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Turning to Michael, I lower my voice and prepare to speak, now that we're devoid of unwanted ears.
Michael beats me to it. “You cannot throw the property of the order around.”
I pin him against the wall, my hand gripping his shirt, the fabric bunching under my fingers. His eyes widen with a mix of fear and the realization that I’m not here to chat.
"Where is your sister?" I demand, my voice low with a controlled calm that belies the storm raging within.
"I—I cannot involve myself—" Michael stammers, his voice barely above a whisper, but I'm not in the mood for excuses or deflections.
"WHERE IS YOUR SISTER?!" My shout echoes off the walls, a stark contrast to the hushed tones we'd maintained earlier.
Michael's resistance crumbles under the weight of my gaze, his defenses falling away as he confesses, "My King, I am sorry. I have been commanded by Victor to not have anything to do with my sister. That is why I could not attend the annual dinner. She cannot know that I am here."
I press on, knowing that Michael's position as Page to Victor grants him access to secrets and information that could be pivotal.
"You know all of Victor’s secrets, right?" I probe, searching his face for any hint of deception or evasion.
Michael hesitates, the weight of his allegiance and the burden of his knowledge etched into the lines of his face. "One cannot begin to imagine the burden our Hand—" he starts, but I cut him off, my patience frayed to its breaking point.
"Stop simping, you piece of shit. You know his secrets." My words are sharp, a knife slicing through the air between us.
Michael's resolve hardens, a flicker of defiance in his eyes as he meets my gaze squarely. "Our Hand trusts me," he admits, a simple statement that reveals the depth of his loyalty and the extent of his involvement in the inner workings of our order.
I release him, stepping back.
Michael straightens his shirt. I should walk away, but I can’t. I need to know where Amira is, and if anyone knows, it would be Victor. He has eyes and ears everywhere.
I spin and grip Michael again, forcing him against the wall.
“Then you know his…. special purpose for me?”
The revelation hits me like a physical blow, sending a wave of cold fury coursing through my veins.
"Then you know his…special purpose for me," I repeat, the words heavy with the gravity of our situation.
I can almost hear his heart pounding, a frantic rhythm against my clenched fists. Finally, he nods, a silent confirmation that sends a chill down my spine.
Michael's confirmation that Victor has a specific, dangerous purpose for me isn't surprising, but the knowledge that my Bride, my intended, is under the control of my own cousin is a betrayal I hadn't anticipated.
"Victor is a dangerous man; we both can agree on this. Michael, I am the man that dangerous men call," I say, the truth of my words hanging between us. It's a reminder of my role, my power, and the fear I can invoke.
His next words are cautious, laden with significance. "She is still under our control."
"How?" The question is a growl.
"She is with your cousin, sir." Michael's response is a grenade.
In a flash of rage, I slam him against the wall, the impact knocking photos to the floor, their frames shattering upon impact. "WHAT?! She is my Bride. She can't be sold!" The words are torn from me, a roar of anger and possession.
Michael, despite his predicament, retains a semblance of calm. "She isn’t being trained, my King. Wolf has claimed her.”
Wolf, who isn’t even a Duke, took a Bride from a King. Normally, there are consequences for this, but obviously, no one enforces those consequences.
The audacity of the move, the blatant disrespect, ignites a fire within me. Wolf, my cousin, has overstepped, challenged the very foundations of our order, our rules.
I need to get my cousin in line.
Releasing Michael, I step back.
