Chapter 2 - THE MIDNIGHT COURIER
Desmond did not move from the threshold.
His right hand hovered near his jacket lining.
Beneath the fine wool lay the grip of an ivory-hilted blade.
Hazel saw the slight flex of his wrist.
She had seen that exact tension in hunting wolves before they broke cover.
"My Lord," Desmond said, his voice dropping into smooth reverence.
"You speak."
Gideon swung his legs over the edge of the mattress.
The hospital gown pulled across his wide shoulders.
His bare feet touched the cold marble floor with a quiet, solid thud.
The skin beneath his ribs, where black necrotic veins had festered twenty seconds earlier, was pale, smooth, and unbroken.
Only a thin smear of dried copper-red remained.
Dr. Aris dropped his clip-board.
The metal clattered loudly against the floorboards.
"Impossible," the physician breathed, falling to his knees beside the bed.
"The nightshade distillate was triple-concentrated."
"It destroys wolf tissue in under twenty minutes."
Gideon did not look down at the old doctor.
His golden wolf eyes remained locked on Hazel.
Hazel stood frozen by the porcelain washbasin.
Her hand was hidden inside her linen apron pocket.
Her freshly sliced skin throbbed with every heavy beat of her heart.
The blood had soaked through her cotton handkerchief.
A faint, sweet scent—like crushed mountain heather and winter sunlight—began to seep through the sterile smell of iodine.
Aurelian scent.
Gideon inhaled.
His nostrils flared once.
His pupils dilated until almost no amber remained.
The bond snapped into place between them like a forged chain pulled taut over an anvil.
Hazel gasped, her vision tilting.
It was not just mate recognition.
It was the ancient covenant of life-debt.
Her blood was flowing in his veins, warming his cold marrow, setting his royal wolf on fire.
"Dr. Aris," Gideon said.
His voice was a low growl that made the bedside glass rattle.
"Yes, Sire?"
"Shut down the monitors."
Aris blinked through his spectacles. "Sire?"
"Unplug the heart sensors," Gideon commanded.
"Let the line go flat."
Desmond stepped into the bedroom, his eyes narrowing into cold slits.
"Gideon, you must let the council know you have recovered."
"The southern delegation is waiting in the great hall."
"They demand reassurance."
Gideon stood up to his full height.
Six feet four inches of raw royal muscle towered over his second-in-command.
Even stripped of his armor, the Alpha King carried the terrifying weight of an apex predator.
He stepped directly into Desmond’s personal space.
"The southern delegation did not come for reassurance, Desmond."
"They came to verify the corpse."
Desmond’s breath hitched.
His fingers twitched against his lapel.
"You are delirious from the fever, brother."
"I am as clear as mountain ice," Gideon whispered.
He raised his right hand and wiped a trace of Hazel’s dried blood from his ribs.
He held his bloodstained thumb under Desmond’s nose.
"Do you recognize the scent?"
Desmond’s face drained of every ounce of color.
The charcoal suit seemed suddenly two sizes too large for him.
"The white wolves were eradicated fifty years ago," Desmond stammered.
"By royal decree."
"By my grandfather’s betrayal," Gideon corrected coldly.
"And now someone in this house brought that poison back."
Gideon turned his head toward Hazel.
"Pack your bag, little laundry girl."
Hazel gripped the edge of the marble basin until her knuckles ached.
"Sire?"
"You saved a dead king," Gideon said.
"If Desmond walks out that door, you have six minutes to live."
"Gideon, this is madness," Desmond protested, stepping toward the double doors.
"I will summon the palace guard."
He reached for the brass handle.
Before Desmond’s palm could touch the metal, Gideon moved.
The speed of a fully awakened Alpha was faster than human sight.
A sharp gust of air blew the curtains back.
Gideon’s hand clamped around Desmond’s throat with the force of a hydraulic press.
He lifted his second-in-command six inches off the floorboards.
Desmond clawed frantically at Gideon’s wrists, his polished shoes kicking the air.
"Who supplied the ceremonial dagger, Desmond?" Gideon asked calmly.
Desmond’s eyes bulged, blood vessels bursting in his whites.
"No one... I swear..."
Gideon slammed Desmond into the mahogany door panel.
The heavy wood cracked down the center.
"Lie to me again, and I won't need a dagger to take your head."
Hazel stepped forward, her voice shaking but clear.
"The southern envoy," she said.
Gideon looked at her over his shoulder.
"Speak, Hazel."
"I saw Desmond outside the armory at nine," Hazel said, her chin lifting.
"He took a velvet sheath from Lord Kaelen’s courier."
"He told the guards the armory logs were suspended for the banquet."
Desmond hissed through his crushed windpipe, glaring at her with venomous hatred.
"You lying... mongrel..."
Gideon did not hesitate.
He drove his left fist into Desmond’s solar plexus, knocking the remaining air from his lungs.
Then he struck the side of Desmond’s neck with the heel of his palm.
Desmond collapsed onto the rug, unconscious and limp.
Gideon reached into Desmond's coat.
He pulled out the ivory-hilted dagger, a set of brass master keys, and a sealed black envelope stamped with the wax crest of the Southern Obsidian Pack.
Gideon broke the seal with his claw.
He read the single sentence inside:
"The throne will be vacant by midnight. Burn the laundry quarters first."
Gideon crushed the letter in his fist.
He looked at Hazel.
Her auburn hair was falling loose around her neck, framing eyes wide with terror and sudden clarity.
"They already know who you are, Hazel," Gideon said.
"They didn't just want me dead."
"They wanted the last Aurelian healer burned before she could wake my wolf."
Downstairs in the courtyard, three iron bells began to toll.
May you like
The mournful, slow sound of the royal death chimes.
Someone in the castle had just announced the King was dead.
