CHAPTER 162: MOVE PAST IT

The study itself was overwhelming—rows of high bookshelves towering along the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes and scrolls. Golden and crimson fabrics draped the chairs. There was a quiet luxury that glowed around every object almost like it had been infused to ensure that everything looked like it belonged to a King.

But Aira’s eyes stayed on him.

She opened her mouth to speak. "You wanted to speak to me..." Her voice was quiet, careful. Just in case he had forgotten. Especially since, instead of responding, he kept his back turned to her. Calm. Distant. Detached.

He went ahead to pour himself a drink—something she was confident wasn’t blood simply because she knew how he liked to drink his. The scent was faint and spiced, not coppery.

Finally, he turned.

His mouth parted slightly, just enough for her to see the sharp gleam of his fangs as he sipped from his cup. Then he spoke.

The ritual is tonight!" he said.

Aira didn’t let him continue.

The moment the words left his lips, she responded—her tone sharp, slicing through the air between them with more bite than she would have liked. "I’m aware," she told him, her voice louder than necessary, charged with suppressed anger.

But Zyren didn’t flinch. He didn’t react to the disrespect laced within her tone. He didn’t raise his voice, or glare, or call her out. Instead, he continued speaking as if she hadn’t interrupted him at all, as if her irritation was irrelevant. His calmness only served to provoke her further.

"You’re not going to run, are you?" he asked. His voice carried less curiosity and more a threat—a promise wrapped in a question. His eyes, redder than before, gleamed faintly in the study’s dim light, locking onto hers with unyielding force. It wasn’t just a warning. It was a declaration. "The last thing I want to do is have to hunt you down."

Aira’s lips parted slightly, breath catching at the sharp weight of his gaze. Her hands, clenched at her sides, trembled. She wanted to snap back, but what came out was strained and exasperated.

"I’m not running," she said at last, her voice dry and thin, stripped of warmth. Her tone made it clear that she wanted nothing more than to leave, to turn around and slam the door in his face. But she didn’t. She held her ground, even as the fury inside her boiled.

She couldn’t stop the pounding in her ears as she watched Zyren take another slow sip from his cup. He was utterly composed—casual, even—when he finally continued.

"For the ritual," he began again, voice cool and almost thoughtful, "Savira mentioned that we would have to mate as the final requirement."

The words hit Aira like a hammer to the skull.

She stared, blinking slowly, stunned into silence for a heartbeat too long.

"M-Mate!" she spat, the word escaping her like venom as her face contorted into an expression of disbelief and disgust. It echoed in the study like a slap. Her eyebrows scrunched tightly together, her entire body stiffening as the weight of what he’d said truly hit her.

She could barely register it at first. It didn’t make sense. Not in any world she knew. Her voice came again, louder now, rising in pitch as her body leaned forward in pure disbelief.

"We’re not werewolves!" she snapped. The words came fast, burning with fury. "We’re not—" She stopped herself, breath heaving. The disgust and rage that twisted inside her now painted every line of her face.

But Zyren remained calm.

His gaze didn’t waver. His expression didn’t shift.

"We’re two people that have slept with each other," he said matter-of-factly, not a single muscle on his face twitching. His voice remained flat, without shame, without teasing. "That’s the final requirement."

It felt like someone had shoved a dagger into her gut.

Aira’s body turned rigid. Her fists tightened at her sides again, nails digging into her palms as a deep red haze filled her vision for a split second. She had sworn to herself not to sleep with him again. She had clung to that promise like a rope of dignity—the last piece of control she had left.

She had thought—no, believed—that if she just made it through the ritual, if she endured it and bonded, then maybe, just maybe, she would finally be free of the heat that made her want him against her will. That primal ache that had betrayed her again and again.

But now?

Now he was telling her she had to give in to it. Again.

Fury seared her chest, hot and cold all at once. She didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. Her jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt. Her nostrils flared as she glared at him, breathing heavily, trying—failing—to find the words to express the depth of her rage.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw something. She wanted to run.

But instead, she stood there, body trembling with fury, glaring at him.

She was beyond incensed. And she didn’t try to hide it.

Her breath hitched. Her arms remained frozen, her shoulders stiff. Her eyes bore into his, searching for a crack in his resolve—but there was none. None at all.

She huffed—a sharp, bitter exhale of frustration—as she tried to find the right words to say. Her mouth opened once, then closed again. Nothing came.

And then Zyren spoke once more.

"Going forward, we need to move past the fact that—"

But Aira didn’t let him finish.

She knew exactly where he was going. She knew what he was about to say, and it made something inside her snap.

Her breath caught again, sharper this time.

He was going to tell her to forget.

To forgive.

To move on.

To push aside the blood on his hands.

To act like he hadn’t killed her father. Her brother. Her family.

He was going to trivialize it.

Reduce it to a footnote in their twisted story.

And that—above all—was something she could never do.

Not now.

Not ever.