Chapter 139

Damon

Jackson was already waiting for me in the back corner of the restricted wing, lantern burning low beside a pile of neatly stacked volumes.

He was so focused that he didn’t notice as I approached, not until I stopped at the table and said quietly, “What did you find?”

“You’ll want to see this,” he said, voice steady. I could hear the seriousness of his tone and knew I should prepare myself for something I wasn’t going to like.

He opened the top book with care, revealing a page marked in the corner. The script was narrow, precise, penned in a hand I didn’t recognize but seemed official.

“It’s the healer’s log,” Jackson said. “Of a personal nature, not in any official capacity. It was filed under the pre-expansion records. Which is odd, being a diary and not a report.”

I stared down at the entry and immediately saw what Jackson had picked up on.

Patient: Lady Mirelle (confidential). Symptoms consistent with early pregnancy. Advised discretion due to conception timeline. An additional entry suggests biological paternity of fetus is not the reigning Lycan King.

This was about my mother.

My hands stayed at my sides, but I couldn’t help that my fists clenched hard enough that my nails dug into my palm. I read the paragraph again.

And again.

Jackson said nothing. He knew the rumors, knew what I’d already suspected; he was only confirming what I’d refused to.

I closed the book and slid it back toward him.

“Thank you,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue. I turned before he could offer any opinions. In this, I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

On the walk to my study I passed no servants, only several patrolling guards. It was late enough for the kingdom to pretend to rest.

But I couldn’t.

The envelope waited where I’d left it, untouched on the edge of my desk. Like a living thing, it stared back at me, daring me to open it and confirm what Jackson had discovered.

I could only stare at it for a long moment. Then I collapsed into the chair and picked up the last thing I wanted to see.

The seal cracked easily beneath my hands. The parchment inside was stiff with age, so I unfolded it carefully, trying to delay the inevitable as long as possible.

The words were clinical. And official.

Subject: Damon, son of Lady Mirelle. Genetic markers inconclusive. High probability of non-parentage. Recommends registry amendment and confirmation by royal council.

I let the letter fall onto the desk. I expected it to crash down like a boulder, but it floated down like a feather. My mouth felt dry. My throat burned.

Staring off into nothing, it all sunk in: I’m not the King’s child. Not his heir. Not his anything.

No wonder he’d raised me like a soldier instead of a son. No wonder the old bastard couldn’t look at me with any love or pride.

I’d spent years convincing myself his coldness was just preparing me for stepping into my role. That his cruelty was the training I needed to rule. His silence was strengthening me.

But it wasn’t. It had never been. It was all a punishment for simply being born.

I stood slowly, bracing my hands against the desk as if the room might shift beneath me. Zane stirred deep in my chest, anxious and angry.

We need our mate. Our Lila. Zane urged. And for once we agreed.

I stalked down the corridor like a man preparing for battle. Or confession. I didn’t know what I was going to say, or ask… I just followed the instinct to keep her close in the chaos.

The inner door was slightly ajar. A faint glow spilled from the fireplace inside, casting flickers of gold across the carpet. I stepped to the threshold and looked in.

Lila was asleep.

Curled on her side, a blanket tugged up over her shoulder. The book I’d brought her was still open on her chest, one hand resting on the pages as if she’d fallen asleep mid-sentence.

The words were on my tongue. The truth. My truth.

I watched her breathe. Watched her lashes flutter slightly, her mouth part in a shallow sigh. Her face was soft in sleep—unguarded. Unbothered.

And I couldn’t disturb whatever peace and rest she had found.

Not tonight.

I turned away, one hand lingering briefly on the doorframe.

Coward, Zane growled low in my mind. There was no anger to it. But I said nothing in response, because he wasn’t wrong.

My thoughts were too busy to let me rest, and by morning I stood at the window, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the horizon.

The letter was locked in a drawer, away from prying eyes. But the truth it carried pressed against me with a weight that threatened to crush me beneath it.

Not the King’s son. Not legitimate. Not a single drop of his royal blood in my veins.

And yet, I thought, watching the palace stir to life, they still kneel when I pass.

Zane stirred lazily beneath my skin. We are Alpha. Of course they submit.

I didn’t earn it. That turned Zane’s growl on me, but I brushed him off. There was work to do.

By midmorning, I began to make changes with any in the Court whose loyalty I didn’t know with certainty.

Lord Varren, old and loyal to my father – and far too interested in Council affairs – was “granted early retirement for health reasons.” The announcement came through the scribe’s office before Varren had even finished brunch.

By noon, three captains from the outer guard had been quietly reassigned. Two sent north under the pretense of border training. One rotated to daytime city patrol. None would return to the palace.

I didn’t offer explanations. I gave orders, like the King I am.

Jackson caught up with me outside the eastern corridor, falling into step as I passed the tapestry that honored the Lycan King line. I pointedly ignored it.

“You’re moving quickly,” he said carefully.

“There’s no time to move slowly,” I answered.

He hesitated. “And Lady Lila?”

“What about her?”

“You haven’t told her.”

I stopped walking and took a breath to calm myself. The corridor stretched out around us and a servant paused far down the hall, holding a stack of linens, waiting for us to pass as was required of her station.

“She’s safer without knowing in case the Rogues cause trouble with this blood business,” I said at last.

Jackson let his silence show his disapproval and followed me down the hall.

By evening, I was back in the war room. A new seating chart for the next Council meeting had been drafted. Names scratched out. Others added.

A fresh order of advisors was forming that moved away from tradition and stacked the chamber with more loyalty. It was far less noble blood, far more earned rank and trust.

Zane chuffed at me and sprawled in the back of my mind. You’re rearranging the palace battlefield because you can’t face the one in your own damn chest.

Shut up. I snapped at him.

You’re not angry at me, he said. You’re angry that you stood at her door and turned around. Again.

My hands flexed around the edges of the table, knuckles pale.

He was right. I couldn’t face her with this fracture in my identity that went deeper than bloodlines.

It wasn’t just about the lie I’d been raised in. It was about everything I’d built on it, and the quiet fear that once she knew, she’d look at me differently.

And gods help me, I wasn’t ready to see that in her eyes.

The fire crackled low beside me, its warmth unable to reach the hollow forming beneath my sternum. I rubbed the back of my neck, tired.

There was too much to do, too many moving parts. And still, I was thinking about her.

I left the war room at dusk. My boots echoed down the corridor, the sounds of court life winding down around me. The staff was quiet. Obedient.

When I passed her chamber door, I didn’t pause. But my head turned, just slightly, as I moved past. Listening for her breath and her heartbeat that, for now, held a little bit of me in it.

And still, I kept walking.