Page 103 of Nocturn

A throb assaulted my temples, but I couldn’t stop. I flipped the page about ‘Omegas’, the title the prophet called me. The reason redbloods did not menstruate every moon rotation like Bluebloods was because we could only be bred by Alphas—Warlords.

If I didn’t know the council tried hiding the grimoire, or the imprisoned prophet, I would have believed this all impossible. Awakening for redbloods was different from Warlords. Ours were not forced—all of us were meant to Awaken upon our twenty-fifth life rotation. Redbloods needed their Warlords to satisfy them. Our very essence was what was being suppressed by the annum injection.

Tabby’s mention of the suppressants. Of course, they were suppressing me; this had to be some sort of factor in why. How utterly unbelievable . . . yet, it explained so much. I had passed my twenty-fifth life rotation five annum ago—and felt nothing. The injection had kept it sealed in me.

These urges Cassiel wrought from me, the undeniable attraction. All of it was part of our nature. My body was meant to take him. Then why had he shattered my bones with such ease?

My mind raced as I battled with the ache throbbing through my temples. Pacing myself was necessary when reading, but I had not been able to stop. I blinked with effort.

We were all in a caste system, but bluebloods, Betas, had rearranged everything to fit a story that would suit them.

This . . . this explained so much.

The prophet was right. Cassiel must know the truth.

I was his bondmate . . . Me, not some woman who would possess my body. Did that woman even exist? Or was it simply another lie from Bluebloods . . . from the council poisoning Cassiel?

Elation expanded my chest.

I shut the grimoire and my journal in which I had transcribed. Crouching, I placed the journal within the small compartment under my bed, returning my quill and ink as well. The grimoire needed to be somewhere less obvious. I scanned the chamber, and my gaze fell on Branwen’s wardrobe. With a glance at the door, I hurried to the wardrobe and then crouched to slide the grimoire as far under the wardrobe it could go. Now done, I returned to my wardrobe and dressed in the sapphire gown. I walked out with the back of it gaping. Each step pinched my knee, a slight limp added to my gait, as if the tendons were snipped too short. I leaned into my right side and had to stop to brace myself against stone. Bending and unbending my knee did not work.

Exhaling in a short burst, I continued down the path to the parlor.

Branwen, Ida, and Hester sat around the circular table, having tea with dusklight filtering in from the pane.

Ida went still, while Hester eyed my uneven gait.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Hester set aside her teacup. “Branwen did not keep you company so you could fall ill again.” Disapproval marred her scrunched eyebrows.

I didn’t know Branwen had been the one to care for me.

“Thank you,” I directed at her.

“Of course,” she murmured, waving both hands at me. “Do not worry yourself over it. I was happy to help.” Her soft voice remained even with sincerity.

“I have been bedridden for far too long. My legs feel like they need to stretch.” I faced Hester as I said it. The creases on her forehead relaxed, and her lips pursed as she nodded. I faced Branwen again. “Can you help me with the laces?” I asked, turning. She stood and approached. “I must see Cas—Lord Draven,” I corrected myself, clearing my throat.

“You must request a visitation,” Hester answered, sharing a glance with Ida whose eyebrow twitched in that obnoxious way of hers.

“What is it?”

“We have never dared to request an audience with him,” Ida scoffed.

The corners of my lips tightened downward.

They were not his bondmate.

“Who do I speak to about seeing him?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Frigid Warlord

Ayouthful officer stood before me. He slightly inclined his head, then turned on his heel once he delivered the response.

Denied.

Another request was rejected, and I was running out of time.