Thorne’s glare could have melted stone. “Update me on what, exactly?” he demanded, desperate to redirect the conversation away from his humiliating entrance.

  “The assassins. They’re not talking. At least, not to me. I’ve spent hours with them, but...” He shrugged, running a hand through his copper hair. “Whoever sent them made sure they wouldn’t break easily.”

  “I can handle that,” Nightbriar said, his voice dropping to a register that made Thorne’s skin prickle.

  His voice had shifted—no longer heated with frustration, but cold. His eyes had gone flat, the warm toffee darkening to something hollow. Purpose, stripped of humanity. Like watching a man remove his own soul and set it aside.

  “Captain,” Thorne said, the word catching in his throat. “That’s not necessary. Rillian’s interrogators are⁠—”

  “Ineffective, clearly.” Nightbriar’s gaze didn’t waver. “I have methods they don’t.”

  Rillian waved a hand dismissively, as if they were discussing dinner options rather than torture. “By all means, captain. My interrogators have their limits.” He took another sip of wine, utterly unperturbed by Nightbriar’s chilling transformation. “I suspect the Noctblade don’t share those constraints.”

  Thorne stared at his friend, momentarily forgetting his humiliation. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Why not? My methods failed. Time to try his.” He nodded toward Nightbriar with something like professional respect. “The captain’s known for results. We need answers.”

  Thorne didn’t flinch at the mention of interrogation. But it was the way Nightbriar spoke that caught him. A precision instrument tucked into a velvet box and pulled out only when necessary.

  Rillian didn’t seem to notice.

  “Do you have any preferences, Captain?” he asked casually, still nursing Thorne’s wine like it was his own. “Room’s already reinforced. Privacy spells are in place. Just say the word.”

  Nightbriar’s tone didn’t change. “I don’t need much. Just a chair. Rope, if they’re likely to fight. And quiet.”

  Rillian nodded. “Let me know if you want someone nearby to dispose of any… side effects.”

  Thorne’s stomach didn’t turn. It didn’t.

  He’d ordered deaths before. Signed letters that ended lineages. This wasn’t new.

  And gods, it shouldn’t bother him. The change in the captain. It shouldn’t make his throat tighten or his skin feel too tight or his thoughts spin like a wheel with a broken spoke.

  But it did.

  Because a man that strong, that silent, that controlled—shouldn’t be so good at turning it off.

  “—alive,” Rillian’s voice dragged Thorne’s attention back. “That’s the only line, far as I care. We need them talking, not corpses. Everything else?” He shrugged. “Use your judgment.”

  The captain gave a short nod, impassive.

  Thorne looked at him. Really looked.

  He didn’t see the man who’d tucked a blanket around him. Didn’t see the infuriating guard who’d just carried him through the palace like some furious bride. Didn’t even see the soldier.

  He saw a weapon.

  Thorne cleared his throat. “You’ll report back when it’s done.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  Nightbriar met his gaze. For the first time, there was no spark. Just emptiness. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  And Thorne hated how the title suddenly sounded like distance instead of mockery.

  The captain’s departure was as quiet as his arrivals never were, the door closing with barely a whisper. Thorne stared at it, jaw still clenched tight enough to crack teeth, willing the wood to burst into flames through sheer fury.

  “So,” Rillian’s voice dripped with unholy glee. “Want to explain why your new captain was carrying you like a bride on her wedding night?”

  “I will end you,” Thorne hissed, spinning to face his friend. “I will end your entire bloodline.”

  Rillian clutched his chest dramatically. “You wound me. After I’ve been sitting here, nursing your poor dog⁠—”

  “You’ve been drinking my wine and eating my food.”

  “—and then you arrive in the arms of the most terrifying man in the palace guard.” Rillian’s grin widened impossibly. “Tell me, does he cradle you to sleep at night too? Read you bedtime stories?”

  “I’m going to feed you to Pudge,” Thorne muttered, stalking to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of wine. His hands weren’t shaking. They weren’t. And the heat crawling up his neck was pure rage, nothing else.

  “He’d never,” Rillian said, reaching down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “We’re best friends. Right, Pudge?”

  The traitor thumped his tail against the floor.

  Thorne downed half the glass in one swallow, trying to wash away the lingering sensation of Nightbriar’s arms around him.

  “He carried me through half the palace,” Thorne said, voice low with quiet fury. “Like I was a sack of flour. In front of everyone.”

  “Mmm,” Rillian hummed, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Terrible. How dare he touch the royal person with his big, strong hands.”

  “I’ll have him executed.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Thorne glared at him over the rim of his glass. “I might.”

  “You won’t,” Rillian said, more seriously this time. “Because he’s doing exactly what he’s supposed to do—keeping you alive. Even when you’re being a complete ass about it.”

  “I wasn’t being an ass.”

  Rillian’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? So Captain Nightbriar just decided to carry you through the palace for fun? As a bonding exercise perhaps?”

  Thorne stared at his wine glass, jaw working.

  “I might have attempted to secure him in a storage room,” he finally admitted, voice tight with lingering indignation. “Temporarily.”

  Rillian burst into laughter, head thrown back, shoulders shaking. “You tried to—oh gods—you tried to lock Captain Nyric Nightbriar in a bloody closet? Like a feral cat?”

  “It was a perfectly reasonable strategy,” Thorne muttered, refilling his glass. “The man’s insufferable. Always hovering. Always judging. I needed space.”

  “So you lured him into a closet?” Rillian wiped tears from his eyes. “What did you think would happen?”

  “That he’d stay there until I was done talking to the prisoners,” Thorne grumbled, pacing now. “Not that he’d manhandle me through half the palace.”

  Rillian’s laughter doubled in intensity. “Oh, this is better than I could have imagined. The Crown Prince, outsmarted and manhandled by his own guard.” He wiped at his eyes. “What was it like? Being swept off your feet by the infamous Noctblade?”

  “It was humiliating,” Thorne snapped. “And unnecessary. And completely⁠—”

  “Thrilling?” Rillian supplied, eyes glinting with mischief. “Did your heart flutter? Did you swoon in his strong, capable arms?”

  “I will end you.”

  “Oh.” Rillian’s eyes widened with unholy delight. “Oh no. You’re attracted to him.”

  “I am not.” Thorne’s denial came too quickly, too forcefully.

  “You are!” Rillian crowed, sitting up straighter. “The mighty Crown Prince, felled by a pair of strong arms and a scowl.”

  “Will you shut up?” Thorne hissed, stalking across the room to put distance between himself and Rillian’s knowing grin. “He’s an arrogant, overbearing⁠—”

  “Specimen of a man?” Rillian suggested, eyebrows waggling. “With shoulders broad enough to carry a grown prince through the palace without breaking a sweat?”

  “I hate you.”

  “You know what’s really telling?” Rillian continued, undeterred. “You haven’t denied it. Not really.”

  “I am not attracted to him!” Thorne slammed his empty glass down. “He’s arrogant, stubborn, cold.” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, “And he smells like juniper and spice and fucking fire and it’s infuriating because how am I supposed to think clearly when it’s invading my senses? The man could at least have the decency to smell terrible.”

  Rillian’s triumphant expression was enough to make Thorne want to hurl his wine glass across the room.

  “What was that about his smell?” he asked, leaning forward with predatory interest.

  “It’s not—I didn’t mean—” Thorne fumbled, realizing too late what he’d admitted. Heat crawled up his neck and settled in his cheeks. “That’s not the point.”

  “You noticed how he smells,” Rillian said slowly, savouring each word like fine wine. “That’s not hatred, Thorne. That’s something else entirely.”

  “It’s disgust,” Thorne insisted, but the words rang hollow even to his own ears. “Professional awareness. The misfortune of possessing nostrils.”

  “And what exactly does he smell like again?” Rillian pressed, his grin growing impossibly wider. “Juniper and...?”

  “I’m not doing this,” Thorne stalked to the window, yanking back the curtains to let in the late afternoon light. “Don’t you have something more important to do? Like governing? Or bothering literally anyone else in the palace?”

  “Nothing is more important than watching you blush,” Rillian replied cheerfully. “Besides, the kingdom can survive without me for an hour while I enjoy this spectacle.”

  “I’m leaving,” Thorne announced, refusing to dignify Rillian’s teasing with further response. “I need air that isn’t contaminated by your ridiculous accusations.”

  “Running away won’t change the fact that you noticed his⁠—”

  The door to the chambers flew open with such force it slammed against the wall, making both men jump. Pudge let out a startled yelp, scrambling to his feet.

  Nightbriar stood in the doorway, his massive frame filling the space completely. His expression was thunderous, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped beneath his skin. But it was his eyes that made Thorne’s world pause—they burned with fury, dark and violent.

  “The prisoners are dead.”

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  This book clawed its way into the world with blood under its nails and starlight in its mouth—and I did not survive the journey alone.

  To Bex, Ashley, Felicia, Neil, Arrie, and Kelsey⁠—

  Thank you for being my first line of defence and destruction, the ones who fell headfirst into this story and never looked back. You didn’t just read—you invested, heart and soul and, at times, sanity. You raged with me, wept with me, sent me messages in all caps at 2 a.m., and offered the kind of unhinged encouragement only true story-obsessed gremlins can provide.

  You saw these characters not as words on a page, but as real, messy, aching people. You held space for their trauma and triumph, and in doing so, you held space for me.

  I love you more than Isara loves stabbing her problems. (Which is to say… immeasurably.)

  To Mark and Jenna, who endured the sheer apocalyptic cyclone of my DM meltdowns with heroic patience. You stood strong as I paced the edge of madness, whispering, “breathe,” while I absolutely did not.

  To Vee, Deb, and Captain. Thank you for showing up in the admin chat every day before ARC’s as I spiralled like a comet on fire. Your humour, reassurance, and refusal to let me implode alone made this journey survivable.

  To everyone in the Beta Hive. Whether you devoured Isara’s story or simply tolerated my unhinged author energy for months on end, you shaped this book. Your support turned doubt into momentum, panic into purpose.

  To my mother⁠—

  Thank you for reading every single word of this book, even when it was very much not your thing. You waded through the shadows, endured the heartbreak, and yes… even powered through the spicy scenes written by your own daughter (which is a horror I would not wish upon anyone).

  Your willingness to step into this world just to support me means more than I can say.

  To Josh⁠—

  Thank you for being the unsung hero of this book, the man behind the madness, the Domestic Warlord who kept the kingdom running while I disappeared into fae realms and emotional devastation.

  You entertained our children for hours, cooked meals when your bones begged for rest, and conquered Mount Laundry on a near-daily basis with the grim determination of a man at war. You brought me snacks before I passed out. You reminded me to drink water (even if I never did). You tolerated my late-night rants about plot twists, trauma arcs, and whether or not a man can be stabbed emotionally and literally at the same time.

  And when I wanted to give up? When the imposter syndrome came for me with fangs and fire? You looked me dead in the eye and said if I quit now, after everything you endured—including but not limited to folding hundreds of tiny socks—you would throw me bodily into the Veil yourself.

  You didn’t just hold down the fort.

  You were the fort.

  You are the reason this book exists—and also the reason our children didn’t forget what vegetables are.

  To my characters, who refused to be polite or reasonable or quiet. You were loud. You were broken. You were feral. And gods, I love you for it.

  To trauma, for giving me far too much material. I hate you. I mine you. I transform you into fiction and dare anyone to look away.

  This book is made of bones and blood and belief. Of hands that held me and hands that dropped me and the iron-hard determination to write anyway.

  If you’re holding it now, you are part of its story too.

  And I am so fucking glad you’re here.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Fuelled by equal parts caffeine, chaos, and the shrill screams of characters begging for mercy, Giselle Anastasia writes fiction that bites back.

  Her work is inspired by the madness of her mind and a suspicious amount of Red Bull. She believes in love that ruins you, magic that scars, and trauma arcs so intense you’ll need to scream into the void (or a group chat). Because whether it’s cursed fae warriors or emotionally constipated hockey players, suffering is a universal language.

  If you’re here for soft romances and happy little elves, run.

  If you’re here for shadow-drenched vengeance, feral intimacy, broken men on skates, and emotionally compromised idiots making catastrophic life choices—welcome home.

 

 

  Giselle Anastasia, A Song in Darkness

 

 

  Thank you for reading books on GrayCity.Net
Share this book with friends