Suspicions

Xavriel's Point of view:

The scent of toasted bread and freshly brewed coffee clung to the morning air like an unwelcome guest. The mansion was quiet—too quiet, except for the occasional clink of silverware from the grand dining room. Xavriel sat at the head of the long table, his posture perfect, one leg casually crossed over the other. A newspaper lay unfolded in his hand, though his eyes weren't really reading.

He knew the exact moment Zhera entered the room. He didn't have to look up to feel her energy—a storm cloud of defiance wrapped in wildcat grace. She walked in wearing one of the dresses from the closet he had reluctantly filled for her, her arms crossed tightly under her chest, chin tilted upward like she was daring the room to challenge her.

"Good morning," she said, her tone light but laced with suspicion.

Xavriel flipped a page of his paper. "Is it?"

She stared at him like she was trying to solve a puzzle she didn't ask for. "You're in a good mood."

He gave a one-shouldered shrug, eyes still skimming the article about blood cartel movements in the eastern cities. "Why wouldn't I be? The sun is up. The birds are... not dead. You haven't broken anything yet. A miracle, really."

Her lips parted in offense. "I don't break everything I touch."

"Mm," he murmured, noncommittal, sipping his coffee. His expression was unreadable, but the ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

Zhera sat across from him, too hard and too fast, making her chair squeak. She grabbed a piece of toast and bit into it like it personally insulted her. "So, what's the plan today? More chores? Another visit to my oh-so-wonderful family?"

"Not today," Xavriel replied, eyes never leaving the paper. "I thought I'd let you have the day to yourself."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. He watched her flounder with thinly veiled amusement. Her irritation was almost poetic.

She scoffed. "I don't get it. Last night, you almost—" she paused, cheeks flushing as the memory rushed back, "—and now you're pretending like nothing happened?"

Xavriel tilted his head, the smirk morphing into something unreadable. "Nothing did happen. Did it?"

"Don't worry," he added with a lazy shrug, reaching for another sip of his coffee. "You're not my type."

She blinked, affronted. "And what is your type?"

Xavriel rose from his chair smoothly, grabbing his coat from the back of it. He leaned in close, just enough to make her breath catch.

"Quiet," he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk and just as sharp. "And less likely to stab me in my sleep."

Then, with perfect timing, he walked to the living room, leaving her glaring at his back and muttering curses into her toast.

Xavriel sipped his morning tea in silence, pretending to read. He hadn't turned the page in twenty minutes. Not since he heard her footsteps heading into the kitchen.

A flicker of irritation passed through him.

She was trying to do the dishes. Again.

He had only assigned her chores to remind her of where she stood now. Princess or not, under his roof, she followed his rules. That included curfews and kitchen duty—even if she had clearly never scrubbed a pot in her life. Even though there were servants, He just wanted her to know that they weren't her servants, and this wasn't her palace.

Still, he found himself half-listening, half-annoyed. The clatter of ceramic told him she was struggling again. Then—

Crash.

He didn't think. He was out of his seat before the second plate shattered.

When he entered the kitchen, the sharp scent of blood hit him like a gust of wind. She was crouched on the tiled floor, trying to pick up shards of broken porcelain with trembling fingers. Red dripped steadily from a cut on her palm.

"Zhera." His voice was sharp, low. Controlled panic tightening each syllable.

Her eyes flicked up to him, wide with surprise and just a hint of embarrassment. She gave a weak smile, then winced as another shard pressed into her skin. "I'm fine. It's nothing."

He knelt beside her, snatching a cloth from the counter to wrap her hand. His fingers moved with practiced care, but his expression was all hard lines and furrowed brows. "It's not nothing, princess. Gods, are you trying to get infected?"

"Oh please, Your Grace," she spat sarcastically, her lips curling into a bitter smirk. "If I had a healer on standby like you nobles do, I'd be fine."

His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching. "This wouldn't have happened if you weren't so—" He caught himself, exhaled sharply, then added coldly, "—so hell-bent on proving a point."

She glared at him, golden eyes narrowing, the tips of her canines just visible as she curled her lip. "You gave me chores. I did them."

"You dropped three plates and bled over two of them," he said dryly, binding her hand tighter than necessary. "Not exactly stellar progress."

Her nose scrunched. "You're unbelievable," she muttered. "This is your fault."

"My fault?" He arched an eyebrow, tone turning mocking. "You knew I've never done any chores in my life and still gave me dishes. Who gives glassware to a girl with claws?"

His gaze snapped to her then—her flushed cheeks, her narrowed stare, the wild edge in her posture. Her wildcat instincts were close to the surface, bristling.

"Poor princess," he muttered, eyes glinting with amusement. "Never lifted a finger her whole life and now has to work like the rest of us. You're spoiled. And helpless."

That hit.

He saw it in the way her expression faltered, just for a second. Like he'd struck her.

"I'm not helpless," she said quietly, her voice strained, eyes glittering with challenge. "I'll prove it."

He didn't reply. He didn't know how. His thoughts were already spiraling when his phone buzzed in his coat pocket.

Cassian.

Xavriel stood and took the call, giving her one last glance as she turned away, shoulders stiff, cradling her bandaged hand.

"What is it?" he asked curtly.

"They're dead," Cassian said immediately. "The ones we captured from the kidnapping? Assassinated before sunrise. Clean shot, poisoned weapons."

Xavriel's expression darkened, his tone dropping to something steel-edged. "You're sure?"

"No doubt. Wolfsbane vapor in the cells. Magic residue—strong stuff."

No loose ends. That's what this was. A professional cleanup. Whoever was behind the attempt on Zhera didn't want anyone talking.

"I'll be there in an hour," he said and hung up.

—

The Caracal Kingdom's underground sector was quiet when he arrived. Shadows hung low and thick, the air buzzing with restrained magic. Cassian stood at the war room table, leaning over scattered maps and half-burnt documents.

"We found traces of vaporized wolfsbane in the airlock," Cassian said, his brow furrowed. "Professional job. Someone on the inside, maybe."

Xavriel folded his arms, his jaw locked. "Then we don't just have a threat. We have a coordinated one."

"And someone with access to royal prisoners," Cassian added grimly.

They didn't need to say it aloud. The suspicion hung between them like smoke.

Xavriel's voice was ice. "I want everything you can find on her father. Connections, enemies, any financial moves in the past six months."

Cassian raised a brow, concern flickering. "You think her father was involved?"

Xavriel didn't answer.

—

He returned late. The estate was bathed in cold moonlight, silent and still. Too silent.

She wasn't home.

He waited.

Ten minutes. Twenty.

He paced.

Just as he considered going out to find her, the front door creaked open. Zhera stepped inside, barefoot and tiptoeing like a guilty child.

He didn't move.

"Curfew was two hours ago," he said calmly.

She jumped, startled. Her hand flew to her chest. "Are you stalking me?"

"I live here," he replied flatly. "You don't."

"I went for a walk," she said with a shrug, attempting nonchalance. "Didn't know I needed a permission slip."

"You don't," he said, stepping closer. "But next time, you'll be punished."

She blinked, then cocked her head. "What kind of punishment?"

He leaned in just enough for her to feel the coldness of his breath. A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. "You don't want to know."

Her breath caught. She flushed. Then she scoffed. "Pervert."

He chuckled, dark and low. "Dinner's cold," he said over his shoulder. "Like your timing."

—

The dining room was wrapped in a soft hush, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain. The candlelight flickered in the golden sconces, casting long shadows over the table where Zhera sat at the far end, quietly pushing food around her plate.

She hadn't spoken since she sat down. Not really. Not beyond the forced pleasantries. She was chewing on silence like it tasted bitter.

Xavriel watched her from across the table, his fingers tapping slowly against the rim of his wine glass. She looked thoughtful—troubled, even. Not the usual brand of trouble she wore like a crown, but something deeper, quieter.

She finally broke the silence.

"What did he say?" she asked, not looking up. Her voice was careful—too careful. "My father. When he found out I'd been taken."

Xavriel didn't answer immediately. He took a deliberate sip of wine, letting the silence stretch just enough to make her squirm.

"He wasn't surprised," he said at last.

That got her attention. Her head jerked up, brows furrowed.

"What does that mean?"

He shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "It means exactly what I said. He acted like someone who already knew."

Her lips parted, but no words came out. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—shock, confusion… maybe something darker. But she blinked it away before it could settle. Still, he saw it.

Interesting.

"He didn't ask questions?" she asked, slower now. "Didn't demand to see me?"

"No," Xavriel said simply. "He said I could handle it."

He didn't add the rest. That her father had barely made eye contact. That he had spoken in clipped tones, more interested in political image than his own daughter's safety. That he'd treated Zhera's disappearance like it was an inconvenience, not a crisis.

Zhera looked down again, her hand curling loosely around her fork. Her shoulders had stiffened, but she nodded like she was trying to swallow it down.

"He was never very good at the whole 'concerned parent' thing," she said, with a forced little laugh.

Xavriel studied her quietly.

She was trying to be flippant, but her voice wavered at the edges. Her hands trembled just slightly, just enough for someone with heightened senses to catch it. She wasn't okay.

But that wasn't what caught his attention.

It was the way she had asked. The way her voice had tightened, the way her eyes had searched his face like she was trying to read between the lines.

She was wondering the same thing he'd been thinking since the moment her father had offered him tea instead of fury.

Was he involved?

It was a dangerous thought. A royal father ordering the kidnapping of his own daughter? But there had been signs—signs Zhera was clearly starting to piece together herself.

He couldn't tell if she was trying to avoid the idea or quietly begging him to confirm it.

She didn't ask, though. Didn't push. Which only made him more certain.

The silence returned, thick with what they weren't saying. He almost respected her for not spilling her suspicions. Almost.

"So…" Zhera said suddenly, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "What happens now? Am I still grounded?"

Xavriel arched a brow. "You were never not grounded."

She rolled her eyes. "You're impossible."

"And you're terrible at lying," he said dryly, leaning forward to rest his elbow on the table. "But we're working on it."

She made a face and stuffed a bite of mashed potatoes in her mouth, mostly to avoid replying. He smirked faintly, swirling the wine in his glass before taking another sip.

Despite the burn in his chest at the idea that someone inside her own family might've betrayed her, he kept his face unreadable. Detached. Because that's what she expected from him.

And he couldn't afford to care. Not openly.

But something about the way she stared down her plate like it held the answers to her past made his jaw tense.

He'd find out the truth. Whether she wanted him to or not.