Chapter 86

Chapter 86: Chapter 86

The grand ballroom had never looked more beautiful or more oppressive.

The chandeliers blazed overhead, their crystals catching the afternoon light and scattering it across the freshly polished marble floor. The musicians were arranged in the gallery, their instruments tuned and ready. The other pageantry couples stood in their assigned positions along the edges of the room, watching the final rehearsal with expressions ranging from admiration to barely concealed jealousy. And at the center of it all, beneath the largest chandelier, Soren Thornridge stood with Selene in his arms.

He looked like a prince. The thought came unbidden, and Nyra hated it. He was dressed in the formal attire of the pageantry—a fitted black coat with silver embroidery, polished boots, his dark hair swept back from his face. He looked every inch the royal heir he was supposed to be. And beside him, Selene was radiant in her silver-white gown, her dark hair cascading down her back in elaborate waves, her amber eyes sparkling with triumph.

They looked perfect together. They looked like they belonged together.

Nyra stood in the shadows of the upper gallery, her hands gripping the stone railing so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She had told herself she wouldn’t come. She had told herself it didn’t matter that it was just a performance, just a dance, just a charade for the King and the court. But her feet had carried her here anyway, drawn by some masochistic need to witness what she couldn’t prevent.

"From the top!" Madam Este called out, her voice sharp and carrying. "Lord Thornridge, Lady Selene, the final sequence. The approach, the embrace, the kiss. Let’s see it."

The music swelled. Soren placed his hand on Selene’s waist. They began to move.

Nyra watched them glide across the floor, their movements perfectly synchronized, their bodies weaving together like threads in a tapestry. Selene’s gown billowed around her as she spun, and Soren caught her with practiced ease, pulling her close, his hand splayed across the small of her back. They turned. They dipped. They rose again.

And then came the moment Nyra had been dreading.

The music reached its crescendo. Soren and Selene faced each other at the center of the ballroom, the other couples frozen in a tableau around them. The choreography called for Soren to cup Selene’s face in his hands. To gaze into her eyes. To lean in and press his lips to hers in a kiss that would symbolize the union of the two academies, the alliance of the Crown and the Silverwood pack, the perfect, beautiful future that everyone expected them to share.

Soren hesitated.

Nyra saw it—the barely perceptible pause, the tightening of his jaw, the way his hands trembled slightly as he raised them to Selene’s face. He was fighting himself. Fighting the instinct to pull away, to refuse, to walk off the dance floor and never look back.

Selene leaned in. Her lips brushed his ear, and she whispered something too soft for anyone else to hear. But Nyra saw the effect it had on Soren. His body went rigid. His eyes flickered with something dark—fury, perhaps, or fear. And then, slowly, reluctantly, he closed the distance between them and kissed her.

Nyra’s heart shattered.

It was not a passionate kiss. It was mechanical. Perfunctory. The kiss of a man fulfilling an obligation. But it was a kiss nonetheless—Soren’s lips on Selene’s, his hands cupping her face, their bodies pressed together in front of the entire rehearsal. The musicians held the final note. The other couples held their poses. And Nyra stood in the shadows, her chest tight, her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed.

He doesn’t want this, Luna said quietly. You know he doesn’t want this.

I know.

She’s threatening him. Threatening us. That’s why he’s doing it.

I know.

Then why does it still hurt so much?

Nyra didn’t have an answer. She only knew that watching the man she loved kiss another woman—even a kiss he didn’t want, even a kiss forced by blackmail and political necessity—was one of the hardest things she had ever done.

She turned and walked away before anyone could see her cry.

The music ended. The couples broke apart. Madam Este clapped her hands in approval.

"Excellent! Lord Thornridge, Lady Selene, that was nearly perfect. A bit more passion in the final embrace, if you please. Remember, you are portraying the ideal union—the future of the realm. The audience should believe you are in love."

"We’ll work on it," Selene said smoothly, her hand still resting on Soren’s arm. "Won’t we, darling?"

Soren didn’t answer. His eyes were scanning the upper gallery, searching for something. Someone. But the shadows were empty. Nyra was gone.

"You can let go of me now," he said, his voice flat.

"In a moment. There are still people watching." Selene’s smile was serene, but her grip on his arm was iron. "You did well today. I was almost convinced."

"I wasn’t trying to convince you."

"No. You were trying to convince yourself. That this is just a performance. That it doesn’t mean anything. That your precious prince will understand." She tilted her head, her amber eyes glittering. "But she won’t, will she? She’s watching from somewhere up there, and her heart is breaking, and there’s nothing you can do about it."

Soren’s jaw tightened. "If you’ve done anything to hurt her—"

"I haven’t done anything. You’re the one who kissed me. You’re the one who agreed to this pageantry. You’re the one who’s been lying to her for months." Selene released his arm and stepped back. "I’m just the betrothed. The innocent bystander. The wronged woman. Remember that when you’re explaining this to her."

She turned and walked away, her gown trailing behind her like a silver river.

Soren stood alone at the center of the ballroom, his hands clenched at his sides, his heart a battlefield of guilt and fury. Kael was roaring in his mind—find her, go to her, explain, fix this—but his feet wouldn’t move. What could he possibly say? That he had kissed Selene to protect her? That the blackmail justified the betrayal?

It didn’t. He knew it didn’t. And so did she.

Corvin found her in the garden, near the old oak tree.

She was sitting on the cold stone bench, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face buried in her arms. Her shoulders were shaking, but she wasn’t making a sound. That was somehow worse than if she had been sobbing openly. Nyra Astrlyn didn’t cry. Not like this. Not where anyone could see.

"I thought I’d find you here," he said quietly, settling onto the bench beside her. "The lake was empty, and the library was too crowded. This seemed like the logical third option."

Nyra didn’t look up. "Go away, Corvin."

"No."

"I mean it. I want to be alone."

"I know you do. But I’m not leaving." He didn’t touch her. He didn’t try to comfort her with empty words or hollow reassurances. He just sat beside her, a steady presence in the cold afternoon air. "I saw the rehearsal. From the upper gallery. I saw you leave."

"Then you saw everything."

"I saw Soren kiss Selene like a man kissing a statue. I saw you watch it happen and then walk away before anyone could see you break. And I saw Selene smile like she’d just won a war." He paused. "She hasn’t won anything. You know that, right?"

"It doesn’t feel that way." Nyra lifted her head. Her eyes were red, but her cheeks were dry. She had stopped crying. She had forced herself to stop. "I know it’s just a performance. I know she’s blackmailing him. I know he doesn’t want this. But watching him kiss her—watching him hold her—" Her voice cracked. "It felt like I was losing him all over again."

"You’re not losing him. He’s still yours. He’ll always be yours." Corvin’s voice was gentle but firm. "But I understand why it hurts. And you’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to be jealous and angry and sad. You don’t have to be strong all the time, Nyra. Not with me."

She looked at him—the sharp features, the whiskey-dark eyes, the unexpected tenderness beneath the cold exterior. "When did you become my emotional support?"

"Somewhere between the Mistwood and the cafeteria brawl. It’s a recent development." He almost smiled. "I’m not Soren. I’ll never be Soren. But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. Whatever you need—whatever you’re feeling—you can tell me. No judgment. No expectations. Just... me."

Nyra leaned her head against his shoulder. "What did I do to deserve you?"

"You existed. That was enough."

They sat together in the garden, the old oak tree casting long shadows across the grass. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. And for a little while, the pain in Nyra’s chest felt bearable.

Soren found her an hour later, after the sun had set and the garden had grown dark.

She was still sitting on the stone bench, but Corvin was gone now. He had left a few minutes earlier, pressing a kiss to her forehead and telling her to be kind to herself. She was alone when Soren emerged from the shadows, his formal pageantry coat replaced by a simple training tunic, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes haunted.

"Nyra."

She looked up at him. Her eyes were still red, but her expression was calm. "The rehearsal ended?"

"Hours ago. I’ve been looking for you everywhere." He stopped a few feet away, as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to come closer. "Corvin told me where you were. He also told me not to make things worse."

"Corvin gives good advice."

"He does." Soren took a tentative step forward. "I’m sorry. For the kiss. For everything. I know that word doesn’t fix anything. I know I’ve said it so many times it’s lost its meaning. But I am sorry. I hate every moment of that pageantry. I hate that I have to stand beside her and pretend. I hate that she’s using you against me. I hate—"

"Soren." Nyra stood and crossed the distance between them. She reached up and touched his cheek. "I know. I know why you’re doing it. I know she’s threatening to expose me. I know you’re trying to protect me. And I hate it too. But I don’t hate you."

"You should."

"Probably. But I don’t." She smiled—a small, fragile thing. "I love you. Even when you’re kissing other women in front of an audience. Even when you’re being blackmailed by your betrothed. Even when everything is falling apart. I still love you."

He pulled her into his arms and held her like she was the only solid thing in a world that was crumbling around him. "I love you too. So much. And I swear—when this is over—when my father has come and gone and the showcase is finished—I’ll never touch her again. I’ll never even look at her. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you."

"You’d better." She pulled back and looked at him. "Now tell me what she said to you. During the dance. When she whispered in your ear."

Soren’s expression darkened. "She knows. About you. About your secret. She knows you’re a woman, Nyra. She knows you’re the hidden princess. She’s threatening to expose you at the ball if I don’t cooperate."

Nyra’s blood ran cold. "How did she find out?"

"I don’t know. But she’s certain. And she’s ruthless enough to follow through." He cupped her face in his hands. "But I won’t let her. Whatever she’s planning, we’ll stop it. Together."

"Together," Nyra agreed.

But even as she said it, a cold finger of dread traced down her spine. Selene knew. Selene was threatening to expose her. And the King—the most powerful Alpha in the realm—was arriving tomorrow.

The storm was almost upon them. And Nyra wasn’t sure they would survive it.