Chapter 305: I Can’t Breathe
"Lord Richard. All I want is for you to find out if I am telling the truth or not, and then please—please—get the queen to call him off." She pressed a trembling hand to her throat as though invisible claws were tightening there.
"I can’t breathe. I am afraid to step out of the house. Every shadow feels like it belongs to Talon. What else does she want from me? I’m telling you, she wants to kill me!"
Richard could feel the noose tightening, the politics of it twisting.
"Lord Richard." Bishop’s velvet-smooth voice cut through the tension. "I think there is no harm in finding out if she truly is telling the truth." He tilted his head toward Isolde.
Richard pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through his teeth.
"Lord Bishop? The queen is currently on pins and needles with this issue. She has already agreed to raise the child as her own once it is born. And now you suggest I question her? Do you realise that means I am placing my head on a chopping block? I am not looking forward to having that conversation with her."
But Bishop was relentless. He stepped forward.
"You are head councilman, Richard. Difficult issues like this one are your responsibility. It is your duty to put the royal house in check. Think carefully. You confirmed it yourself—this woman carries a royal child. Would you really turn a blind eye while the queen commits treason by threatening the life of a Blood City royal?"
Richard’s chest tightened. Treason was no idle accusation. He turned his eyes on Isolde, studying her carefully. She looked fragile, broken.
Isolde lowered her head again, her fingers lacing protectively over her stomach. It was a masterstroke, her body angled just right.
Richard felt his resolve fray. His thoughts flicked to Luna—the queen who had faced down Gabriel himself, who stood unflinching at the king’s side. And yet, despite all her strength, here she was being painted as nothing more than a vindictive woman scorned.
Richard had sworn loyalty to the crown, to the king and queen both. But duty was a fickle beast, and the council’s leash pulled at his throat.
Richard sighed, his whole body sagging. He dragged a hand down his face, feeling the years settle on him. "She is going to have my head," he muttered.
"Please, Lord Richard," she whispered. "I have a right to live freely, don’t I? A right to breathe without wondering if the queen’s pet assassin will slit my throat in the night?"
"Fine," Richard bit out, more to end her theatrics than from conviction. He threw his hands up and leaned back in his chair. "If I die, I die. It won’t be the first time a head councilman has lost his head."
Lord Bishop scoffed loudly, rolling his eyes. "Since when are we afraid of werewolves?"
Richard snapped his gaze to him. "Since one of them became queen of Blood City," he retorted. "Don’t mistake her grace for weakness, Bishop. If you’re so eager to test her patience, then perhaps you should offer up your head instead of mine."
Isolde lowered her gaze, hiding her smirk behind her meek curtsy. She had sown the seed, and now she only had to water it with silence. As she left the chamber, she looked every inch the victim. To the untrained eye, she was a trembling mother-to-be fleeing persecution. But in her mind, victory bloomed.
Bishop, however, was far from finished. Leaning down, he placed both hands flat on the desk, invading Richard’s space. "Listen," he said softly.
"I know how comfortable it is, always sitting on the fence, pretending neutrality is wisdom. It is my best position. But there comes a point where a man must draw the line. The council cannot—will not—be controlled. It is meant to run independently. If you want to bow to the queen, Richard..." His lips curled, mockery shining in his eyes.
"...then perhaps it is time we reconsider your position as head councilman."
Richard stiffened, anger flaring, but Bishop was already turning, heading out the door.
*****
In the grand living room of the king’s castle, Luna stood, her brows arched in skepticism. She watched Richard stumble over his words, his usual eloquence crumbling under the weight of her gaze.
"So, let me get this straight." Luna stood tall. Every inch of her radiated sovereignty—her spine straight, her chin lifted, her gaze unyielding. "Isolde asked you to come to me, and beg that I let her be." She took a slow step forward. "And you—you indeed walked over here, confidently, to give me her orders."
Her brows arched, her lips curving in a dangerous smile that revealed nothing of mercy. "I don’t understand. Is she your queen now?"
Richard’s throat tightened. He shifted his weight, tugging at his collar. "Your Highness," he stammered, then steadied with a desperate edge. "She feels threatened, and I promise you, I did not want to come here." His eyes darted away, then back to her.
"Because I respect you. I adore you. But the council thinks I am kissing your ass—And they’re already whispering about replacing me as head councilman. Is that what you want?" His breath came faster, chest heaving, his dignity unraveling in front of her.
"Who wants what?" A deep voice broke the tension, vibrating with authority.
Richard spun toward the sound. "Your Highness." He bent low, bowing quickly.
Damien strolled in, his presence commanding before a word left his lips. He had discarded his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair. The crisp white of his shirt clung to his broad chest, sleeves rolled just enough to expose strong forearms. He moved toward Luna, bent slightly, brushing a kiss across Luna’s forehead.
"So, what’s the matter?" Damien asked as he lowered himself onto the couch. He sprawled there with the ease of a man who owned the world, one arm thrown across the backrest, his gaze sharp and assessing.
Richard cleared his throat again. "Isolde came to see me," he said quickly. "And she complained of constantly feeling threatened."
"How so?" he asked. He leaned back, stretching out on the couch, his eyes never leaving Richard.
"She says Talon is always watching her," Richard explained. "And... that he has threatened her a couple of times. She claims she’s afraid of even leaving her house."
"Call off your dog." Damien didn’t look up. It was an order. A command issued.
"Your Highness?" Lord Richard questioned, his brows knitting. The phrasing unsettled him—had he heard correctly?
Damien turned then, his eyes dark and unreadable, and let his gaze linger on Luna. "Call off your dog." He repeated, slower this time. He rose to his feet with an easy grace, rolling his shoulders.
Luna froze, stunned not just by the words but by the tone—the chilling detachment, the careless dismissal of her authority. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Damien stepped closer, towering, his shadow merging with hers. "Isolde carries a royal child," he said. "My child...Whether you are pleased with it or not, it is the way it is. Nothing I can do about it. So asking Talon to threaten her or monitor her every move changes nothing."
And with that, he turned his back on her. He simply strolled toward the bedroom, unhurried, shoulders broad, every step radiating finality. The door clicked behind him, sealing off any chance for her to hurl back the storm gathering in her chest.
Luna stood rooted to the spot, her pulse roaring in her ears. Shock anchored her, but hurt burned its way up. This was her husband. Her mate. The man who only hours ago had sworn infinite trust and unyielding love. And yet in front of Richard—Richard, of all people—he had humiliated her.
She turned, her gaze locking on Lord Richard. His eyes darted away as though he had witnessed a lover’s quarrel he had no right to see, but the damage was done.
She tried to speak, but her throat was dry.
"What the fuck?!"
*****
"The council bought it?" Williams asked as he strolled across Isolde’s living room.
"Yes!" Isolde said. "Lord Richard promised to speak with the queen." She said it like it was a victory, like she had already won.
Williams’s smile stretched, thin and serpent-like. "Good. Very good." He stalked closer. "Are you ready for the next step?"
Isolde’s arms instinctively wrapped around her stomach, protective, maternal. Fear glimmered in her eyes as she whispered, "You won’t hurt my baby?"
Williams tilted his head, raising a mocking brow, and gave a dry chuckle. "I will try not to." He dragged the words out, deliberately cruel. His amusement lay in her terror—he wanted her afraid. He wanted her compliant.
Isolde took a deep breath, forcing air into lungs that felt like they were shrinking by the second. She tried—oh goddess, she tried—to remember why she was putting herself through this. To get her mate back. To reclaim what was stolen from her. To stand in the place she believed rightfully hers: at Damien’s side, as queen.
If pain was the price, she would pay it. Her lips quivered, but her voice came steady enough: "Okay. I’m ready. Hit me."