CHAPTER 212: _ THE FAST CARD

Grayson chuckles softly, the concern previously on his face existing for relief as he wanders off down the hall, humming under his breath. Morgan watches him go until he disappears around the corner.

The smile on Morgan’s face dies instantly.

He turns toward his wing of the house, walking slowly at first, then faster in long and silent strides. The corridors are empty and the air is still and suddenly, his heartbeat, the whisper of his shoes against the carpet, every goddam sound seems amplified and unnatural.

By the time he reaches his room, the calm facade is already dwindling. He shuts the door quietly behind him, making the click of the lock echo like a gunshot. And then, he stops pretending.

Morgan explodes.

It starts as a low, gruff growl. It’s one that shakes his chest and crawls up his throat. He grabs the nearest object which is a crystal decanter, and hurls it against the wall. It shatters with a scream of glass and liquor, amber liquid splattering across the marble floor like spilled blood.

"Fucking perfect," he snarls, pacing. "Just fucking perfect!"

The steps he takes are a pulse of anger. Every inhale is a burn. Luke surges up beneath his skin, claws scraping, desperate to break through.

"You think you can share her?" he mutters to the empty room. "You think you can split her like some damn inheritance?"

He kicks over a chair, making the crash echo in the high-ceilinged space. His hands rake through his hair, tugging until his scalp stings.

"She’s mine," he quietly says now, but the silence is worse. His tone is soft but venomously sharp. "You don’t share what’s yours. You take it. You keep it. You protect it."

His reflection stares back at him from the mirror above the fireplace; hair wild, pupils blown wide, breath shallow. There’s a smear of blood on his hand from the shattered glass. He doesn’t remember cutting himself. He doesn’t care.

He presses his palm flat against the cool marble mantle and leans in close to the mirror.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "The fool. The joke. They laugh, and you laugh with them. But you’re the one with the knife. The one who’ll end up smiling over their graves."

His lips twitch into a grin that looks more like a wound.

The wolf is howling now, clawing, whispering. End it. End it. End it.

He slams his fist into the wall once. Then twice and thrice. The plaster cracks. His knuckles split. The pain is barely felt.

"Soon," he growls. "They’ll see. They’ll all see."

He starts pacing again, breathing hard, dragging his fingers along the wall until they leave faint streaks of blood.

Every buried resentment in him bubbles up like acid. Tobias’s sneer. Darien’s leadership. Amias’s righteousness. Grayson’s easy warmth. All of it — all of them... pressing down on him his whole damn life.

He’s the overlooked one. The shadow they all think can’t cast one of his own. But shadows grow darker when the light gets brighter.

He stops in the middle of the room, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. His pulse pounds in his ears. His vision swims red for a heartbeat.

He whispers, voice breaking into a laugh. "You want to play family? Fine. Let’s play."

He spins toward the shattered glass on the floor, crouching down to pick up a shard. It catches the light, glittering beautifully in a sharp, clean, and honest way. He twirls it between his fingers, watching the crimson smear of his blood on its edge.

"This is who I am," he says to no one, yet to everyone. "Not the fool. Not the brother. The wolf who wins."

He brings the glass to his lips, presses it lightly against his teeth, just to feel the sting. His wolf purrs beneath his skin, satisfied.

With that, the rage softens and mutates into something else. Something quieter.

He straightens, staring toward the window where sunlight filters through the thin curtains. Outside, the wind moves through the trees, gentle and steady.

Heidi.

The name alone calms him. Or maybe it drives him madder. He can’t tell anymore.

He can see her in his mind. He sees the way her eyes catch the light, the way her scent makes the wolf go still for once, the way every part of her feels like home and danger all at once.

He presses his hand to his chest, fingers still greasy with blood. "You feel that?" he says softly to the air, to the invisible shape of her that’s always near. "That’s yours, sweetheart. You already own it. You own all of me."

He takes a few steps forward, his grin spreading again. But this time, it’s not the careless one, not the mask, but something... Intimate.

"You don’t have to worry," he murmurs, tilting his head as though she’s standing right there in front of him. "I’ll come for you soon. And when I do, no one’s going to separate us. Not them. Not fate. Not the fucking Moon herself."

He drops the shard, hears it crack on the floor, and watches it with eerie calm.

"Right... my fast card," he whispers. "Guess it’s time to play it. I can not wait anymore."

And then he smiles in the most terrifyingly calm way.

The fool is gone. The vengeful wolf remains.

He moves toward the wardrobe. It’s not the one filled with clothes, but the one with a false back. The air around it hums faintly, vibrating at a pitch the human ear wouldn’t notice, but every hair on his arms rises. It smells faintly of scorched stone and the scent of power, of old dust soaked in blood and secrets.

He presses his palm against the back panel. It shifts with a low groan, like a creature waking from centuries of sleep. Behind it, wrapped in black silk and sealed with a sigil that looks burned into reality itself, lies the thing that has been whispering to him since he got back from the labyrinth.

His fast card.

The demon core.

It’s not large, no bigger than his fist, but it pulses faintly, like a heart made of dying embers. The light within it flickers between red and violet, oil-slicked and mesmerizing, and every beat seems to bubble through the air like the space around it is bending.

Morgan stares at it with a crooked grin. "You’re even prettier than I remember."