The Lycan King brought Celine to his private chambers after the demonstration.
Leon had resisted—visibly, audibly. His eyes had narrowed the moment the King made the suggestion, and his stance had shifted like he was preparing for a fight.
“She’s not going anywhere alone with you,” Leon said flatly, already stepping between them.
But Celine touched his arm gently, a quiet plea behind her eyes. “Let me handle this,” she said under her breath. “If we want to go home… this has to end well.”
Leon didn’t like it. He didn’t trust it. But he let her go.
Now, Celine stepped through the doors that closed too silently behind her, and found herself surrounded not by court opulence or military grandeur—but by something far more deliberate.
The private audience chamber was wrapped in quiet luxury. No guards. No throne. No gallery of watching eyes.
Just a fire burning low in the hearth, shadows dancing against the dark stone walls. Two chairs sat angled before it, a table between them already set with a decanter of deep red wine and two crystal glasses. Every object in the room was placed with intention—measured, clean, private.
It was nothing like Leon’s rooms.
Leon lived in strength and stone, in weapons hung visibly on the walls and warmth earned by fire and sweat. His space was made for warriors.
This room? This was made for seduction.
The King stood, offering a small smile and a graceful bow. “Luna Celine.”
“Your Majesty.”
“Please,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Sit. We’re past formalities, aren’t we?”
She didn’t answer. But she sat.
He watched her the entire time, his gaze like velvet stretched over blades. “You were magnificent today. Your shift... radiant is too small a word. That wolf—” he exhaled, “it belongs to no prophecy. It belongs to legend.”
Celine gave a tight smile. “I wasn’t aware I was being written into history.”
He poured her a glass of wine. “Not written. Etched.”
She didn’t drink. He noticed but said nothing.
“I asked to speak with you,” he said after a pause, “because I wanted to offer something I don’t give often.”
Celine arched a brow. “My name,” he said simply.
That startled her. She blinked.
“My true name,” he clarified. “Not the title. Not the Crown. Just the man that I am.”
He stood and moved around the table slowly, a hunter circling his prey—but with a hand outstretched, not claws.
“My name is Maeron,” he said softly. “And I would be... pleased, if you called me that. At least when we’re alone.”
Celine didn’t respond.
He crouched slightly, lowering himself to her level, eyes locked on hers. “It’s just a name, Celine. Not a leash.”
But it was. She felt it. A game. An attempt to blur lines. Make her forget the weight behind his crown.
“You’re still the King,” she said carefully.
“I am,” he agreed. “But sometimes... even kings wish to be seen as something more human.”
She tilted her head. “Do you?”
Maeron smiled slowly. “Only by certain people.”
He returned to his seat, sipping his own wine without breaking eye contact.
“Leon,” he said after a moment, voice low, “has always been a threat. I’ve known it since he first rose. But now, with you by his side... he’s untouchable.”
Celine’s voice was even. “That’s what mates do.”
“Protect,” Maeron agreed. “But they also blind. They tie themselves so tightly they forget there’s a whole world outside the bond.”
He leaned forward. “I wonder, Celine... are you still able to see the world beyond him?”
She didn’t answer. Because she didn’t trust the answer he wanted.