I smirk as I take my cock into my hand. Gregor. A worm of a man, but useful. His desperation, his love for his sister, binds him like iron chains. He will serve, whether he wishes to or not.
“And Noël?” I ask, my breath quickening as my grip tightens.
“No sign of her yet, Your Imperial Majesty,” Bard replies, his head bowed. “But our scouts believe she’s hiding within the vólkins’ land, in Ávera.”
My hand is stilled momentarily by the anger pooling in my chest. Noël. That insolent brat, the daughter of the woman who dared defy me. My Eyleen. My perfect Eyleen, stolen from me by her foolish rebellion. My grip tightens again, rage and desire merging as one.
“Your daughter is fucking a wolf,” I spit. “Just as you did.” My hand moves faster now, the friction stokes the fire in my veins. “Were you not satisfied with me, Eyleen?!” My voice echoes off the stone walls. “No,” I snarl, leaning closer to her frozen body. “You wanted more. But look where you are now. Still mine.”
I force her cold, lifeless hand to wrap around my length. The chill of her skin on me is thrilling. I stroke myself with her hand, using her as she should have been used when she still lived. My breath hitches.
“Your Imperial Majesty.” Bard’s voice cuts through my frenzy. “The knyzya await your presence in the council chamber.”
I laugh. “Let them wait.”
My hand moves faster and harder. “Weak men,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “Parasites. Feeding on my scraps. But I will remind them who the tsar is. Who the god of this land truly is.”
My release comes with a growl, spilling onto the stone floor at Bard’s feet. I shudder, though the satisfaction is fleeting, replaced by the endless void inside me. I release her hand to drop limply against the table.
“Oy!” I bark.
The guards stationed outside burst into the chamber.
“Clean this,” I order, gesturing to the mess. “My wife prefers her chambers pristine.”
The guards bow and move to obey. Bard waits for my command.
“Tell the knyzya I will join them shortly,” I say as I refasten my trousers and straighten my robes.
“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” Bard says with one more bow, then disappears into the shadows.
I turn back to Eyleen, brushing a hand over her cold cheek. My voice drops to a whisper. “And you, my love... You will see me tonight.”
The heavy double doors groan as they open on the council chamber bathed in golden light from the small glass windows. The knyzya stand as I enter and bow as I approach. The scent of polished wood fills my nose, alongside the smoke of burning incense to mask the dampness of the ancient stone walls. As I make my way to the head of the table, the sound of my boots striking the floor reverberates in the wide room.
Caelan, his face framed by a trimmed beard, inclines his head as I pass. “Your Imperial Majesty, you’ve summoned us with haste. I assume the matter is urgent.”
Letting my eyes sweep the room, I take my seat. “Sit.”
The knyzya obey as they exchange glances with one another, then gazes lock on mine. These men understand my authority, though some are better at hiding their discontent than others. Like my two brothers, sitting across from each other.
“The vólkins are free,” I begin. “The barrier has fallen, and their leader, Noël Ársa, gathers strength.”
Gavril leans forward, his jaw tight. “A leader? A woman? And what do we know of her?”
“She is dangerous,” I say. “And resourceful. A daughter of Eyleen Ársa.”
A murmur spreads through the room, gasps barely stifled. Elias, the soft-spoken knyaz of Róstan, frowns. “Eyleen Ársa? The blue rose who??—”
“My wife,” I interject. “And her daughter seems intent on continuing the rebellion. She has allied with the vólkins, and they are more organized than ever before. She has their loyalty and power. A human sergeant, backed by an army of wolves.”
When my men questioned Gregor, he revealed the truth. A vólkin stands by Noël’s side. Her mate. They are unbonded—for now—but that is only a matter of time. Once their bond is complete, she will not settle for a quiet life in Ávera. That is not who Noël is. Noël Ársa is a force of rage and power, a woman made in defiance and driven by fury, just like her mother. She is not meant to live in obscurity. She is meant to fight. To lead. To silence the weak and to serve under my command, as she should have from the start.
Hakan clears his throat. “If what you say is true, Your Imperial Majesty, this poses a grave threat. What is our course of action?”
I lean forward, steepling my fingers. “The vólkins cannot be allowed to thrive. They are a crack in the foundation of our rule. If left unchecked, they will inspire rebellion across Vathéria.”
The previous generation of vólkins was completely uninterested in the world beyond their eyes. Content with their mates, they turned their backs on the chaos happening outside their lands. But Noël is no ordinary woman. She is a blue rose, the Lidéren. She will not rest in complacency, she will lead them into chaos, a storm waiting to be unleashed. I feel it in the marrow of my bones, an inevitability that cannot be ignored.
