Evelyn had searched everywhere—the chambers, the halls, and even his personal quarters. Yet, Given was nowhere to be found. Finally, a passing handmaid mentioned he was with Lyric in her chambers. Evelyn sighed, steadying herself. She hoped it was for the reason the maid suggested - Given forcing her sister to take her medicine and ointments.
She sucked in a sharp breath, pushing open the doors without knocking. "Given, I—" Her words faltered, her eyes catching the way Given and Lyric immediately separated. Given had been seated uncomfortably close to Lyric, and now he stood abruptly, putting distance between them. Lyric, on the other hand, adjusted her dress as though caught in the middle of something. Clearly , it was not what the maid had said .
Evelyn blinked, her face betraying no emotion as her gaze swept over them. Given stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Princess," he said, his tone formal and reserved, "You require my presence?"
Evelyn tilted her head slightly, her voice calm yet laced with an undertone of something sharper. "Don't we all?" Her gaze flicked to Lyric, who approached with an innocent smile, as though nothing was amiss. Her every day usual paint mask .
Evelyn's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she stared at the bead of sweat trailing down Given's temple. "You're sweating," she observed coolly, pointing at the telltale streak on his face.
Given quickly raised a hand, wiping at the sweat as if it would erase the tension lingering in the air. "Yes," he said with a small , strained smile that he usually wore on his face every passing day , "A tiring day. I haven't showered for hours. If you allow it, Princess, I'll go refresh myself and return to your service as soon as I'm done."
Evelyn didn't miss the deflection. Her eyes shifted to Lyric briefly before returning to Given. "Why now?" she asked, her tone quiet but pointed. "You didn't seem to have a problem prioritizing my sister over your hygiene earlier. And yet, now that I seek your presence, you suddenly remember your needs?"
Before Given could muster a response, Evelyn continued, her voice calm yet firm. "It is fine. I'll summon you tomorrow." With that, she turned on her heel and left the room, her footsteps echoing down the hall.
Behind her, Lyric stood frozen, stunned by the change in her sister's demeanor. Given, meanwhile, was left bewildered, his thoughts a tangled mess. What had happened to the old Evelyn?
As Given tried to make sense of her sudden transformation, his mind wandered to the possibilities. Could it be her vampire side manifesting ? The changes in her demeanor, her calm yet cutting remarks—it all felt different, foreign, and yet strangely captivating. She is suddenly all to sensitive - which shouldn't be a bad thing but it was so strange coming from Evelyn's side . She rarely reacted most of the times and rarely cared when Lyric would kidnap Given . And , Evelyn never liked it when Given came up to her presence with a foul smell of the sun and sweats .
Really , what could possible be happening to the beings of this castle ?
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the castle, Elara sat perched on the King's lap.
Elara's lips curled into a wicked grin as she leaned into Theron's space, her hand gripping his hair tightly as their kisses deepened. His head tilted back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as he succumbed to the sensation, his hands moving restlessly as he tried to hold onto her.
Elara's tongue moved with a rhythm that was almost mesmerizing to her as well, and for a moment, she was lost in the act. Theron responded eagerly, as if starved for this kind of attention. He was everything she needed in this moment—unpredictable, frustrating, and yet so easy to manipulate.
Her hand slid down to his, guiding it to her side as she gently worked at his muscles, trying to ease the tension, but instead of relaxing him, it only seemed to intensify the moment. His body pressed harder against hers, and she could feel him growing more and more aroused.
The more she coaxed him, the harder he grew, his body betraying him despite the effort to control himself. Theron's hips bucked, pressing against her, a wordless plea for release. But Elara didn't give in. She kept him on edge, a tantalizing game of cat and mouse.
He groaned, and his hips bucked involuntarily as his hands roamed over her.
"Stay still," she whispered, her voice a low command that only fueled his desire. He was fighting it—fighting the urgency building within—but his body betrayed him. Her soft form pressed against his, teasing him with every breath she took, her body language saying everything his mind refused to acknowledge.
She pulled back slightly, and his head fell back in frustrated surrender, his eyes closing, only to snap open again when she began nibbling on his neck, just the smallest bite to leave him aching for more. Theron groaned in agony, his voice hoarse as he struggled for control.
"You know we could get right down to business, right?" Theron's voice was strained, filled with need, a stark contrast to the calm Elara was projecting.
She grinned, leaning back to meet his eyes. "No, there's no fun in rushing things," she purred, her fingers trailing down his chest, nails lightly grazing his skin. Her voice was dangerously low, almost seductive as she added, "Everything in life requires patience. You should know that."
Theron's expression shifted, discomfort creeping in. He sat up, pushing her back slightly as he adjusted himself, clearly fighting the growing storm within. "What do you mean by that?" he asked, his voice tense and sharp as he cleared his throat, attempting to regain some composure.
Elara tilted her head, a look of innocent curiosity in her eyes. "You're the King, after all," she teased. "You should know that the perfect wars require patience and strategy. Perfect strikes—ones with excellent results—need patience."
Something in her words seemed to trigger him. Theron pushed her aside, standing abruptly, buttoning his pants and straightening his shirt, his face flushed with frustration. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he looked at her, confusion and anger battling within him. "Yes, but what does that mean? Why would you tell me about patience and... and attacks? Why would you remind me that I'm King?" His outburst was abrupt, irrational, and Elara knew it.
She stood, walking toward him, her steps slow, deliberate. He took a step back, but she continued to close the distance between them. "What is it?" she asked, her voice light with false innocence. "Did I trigger you?"
Theron's frustration only grew. His fingers twitched, his posture defensive. His eyes narrowed as his voice grew more forceful. "Whatever you are doing... whatever it is that you're planning. Drop it." The words were spoken with a clenched jaw, his teeth grinding together as his fists tightened.
Elara let out a half-scoff, half-laugh, her gaze shifting between his angry face and the tension that radiated off him. "Planning?" she asked, feigning innocence. "What plans would I have in mind? What is it that—"
"Step away from me," Theron growled, his body rigid.
"You're acting strange," she noted, an amused ghost smirk tugging at her lips.
"You're the reason I'm acting strange!" His frustration exploded, his voice shaking with barely contained rage. "What is all this? What are you doing, and what are you even talking about?!" He stopped short, releasing a shaky breath, clenching his fists until his knuckles turned white. "You know you like getting on my nerves."
"You think so?" Elara asked, her voice dripping with venom as she stepped closer, coming to stand right before him. "Yes, I think so," Theron barked, his voice sharp as he responded.
"You're the one who always gets on my nerves. I don't understand how anyone can stand being around you, dealing with your anger—" Before she could finish her sentence, Theron's hand whipped out in a swift motion, the slap aimed directly for her cheek. Elara reacted instinctively, raising her arms to block the blow, but the slap never connected. Her eyes widened as she watched, frozen in place, the slap hanging in the air, still in motion, as Theron's face twisted in fury.
But as she took a step back, the world seemed to slow. The slap disappeared, and the tension in the room seemed to shatter for a fleeting second. Theron, still seething with rage, roared, "YOU B*TCH!" His words echoed around her, the power in them unmistakable, but the air had shifted. It was as though time itself had bent to her will, and she felt a strange sense of power, something she hadn't noticed before.
Theron's gaze locked with hers, and in that brief moment of realization, Elara's instincts kicked in. She turned, running, her feet barely touching the ground as she made her escape. Theron, always fast, gave chase, but his steps were heavy with anger, making it easy for her to maneuver. The chase ended in a blur of motion, with Elara finally backing up into the couch, her body moving with agility, staying just ahead of his grasp.
But it was then, amidst the chaos, that she realized what was happening. The world around her seemed to slow, her movements became precise, deliberate, as if time itself had frozen for her. She didn't fully understand how or why it was happening, but she used it to her advantage, placing herself atop Theron with a pillow in hand, poised to smother him into submission.
His lips parted as though to shout, but Elara was quicker, pressing the pillow over his mouth before the sound could escape. She waited, watching his form relax beneath her, the anger slowly draining from him as he lay beneath the weight of the pillow. The guards outside, oblivious to the reality of what was happening, assumed that the King and Queen were simply indulging in some intimate moment behind closed doors.
When Theron's body stilled, and the tension finally ebbed away, Elara leaned closer, her breath hot against his ear. She whispered, low and harsh, the words dripping with the weight of her intent: "Tell me where the lycan is."