The study is dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows along the stone walls.
The scent of old parchment and polished wood lingers in the air, mixing with the faintest trace of something floral—probably the Queen’s preferred incense.
I step inside, careful to keep my expression neutral. The King and Queen are seated behind the grand oak desk, their faces unreadable.
But I can see the difference.
King Damon looks tired.
Not wary, not stern—just tired. His ink black hair now streaked with the silver of stress, is slightly disheveled, the usual sharpness in his eyes dulled by something I can’t quite place.
Queen Rhoda, on the other hand, is as composed as ever. Regal, elegant, and completely in control.
She’s the one who speaks first.
“Delilah.” Her voice is smooth, her tone betraying nothing. “We have given further thought to your mating bond with our son.”
I don’t move, don’t react. Instead, I wait.
A beat of silence. Then—