h4Chapter 199: y: Snapping Fingers/h4

    y slipped back into the castle like a shadow slipping beneath a door—silent, unmarked by the watchful eyes that prowled its halls. He ignored the dull throb of the wounds still lingering across his body, though each one ached like a debt he had yet to pay. With a flicker of will, the torn flesh beneath his skin smoothed and knitted itself into the illusion of unbroken human form. The magic cost him more than he cared to admit, but appearances mattered, and tonight he had no desire to be seen bleeding.

    The familiar weight of his chamber door clicked shut behind him with a sharp m, the sound oddly satisfying in the empty air. His shoulders sagged. For a moment, he simply stood there, breathing in the cool, stagnant scent of the room—stone walls, old wood, the faint lingering sweetness of incense burned weeks ago. He wanted nothing more than to copse onto his bed, to let the silence fold over him while he decided what to do next.

    But the silence wasn’t his alone.

    A frown etched itself into his face before he even fully registered why. His gaze lifted—and there she was. Lady Vivian stood in the exact center of his room, poised as if the space itself bowed to her presence.

    She looked furious.

    Not her usual petty, sharp-edged irritation, but truly furious. The kind of anger that burned low and steady, the kind that could set things in motion and leave ruin in its wake. What startled him most was that it matched his own mood far too well.

    She opened her mouth—words already gathering on her tongue—

    —and y snapped his fingers.

    The sound was crisp, deliberate. Power curled out from him, invisible yet absolute, and froze her in ce. Not just her body—her mind, her will, her very soul stilled under hismand, held in the invisible threads he had long since nted deep inside her.

    He’d slept with her enough times to carve those threads into something unbreakable. It had taken every ounce of self-control not to kill her in the process, a discipline he was starting to question.

    Slowly, almostzily, y crossed the room and sank onto the edge of his bed. His eyes lingered on her motionless form. She was beautiful—he would never lie to himself about that. Even if he closed both eyes, her image would burn in the dark behind his lids.

    What frustrated him was not her beauty, but the gnawing truth that he’d kept her alive far longer than made sense. Yes, killing her would draw attention. But her constant visits to his chambers, her nights tangled with him in bed—they were already drawing more attention than he liked.

    "Let me guess," he murmured aloud, his voice dry, "you’re here toin about Zyren. Whatever he’s done—or hasn’t done—this time."

    The frown on his face deepened.

    He had duties—burdens that bnced his life and death on a knife’s edge. And instead of removing this woman from his path, he let her circle him like a vulture, feeding on his patience.

    Am I a sadist? The thought came unbidden, edged with disgust. He tried to summon any practical reason for keeping her around, but none came.

    With another flick of his fingers, the spell released her, and she picked up her sentence exactly where she had left off, oblivious to the gap in time.

    "—Zyren made a bond with that woman!" Vivian’s voice pitched high, almost a scream, as her re locked on y’s eyes. Her gaze softened just slightly—she always did that when she saw his blue eyes framed by his hair, gold like wheat under sunlight. His features were a balm to her, or perhaps an addiction.

    She stepped forward, words spilling fast. "Harriet can’t move, but she’s the only way I can kill Aira without dirtying my own hands. To heal her, I’ll have to use one of my family’s rejuvenation potions—on a human. It’ll kill her, but before it does, she’ll take Aira with her."

    "Then there’s no problem," y said smoothly, almost bored. But her eyes narrowed, and he could see the flicker of rage brewing.

    "No problem? No problem? Zyren clearly cares for the wench!" Vivian snapped. Her voice was a whip crack, but y only nodded as if her outrage was a luby.

    "I’m going to his chambers tomorrow," she dered, "and I’ll see if I can seduce him."

    "A newly bonded male? You’ll get yourself killed," y said sharply, irritation ring hot in his chest.

    But she wasn’t listening. She rarely did. Her voice rolled on, quick and venomous, spinning fantasies of Aira’s downfall, of the petty vengeance she’d savor. Her words were the buzzing of a fly in a locked room—constant, irritating, impossible to ignore.

    y let it wash over him for another heartbeat, then raised his hand and snapped his fingers again. Blessed silence. Her body stilled mid-gesture.

    The magic was costly. His reserves were low, painfully so. It had been far too long since he’d fed properly—on human, werewolf, vampire. These days he coaxed what scraps of mana he could from the trees and nts around him, sips from a cup that never filled.

    I’m living like a beggar, but spending magic like a king. His sigh was low, teeth gritted against the absurdity of it.

    The more he thought about it, the more his anger coiled inwards. His task was clear: find a sure, wless way to kill Zyren. It was why he had kept his head down for so long, why he moved in shadows. Yet here was Vivian, chasing a goal she could never reach, too blind to see her own stupidity.

    Maybe I’m the stupid one.

    It would be easy—so easy—to kill her. He could eat her down to the marrow, erase her from existence sopletely that even her scent would dissolve into nothing. The risk would be minimal—less than ten percent by his measure—if not for Zyren’s uncanny ability to pick their kind out of a crowd. That alone stayed his hand.

    I need to do better.

    With another snap, she returned to life mid-breath.

    "—Zyren will be mine! I’ll make sure of it! I’ll be Queen!" Her voice rose with a feverish conviction, as if sheer force of will could rewrite reality.

    Her tone softened suddenly, almost sweet. "I’ll even make you head of the garden servants, if you want."

    y tilted his head. "Not King? You don’t want me to be king?" His voice was teasing, but his eyes were knives.

    "King? Of course not!" Sheughed lightly. "I’m not stupid enough to think that could happen."

    y’s sigh this time was deep, drawn from somewhere far darker than mere exhaustion.

    And that is why you will die. Not by my hand—perhaps—but you will die.

    When her rant finally wound down, she began to strip without ceremony. It was her ritual with him: anger, plotting, and then the body. She told him to do the same, her tone leaving no room for refusal. Momentster, she was straddling hisp, and he was inside her.

    Her moans came quickly—sharp, high notes filling the chamber. She clung to him as if his body could anchor her madness, but y’s mind was far from the act. His hunger stirred, deep and primal, whispering for him to shift, to tear into her flesh and drink her dry.

    But he didn’t.

    The seed he had nted in her—magic distilled from the molten core of his being—throbbed faintly, binding her to his will. He held her there, letting her ride the illusion of control while he restrained himself from ending her life entirely.

    When she moaned Zyren’s name, his movements slowed to a punishing rhythm. His lips brushed her ear, whispering for her to say his name instead.

    His rhythm slowed to something deliberate, almost cruel, and he bent to murmur against her ear—urging her to say his name instead.

    Her voice faltered, then changed. "y..." she gasped, over and over, her body tightening around him. For that moment, the pleasure outweighed her obsession with Zyren.

    And she did.

    The sound of it—his name gasped from her lips, again and again—wasn’t satisfaction. It was a weapon, a reminder that even in her fantasies, he could overwrite her truths.

    He watched her face, eyes closed in bliss she thought she owned, and wondered again why he allowed this—why he let her take anything from him at all.

    Whatever it was, it had no name worth speaking.

    And nothing more meaningless than doing meaningless things.

    Her moans filled the chamber, high and sharp, her nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to break skin. The faint scent of her perfume—something floral but sharp—wrapped around him, mixing with the copper tang of his own blood. She was lost in him, or at least in what she thought he was giving her.

    He moved with her, every thrust smooth but deliberate, as if each one were a choice. His hands slid over the curve of her spine, fingers pressing into the small of her back to guide her rhythm. Her heat coiled around him, her breathing growing ragged, mouth parting on broken whispers.

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