bitch," she hissed under her breath. "Old witch wrapped him in silk and sold him as royalty."
She turned sharply, nearly knocking over a tray of untouched fruit.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
She had kept the boy hidden for years—off every official record, out of the palace’s eye. She’d tolerated the weak eyes and sharp tongue, the irritating stillness he carried like he wasn’t afraid of anything. She had poured money into tutors, silenced medical officials, and delayed the damn awakening for as long as the injections would hold.
And the moment he was finally old enough to yield a return—
Serathine stole him. Wrapped him in titles. And now paraded him like a prince waiting to be claimed.