Athena’s POV
The formalities blurred after that. My father stepped forward, all stiff politeness and cold smiles, and gestured toward the east wing.
“You’ll want a moment alone to speak, I’m sure,” he said, barely glancing at me. “This way.”
He led us down the hall, flanked by two silent guards, then opened a carved wooden door and ushered us into a smaller receiving room lined with dark velvet drapes and golden sconces.
“Make yourself comfortable, Your Majesty,” he said with a tight bow to the Alpha King. Then he turned to me, voice clipped.
“Don’t waste this.”
And just like that, he left. The door shut behind him with a dull, final thud.
We were alone. Varianth didn’t move. He stood near the hearth, arms loose at his sides, golden eyes watching me—steady, unreadable.
“What’s your name?” he asked, his voice like dark velvet.
“Athena,” I said, throat dry. “Athena Seraphael.”
A flicker passed across his face. Recognition? Confusion? I couldn’t tell. But as I stood there, my heart pounding, the memories I’d tried to bury came roaring back—sharp, hot, and electric.
That night.
His body against mine in the hotel room, the door barely locked before he pressed me to the wall and kissed me like I was something he’d been starving for.
How his mouth claimed me—fierce and unapologetic. How his hands moved with purpose, trailing heat wherever they touched. One slid into my hair, the other gripping my waist as he pulled me closer, like he needed every inch of me against him.
The way he undressed me—slow at first, teasing, until desire took over and fabric tore.
How he laid me across the bed, parted my legs, and worshipped me like I was his moon, his obsession, his mate. His mouth on my skin, tasting every inch like it belonged to him. The way he traced the curves of my body, gripped my thighs, spread me open and made me feel —
Wanted. Beautiful. Desired.
He didn’t even seem to notice the mark beneath my eye that had defined me for years.
That night, I wasn’t the rejected daughter of a crumbling house. I was his. And now—I feel like he didn’t even recognize me.
“You really don’t remember me?”
The words slipped from my lips before I could stop them. They hung in the air, sharp and accusing, as I stared at the man before me. Varianth, the Alpha King.
He stood tall, dressed in black, his golden eyes unreadable. He tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as if trying to place me. Then his gaze darkened, sweeping over my face before settling on the birthmark I had spent my whole life trying to hide.
“If I’d seen you before, I wouldn’t have forgotten,” he said, his tone unreadable. “Yours is a face that’s hard to forget.”
Something inside me cracked. I let out a bitter laugh, fingers tightening around the strands of hair I always used to cover the mark.
“Yeah, I know,” I muttered. “I’m ugly.”
He didn’t flinch at my words, didn’t deny them or offer me false kindness. He just watched me, his expression unreadable.
“So,” I continued, my voice steady despite the storm inside me, “do you want me to do the rejection, or should you?”
His jaw tensed, golden eyes narrowing just slightly. “Whoever told you that?” he asked, voice low, almost careful.
I blinked, caught off guard. “Told me what?”
He stepped forward, and I instinctively backed away until my shoulders hit the cold wall. He didn’t stop. His hand lifted, fingers brushing aside the strands of hair I always used to cover the mark beneath my eye. He tucked them gently behind my ear.
I turned my face away, shame flickering through me—but he followed. His thumb grazed the edge of my jaw, then slid across my lower lip in a motion so soft it made my knees weaken. He leaned in, close enough that I could feel his breath on my skin. His mouth hovered near mine, just a breath away.
“That you’re ugly?” he whispered.
The words weren’t cruel. They weren’t even mocking. They were quiet. Like a question. Like he didn’t believe them. I inhaled sharply, heat and fury rising all at once. I was ready to speak, to bite, to say something—anything—
But then it hit.
A wave of nausea slammed into me like a punch to the gut.
My stomach twisted violently. My vision swam.
I slapped a hand over my mouth, eyes wide.
“Excuse me—” I gasped, stumbling away from him and out the door.
***
I barely made it to Emma’s house before my knees hit the steps. I gripped the railing, body lurching forward as I emptied my stomach onto her porch.
The door flew open.
“Well, hello to you too,” Emma said flatly, stepping over the mess with a sigh.
I groaned, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
Emma’s sarcasm faded. She crouched in front of me, studying my face. Her eyes narrowed.
“You’ve been sick for days now,” she said, gentler this time. “Are you alright?”
I started to nod, but stopped. My head felt too heavy.
“I don’t know why this keeps happening,” I murmured.
Emma tilted her head, suddenly sharper. “When was your last heat cycle?”
My breath caught, and I froze. The nausea. The fatigue. The wild, unpredictable emotions. And then my brain did the math.
That night. The hotel.
Varianth.
Almost four weeks ago.
My heart skipped. My stomach flipped again, but this time not from sickness.
I looked up at Emma slowly, voice barely more than a whisper.
“Oh, Goddess…”