The truth caught in her throat—but she forced it out. “I’ve come to realize . . . Castiel wasn’t my escape. He was . . . my excuse.”
The princes stilled again as the weight of her own words sank into her chest.
“He made me believe he was the way out,” she said, voice roughening. “He handled everything—the wagon, the ship, the promises of marriage once we reached Batteron.”
Her hands curled into the fabric of her skirt. “But it wasn’t freedom. It was a lie I wanted to believe.”
Alarik’s shoulders eased, just slightly.
“You wanted a future you could recognize,” he said, his voice low. “And he gave you that. Something familiar. Something safe. He fed your fears, twisted them until you thought you were running toward something, not away.”
Kaelendrin exhaled slowly, tipping his head, studying her. “That’s not freedom. That’s manipulation. He took what scared you most and led you precisely where he wanted.”
Reiya swallowed hard, shame burning behind her ribs.
“And I let him,” she whispered. “I practically asked him to.”
Kaelendrin’s gaze locked on hers—steady, unflinching. “You thought we would silence you,” he said, his voice dropping low, cutting clean. “But you were the only one who could silence yourself.”
The words struck her like a sudden gust of wind, sharp and undeniable. No one spoke, the moment stretching between them, heavy with all the things she couldn’t take back.
Then, Kaelendrin exhaled, slow and rough. His arms crossed over his chest, and for the first time since they’d found her again, a faint, almost reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Besides,” he muttered, almost under his breath, “if we wanted a silent, obedient Omega, you’d be the worst possible choice.”
For a heartbeat, she could only stare at him—caught between the sting of it and something dangerously close to laughter rising in her chest.
Alarik shook his head, his mouth curving just slightly. “That was a jest,” he said dryly. “Poorly timed. But still a jest.”
Kaelendrin only huffed, the sound not entirely unfriendly, as if some invisible weight had finally loosened around him.
She flexed her fingers, a thousand tiny needles pricking at her skin as warmth returned. The ground between them was still unsteady, but maybe . . . not completely broken.
Kaelendrin tipped his head toward her. “Now, tell us everything.”
And so, she did—the tainted wine, the groggy haze dulling her senses, the rough bindings cutting into her wrists as Castiel watched with cold indifference.
Her voice faltered in places, but she forced the words out. Each truth stripped away another layer of illusion, unravelling the trust she’d once given him, thread by fragile thread.
Kaelendrin stood rigid, his arms crossed, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. Alarik remained still, unreadable. He didn’t react outwardly, but his silence felt heavier than his brother’s restlessness, as if he were jotting down every piece of information, already mapping the shape of the deception.
A slow burn crept up her cheeks. Looking back now, it was painfully clear.
Even Castiel’s whispered promise before the tournament—‘I could take you away from this. Say the word, dove.’—hadn’t been a declaration of love or loyalty. It had been a setup.
She lowered her gaze, her stomach twisting as she recalled the accusations Castiel had hurled at her on the ship.
And he had been . . .right.
Her grip tightened on the shawl. “He said it himself . . . that I chose him because he wasn’t an Alpha.” Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. “That in the end, he used me, just as I used him.”
Alarik finally spoke. “And you think that makes you the same?” His voice was even, but something hard lurked beneath it. “That your desperation was equal to his manipulation?”
Her pulse stumbled, then surged. She’d braced for judgment—for the sharp edge of disappointment she was sure would follow. But whenit didn’t come, when she found only quiet waiting in their eyes, it left her more unmoored than any condemnation would have.
Maybe she had used Castiel in her own way, but hadn’t he done the same? He’d dangled the promise of escape, shaped himself into precisely what she needed . . . only to rip it away when it suited him.
If she had used him, ithadbeen desperation.
