Fated Mate, Mafia Target

The cabin of the private jet smelled of ozone and expensive gin. Outside the window, the jagged peaks of Lyperia clawed at the moonlight. Cain sat across from me, his military regalia crisp, every medal on his chest a polished lie. He hadn't spoken since we left the woods. He just stared at his own reflection in the dark glass, his jaw tight enough to snap a bone.

"Lower your head when we land," he rasped, finally breaking the silence. He didn't look at me. "Tharion’s palace isn’t the academy. There are no rules there. Only his whims. Don't speak unless he addresses you. Don't look at the guards. And for the love of God, keep your eyes behind those glasses."

"They took my glasses, Cain," I said, my voice hollow. "In the dressing room. They gave me this... thing instead."

I looked down at the silver silk gown. It was a second skin, cold and shimmering, designed to turn a girl into a trophy. My skin felt raw beneath it. I wasn't Favor Silverwyn, the girl who patched up wounds in the mud. I was a "specimen" wrapped in foil.

Cain’s eyes flickered to mine then, and for a second, the obsidian cracked. His gaze traveled over the exposed curve of my collarbone, his nostrils flaring as he caught my scent—fear mixed with the metallic tang of the silver fabric. He looked away just as quickly.

"Just stay behind me," he growled. "Tharion doesn't tolerate freaks. Or omens."

The Lyperia Palace was a gothic nightmare. Black marble, soaring arches, and the oppressive weight of a thousand years of blood-debt. Every hallway was a gallery of the dead; the preserved heads of "traitors" stared from the walls with glass eyes.

The dining hall was a cavern of flickering candlelight and the smell of roasted meat. High King Tharion sat at the head of a table that looked like it had been carved from a single slab of obsidian. To his right sat King Valerius—Cain’s father.

Valerius was a mirror of Cain, but aged into a gargoyle of pure cruelty. His eyes were dead. No amber fire. Just ash.

"So," Tharion’s voice boomed, echoing off the high ceilings. He didn't look at his steak; he looked at me. "The Silver Moon Priestess returns. She looks... fragile, Valerius. A stiff breeze might break her."

"She is a Silverwyn," Valerius replied, his voice a dry rasp. "They are resilient weeds. Once she is triggered, her blood will serve the Syndicate. The 'Veil' won't stand a chance against a Priestess-bound army."

I sat frozen. They talked about my blood like it was a vintage of wine they were planning to serve at a victory gala. My stomach twisted. I looked at Cain.

He was cutting his meat with surgical precision. "The girl is untrained," Cain said, his tone bored, clinical. "She’s a medical servant. Nothing more. Don't expect a goddess to fall from the sky just because her eyes changed color in a skirmish."

"She is the key to the Silver Awakening, my son," Valerius leaned forward, his gaze landing on me like a physical weight. "And you will be the one to turn that key. Whether she likes it or not."

Cain didn't argue. He just took a sip of his wine, the dutiful prince.

But beneath the heavy velvet tablecloth, I felt a hand find mine. Cain’s fingers were calloused and hot. He didn't just hold my hand; he gripped it. His thumb began to trace slow, steady circles over my palm. It was a silent, rhythmic pulse—a secret language that contradicted every cold word coming out of his mouth.

I’m here. Don’t move.

"Speaking of bloodlines," Tharion chuckled, a dark sound that didn't reach his eyes. "Where is that uncle of yours, little girl? Fergus?"

The mention of the name made my heart skip. "My uncle is a simple man. A librarian."

Valerius let out a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. "A librarian? Fergus Silverwyn was the Crown’s most effective assassin. He didn't go into hiding because he liked books. He stole the Relic of the High Priestess and fled into the shadows the night your parents died."

My breath hitched. "The night they died? It was a fire. An accident."

"It was an execution," Valerius said, his voice devoid of regret. "I gave the order myself. Your parents were going to run. They were going to take the 'specimen' to the Veil. I couldn't allow the prophecy to fall into the wrong hands."

The world tilted. The hand holding mine under the table tightened until I almost cried out. I was sitting at a table with the man who had murdered my mother and father. And the man holding my hand—the man I was bound to by fate—was his chosen successor.

"You... you killed them," I whispered.

"I saved the Syndicate," Valerius corrected.

The air in the room suddenly turned heavy. The candles flickered, their flames turning a sickly, bruised purple.

BOOM.

The palace gates didn't just open; they disintegrated. The vibration rattled the silver on the table. Shouts erupted from the courtyard—screams of men being silenced before they could shift.

"Baelor," Tharion hissed, standing up.

I stood too, my chair screeching against the floor. My vision blurred. The silver silk of my gown began to hum, vibrating against my skin.

A shadow moved in the doorway. It wasn't a wolf. It didn't have fur. It was a towering, shifting mass of darkness that seemed to swallow the light.

Xareth.

He stood in the center of the flames, his form flickering like a bad transmission. He wasn't a shifter; he was a void. A soul-eater.

His eyes—two pits of infinite cold—locked onto mine.

Found you, little specimen. The voice wasn't in the room. It was in my skull, scraping against my brain.

The silver in my blood roared. It wasn't a glow this time; it was an explosion. My eyes flared into twin stars of liquid silver, blinding and hot. I felt a scream building in my lungs—not a scream of fear, but a command of ancient, dormant power.

"NO!" I shrieked.

The sound wave hit the room like a physical shock. The massive obsidian table cracked down the middle. Every wine glass, every window, every chandelier shattered simultaneously. The High King was thrown back into his throne, and even Valerius hit the floor, clutching his ears as blood seeped from his nose.

Xareth hissed, his shadow-form recoiling from the silver light as if it were acid.

Cain was the only one who moved. He didn't collapse. He lunged through the falling glass, his arms wrapping around my waist.

"Favor! Stop!"

The light faded, leaving me gasping and weak. My legs gave out, but Cain caught me. He didn't look at his father. He didn't look at the King. He looked at the doorway where the shadow was reforming.

"Cain! Bring her to the vault!" Valerius shouted from the floor, his voice wavering.

Cain looked at his father, then at me. His amber eyes were wild, his wolf snarling just beneath the surface.

"To hell with the vault," Cain growled.

He scooped me up in his arms, his medals biting into my skin. He didn't run toward the King. He ran toward the servant’s entrance—the secret tunnels used by the very people he had told me to ignore.

"I’ve got you," he whispered against my temple as we plunged into the darkness of the stone corridor. "I’ll kill them all, Favor. My father, Tharion, Baelor... I’ll burn this whole kingdom down before I let them touch you again."

Behind us, the Palace of Lyperia began to scream.