CHAPTER 65: CHAPTER 65: RABID WOLF

IVAN’S POV

The next few days, since the failed separation ritual, were spent in a state of unrest.

And by unrest, I meant I avoided Maeve like the plague.

I could hardly sleep at night, or eat, or blink, or go a single second without nearly tearing myself apart for losing my sanity before Maeve.

She wasn’t supposed to find out about that — I’d long since been diagnosed by Revierre for having a restless wolf as a result of the distance between myself and my fated mate.

Or at least, that was what we thought it was at first — my wolf’s desperate need to be with his beloved.

But, like cancer, it extended to aggressive outbursts, rage of unbridled limits, and the itch — goddess, the fucking itch — to find her by all means possible.

It haunted my mind with nightmares, poisoned my thoughts with anger at myself, eroded my sanity, and almost killed my mind. It came with the wrath bond — growing only more unstable as the years went by.

I’d thought it was within my control, something that could be subdued by sheer will and a clenched jaw. But it was like pushing against a wall closing in, with straw hands.

The tempering spell was the flimsiest attempt to mimic calm for my mind — and it worked. Fuck, it had been working.

But much like everything else since this goddamn woman returned, it went up in flames. Now, this disease promised to consume my mind, my waking thoughts, my slumbers — every fucking moment — with thoughts of Maeve.

And when Revierre had dared to counter our claim on her, had dared to stand between us and the very one who might as well be our damnation, all I’d seen was red.

The thirst to end his life and coat my claws with his blood.

And I would have.

I’d have given in to the rage, the vivid haze of violence, if Maeve hadn’t seen me that way — if she hadn’t stared at me with those beautiful, terrified eyes, if she hadn’t drawn back with fear, maybe disgust, maybe even more hatred at the sight of the very thing I’d become.

Was this the person she was expected to trust her boy with? Was this the man she was expected to trust her heart with? An unstable mad king with a disturbing form of obsession with her?

The last time we were together, I’d been far less of a mess — cold and distant, yes, but stable — and even then, she refused to come back. So what chance did I have now, in this unstable, maddened state?

The shame was gutting — leaving me restless and holed up in my chambers, like a teenager who’d just pissed himself before the entire school.

When I wasn’t rotting away in my room, uncharacteristic of the king I strived to be, I went for long, extreme runs in the woods. Running until I couldn’t feel my limbs — sometimes in my human form, sometimes in my wolf’s.

I ran until breathing was nearly impossible, until the only thought that haunted my mind was a need for water. Yet even then, Maeve’s name snuck its way in regardless.

It didn’t matter how far I ran, how long I pushed myself into near death, how extremely I punished myself — nothing could sever her hold on my sanity.

Back at the pack house, Francis handled most of my affairs. On days where the spiral hit hard, I trusted him enough to know the pack was in safe hands.

He mostly gave me the space to walk back into the light, but if it went on for too long, he’d always step in.

I had no idea what was going on in the pack currently. I’d taken to coming in through the private entrances of the mansion and the lonelier hallways — both to avoid my own people and, well... my own mate.

Now, just as I had taken to doing, I returned to the pack house in the evening hours, close to falling to the ground, given that I’d been running since 5 a.m.

I took the same route as always, one mostly reserved for pack officials. It was while dragging my dead weight through the hallway that I found Francis waiting.

I paused — frowned.

"Finally," the man groaned, a weariness weighing down his form. "I’d thought you’d be out there till midnight. I was considering chasing you down."

"Hello, Francis." I watched him carefully, eyes falling on the sealed official letter in his hand. "Is... there a problem?"

He barked out a laugh — less amused and more we’re fucked. It was only when he drew closer that I saw the seal on the maroon letter. I froze.

"Problem? Problem is an understatement, Your Highness." He waved the letter then. "The High Council sent this, and if I go by my instinct, this is an invitation for an audience."

Fuck. That really was a problem. The only time they bothered to send a letter was when there were issues that needed addressing. Severe issues considered a state matter.

Slowly, I took the letter from him, eyes meeting his briefly as I asked, "Is this about my absence?"

Francis shrugged. "Barty had it delivered this afternoon. I’d missed the morning meeting due to a small issue on the pack outskirts, but he told me it was... chaos. The elders are not happy, Ivan."

I rolled my eyes with a snort. "Whenever are they? Is this about the coronation and heir again?"

"Not quite. Barty told me the Council gathered to discuss a certain... murmur making its way through the pack. All of it, about you."

My eyes met his now — they were entirely morose, tense, but lurking with a flicker of fear.

"Go on, Francis."

"They are calling you the Rabid Wolf, Your Highness."

My blood rushed cold.

"Somehow — I don’t understand it — but somehow word about your... your condition got out. Some swore they sighted you as a beast during the night of the Severance. Some claim you... attacked them. I—I don’t understand, because you never left the perimeters. I don’t get it. No one else was there except..." He frowned to himself, a slow realization clicking in his eyes, but he was quick to catch up with his words, shaking his head. "Well, it’s out now, isn’t it? We have a bigger problem, because the Council is taking a high interest in the matter. Barty and his big mouth told them how the last tempering spell didn’t do much to stop the outburst this time. The Council is calling in for questioning and... an evaluation on how fit you are to sit on the Ash Creek throne."

"Fucking hell," I breathed out.