Reject me twice (Kira and Theron) novel Chapter 77

I sit in the chair beside the crib with my hands folded in my lap and my spine straight, watching my children breathe, and I let the terror run through me like a river through bedrock — carving, shaping, but never breaking the surface.

Malik doesn’t sleep either. By the time dawn bleeds grey through the nursery windows, he has dismantled and rebuilt the entire security rotation for the wing.

I watch him work from the doorway — issuing orders in that low, clipped voice that turns seasoned warriors into obedient shadows.

He inspects every post personally, checking sight lines, testing response times, replacing any guard whose loyalty he hasn’t verified with his own eyes.

He brings in Rowan, Hale, and Sera — three wolves who fought beside him before I ever wore a crown.

They form a secondary perimeter around the nursery, answering only to Malik, operating on a rotation known to no one outside the room.

“If a mouse crosses that threshold without clearance,” Malik tells Rowan, his voice carrying the particular weight of a man whose children are the ones being guarded, “I want it dead and its body on my desk before its heart stops beating.”

Rowan doesn’t flinch. “Understood, Commander.”

I recognize the quiet fury behind Malik’s calm exterior — the controlled demolition happening behind his dark eyes while his hands remain steady and his voice never rises.

The omega-born Commander who clawed his way up from nothing has never bluffed when something he loves is threatened.

The palace has forgotten what that looks like. They’re about to remember.

By midmorning, I convene the private meeting. No attendants, no scribes, and no council lords with their calculating eyes and convenient loyalties: just the four people in this realm I trust without reservation.

Damon arrives first, Elara beside him. My brother’s composure is intact — the grief from yesterday compressed into something hard and functional behind his eyes — but I feel the sharp edge of his focus.

He’s already thinking strategically, turning the Broken Crown symbol over in his mind the way a general turns over enemy positions.

Malik closes the door himself and stands with his back against it, arms folded. A commander guarding an exit; a father blocking the only way to reach his family.

“Tell them what we found,” I say to him.

“Someone carved the Order’s symbol into the nursery floor.” Malik’s voice is measured, each word placed with surgical precision.

“The mark was made within hours of Castiel’s power manifesting — which means whoever left it was inside the palace. Lyra’s power was quiet at that moment, I suppose, so she was safe.”

Damon’s jaw tightens. “How did they get past your security?”

“That’s what I intend to find out.”

“What do we know about the Order’s remaining structure?” Elara asks, her tone careful and analytical.

She sits with her hands resting on the table, composed, but I notice the way her fingers press against the wood — holding steady through deliberate effort.

“When Seraphine and Celeste fell, the Order should have collapsed.” I say. “But intelligence from the assault on Seraphine’s estate identified at least three active cells operating independently across different territories.”

“If they wanted to frighten us, they would have left the mark somewhere public — the throne room, the great hall, the gates. Instead, they carved it in the nursery. Privately, where only the parents would find it.”

She pauses, letting the distinction settle. “They were marking territory, telling you those children already belong to them in their minds.”

The cold that runs through me has nothing to do with the morning air. I look at Malik and find the same realization settling across his features — the tightening around his eyes, the shift in his breathing.

“She’s right,” he says quietly. “A claim tells you they’re already close enough to take what they want, and they’re choosing not to. Yet.”

Before anyone can respond, a knock comes at the door. Malik steps aside, hand on his blade, and opens it to reveal a palace guard whose face carries the particular pallor of a man delivering news he wishes he didn’t have.

“Your Majesty.” The guard’s eyes dart between us. “We found something in the lower corridors during the sweep you ordered. A section of wall in the eastern foundation — it’s been opened recently. The mortar is fresh, maybe two weeks old.”

“Opened to what?” Malik’s voice drops to a register I’ve only heard before combat.

“A passage, sir. It’s not on any official blueprint of the palace. We’ve traced it forty yards so far, and it runs directly beneath the nursery wing.”

The silence that follows is absolute. Damon’s hand finds Elara’s under the table, and Malik’s knuckles whiten around the hilt of his blade.

Beneath my feet — beneath the floor where my children sleep — someone built a road straight to them. We never knew it was there.