Chapter 50: Unwilling Alliances

RYMORA’S POV

Finally, the carriage came to a complete stop in front of a villa. The wheels creaked one last time before stillness set in, and Rymora had no choice but to step down, the hem of her uniform brushing against her ankles as she paid the driver what little she owed.

"Should I wait for you?" the human driver asked, his voice gruff with age, white hair fringing his cap and his wrinkled eyes darting around nervously at how late the night had grown.

But Rymora simply shook her head, her answer silent but firm. She didn’t have enough money to keep him waiting, not for an unpredictable amount of time. And besides, she had no idea how long she would be inside Lord Drehk’s villa.

If it comes to it... I’ll just walk back, she thought with clenched teeth. Her steps forward were tense, deliberate. She might have been one of the weakest werewolves with a wolf spirit so frail it often felt non-existent, but she was still stronger than most humans. She could manage the way back.

Lifting her head high, spine stiffened with a mix of pride and anxiety, she approached the grand stone steps of the entrance. Her fingers trembled against her skirt as she noticed the butler already waiting outside.

"It’s good you came," he said the moment she arrived within earshot. His tone was flat, but there was something cold and sharp just beneath the surface.

"I was about to fetch you," he added, lowering his voice, though the implication was anything but subtle.

The threat beneath his words made her stomach twist. The fact that the Lord had deemed her presence important enough to send his butler to summon her personally only added to the weight pressing on her chest.

Even as she was led up the winding staircase, the halls lit dimly by lamps that flickered blue, Rymora could feel her heart slam against her ribcage. Her palms were slick with sweat, clenched into fists in a futile attempt to still the shaking. She wore a brave face, but it was fragile—ready to crumble the moment she faced him.

They climbed until they reached the topmost floor. The butler knocked on a heavy door, waited for a muffled response, then opened it without hesitation.

The moment they stepped inside, Rymora dropped to her knees with a thud, her head bowing until it touched the ground. The butler offered a cursory bow and exited silently, closing the door behind him with a soft but decisive click. His face remained unreadable, indifferent to what was about to unfold.

Rymora stayed motionless, her body rigid with fear. Tears clung to her lashes, but she refused to let them fall. She didn’t speak, didn’t even breathe loudly. All she could do was wait in suffocating silence.

Then she heard it—a soft thud to her left.

She flinched and turned her head slightly to find a book with blank pages, a pen laid neatly beside it.

"Go ahead. Write," came Lord Drehk’s voice.

It was calm, disturbingly so.

For a full moment, she didn’t move. Her breath hitched, her fingers twitching as her thoughts raced. Why had he called her here? What had she done? Her mind flooded with possibilities—none of them good.

"You can write, can’t you?" he added, the hint of condescension in his tone like a blade beneath velvet.

Careful not to betray her true education, she picked up the pen slowly and forced her handwriting into a mess. The strokes were jagged, the letters inconsistent and childlike. She scribbled a few unrefined words: Why have I been summoned? Then she slid the page forward, her eyes never daring to rise.

Lord Drehk took one glance at the paper and scoffed, "Your writing is pretty bad."

Her lip twitched. She wanted to scoff right back, but she bit down on the impulse.

"...But the way you held the pen clearly shows higher learning. Nobility?" he asked, his voice, laid back, dangerously casual.

Rymora’s breath caught. Her blood turned to ice. Her hand jerked up involuntarily as her eyes lifted to his face.

He saw through her. Despite how hard she tried to make her writing look uneducated, the simple act of holding the pen had given her away.

Vigorously, she shook her head. Her heart pounded so hard she thought it might tear from her chest. With shaking hands, she scribbled quickly:

I just had a good teacher.

But the second she slid the paper toward him, she noticed—he didn’t even bother to look at it.

Instead, his red eyes locked onto hers. His black hair was short and neatly combed, his entire posture relaxed yet radiating control. He slowly bent down until his face was level with hers.

Rymora’s breath hitched, her skin crawling as he looked directly into her soul.

Any foolish thought she might’ve had about him calling her for sex vanished in that moment. The dead coldness in his gaze was not the hunger of desire—it was the stillness of a predator deciding how best to toy with its prey.

"I could look into your history," he said, and this time, the threat was no longer subtle. It was a knife drawn out and placed on the table.

Her entire body tensed. Fear flared in her chest like fire. She couldn’t let that happen. If he discovered who she truly was—or worse, what she was—it would be over. It was clearly better to pretend that her secret was much lighter than he thought.

Anger flared beneath her skin. Her jaw clenched as she snatched the paper and wrote again, more defiantly this time. The trembling in her limbs had lessened, her spine now just a little straighter.

What do you want? I have a lover and I have no interest in sleeping with you.

The truth, sharp and simple. Even if she hadn’t seen her lover in two years, her loyalty remained.

She shoved the note forward, waiting for some lewd grin or mocking chuckle.

But none came.

Instead, Lord Drehk barely blinked as he read the words, then stood and turned away from her like she’d suddenly ceased to matter.

"You can leave," he said flatly, settling back into his chair. "I’m already bored."

He spoke the next words so casually, yet every syllable sliced at her nerves.

"I’m sure whatever my men find won’t matter... even though human nobility is banned from serving in the mansion."

"I can’t help but wonder what the king would think when he finds out that one managed to escape!"

"Worse...became a maid do his favorite pet! How disastrous!"

A gentle tone. A casual remark. But the weight of the threat was suffocating.

Rymora now understood. He had no intention of using force when threats were far more effective. He thought her a noblewoman—a lord’s daughter or a human king’s stray offspring. But if he discovered the truth?

She was something worse. Something that was bad enough to get her killed a hundred times over.

Much worse.

Knowing better than to let this disease of suspicion grow unchecked, she lowered her head once more and scribbled again. Sliding the notebook forward on her knees, her face now void of all emotion, she offered him her plea:

I’ll do anything you ask me. It was clear that he wanted something so she might as well give it.

A desperate attempt to contain the fire before it spread.

Lord Drehk glanced at the page and gave a half-smile.

"Of course you will," he said smoothly.

He waved a hand, dismissive.

"Leave. I’ll be in touch."

Rymora didn’t hesitate. She bowed deeply, holding in the scream that threatened to tear from her throat as she rose and walked out of the room.

Her teeth ground together as she stepped into the corridor, her eyes seething with restrained fury. Whatever he wanted from her... it wasn’t just sex. It was something darker. Much darker.

Bavon, the human doctor, was under Lady Vivian’s thumb. Everyone knew that.

Lorenzo, the head chef, was under Lady Lythari’s control.

And now, Lord Drehk wanted her for himself. To turn her into another pawn. A tool.

It’s not like I have a choice, she growled internally, startled to find the butler already waiting for her. Another carriage stood ready. His expression was still blank, empty of curiosity or concern.

She climbed in silently and sat, eyes locked on the shifting night outside the window as the carriage pulled away, the sound of horses and wheels echoing into the darkness.

I don’t mind being used, she thought, her fists clenched tight in her lap, as long as the king dies.

That was the only way she could ever be free to return back to the other side of the dark forest.

Sitting in the back of the carriage he thought of him—the man she hadn’t seen in over two years. Tears slipped down her cheeks even as she wiped them off before they could leave a trace.