Reject me twice (Kira and Theron) novel Chapter 93

[Ciri’s POV]

He knows!

Theron hasn’t confronted me, locked me down, or called his wolves to escort me from the keep. But there’s a shift in his behavior I can feel like a change in air pressure — the way the atmosphere tightens before a storm breaks, when the wind hasn’t started yet but every animal in the forest has already gone still.

He’s watching me differently. Not the generalized scrutiny of a cautious Alpha assessing a newcomer — I lived under that gaze for weeks and learned its patterns.

This is targeted. The observation of a man who has found a particular thread and is deciding whether to pull it or let it play out until it leads him somewhere useful.

I consider my options before dawn, staring at the ceiling I’ve memorized.

Running confirms guilt, and staying means deepening the lie or abandoning it. Contacting Cyrus for extraction would bring his wolves to the border and trigger the very conflict I was sent to prepare.

My brother doesn’t do quiet retrieval. He does statements — armed, bloody, designed to announce his presence like a forest fire.

None of these options lead anywhere survivable.

So I deflect. I throw myself into work with an intensity that borders on obsessive — intelligence assessments, diplomatic frameworks, strategic recommendations too valuable to dismiss.

“This is exceptional work,” Senna tells me, reviewing the Ashford trade framework. “The seasonal tariff adjustments alone would have taken the council two sessions. You did it in an afternoon.”

“I had good source material. Your preliminary notes were thorough.”

“They were a mess, and we both know it. Don’t deflect compliments — it makes you harder to trust.”

“I’ll work on accepting them gracefully.”

“You’d better. Theron wants the framework finalized by Thursday. Can you handle the revision independently?”

“The core structure is sound. It just needs tariff calculations verified against last season’s trade volumes.”

“Good. And Ciri — whatever is driving this sudden burst of productivity, I’d appreciate it continuing. I haven’t had an assistant who could keep up with me since Marcus left, and I’d rather not go back to doing everything myself.”

“You won’t have to. I plan on being very difficult to replace.”

Senna studies me with the shrewd assessment of a Beta who’s survived enough political weather to smell a storm building. “See that you are.”

I haven’t sent Cyrus a real report in a month. The messages at the dead drop have grown thin — weather patterns, outdated patrol schedules, nothing that would survive scrutiny. Cyrus is either too consumed by preparations to notice, or giving me rope.

One evening, working late in Theron’s study, the candle burns low and the boundary between strategy and something more personal dissolves the way it’s been dissolving for weeks — gradually, then all at once.

“Tell me about before,” he says, setting down his pen. “Not the story you gave me when you arrived, but what actually made you who you are?”

“That’s a dangerous question to ask someone you’re still evaluating, Alpha.”

“Consider it a calculated risk.”

The words settle into me, and I feel the ripples spread through every lie I’ve built since arriving — every curated truth, every report left in a hollow tree for a brother who wants to destroy the man sitting across from me.

“I should go,” I say, and my voice betrays me — thicker than it should be, rougher around the edges. “It’s late.”

He holds my gaze.

“Ciri — whatever you’re carrying that you haven’t told me, I’d rather hear it from you than discover it on my own.”

The sentence hangs between us like a bridge I could cross if I were braver. I nod, say nothing, and leave the study with my throat closed and my hands shaking inside my pockets.

In my quarters, on the pillow where it could not have been placed without someone entering while I was working, I find a folded parchment sealed with plain wax. No mark or signature, but I know my brother’s hand the way I know the weight of my own knife.

The encoded message is brief. I crack it in under a minute, because Cyrus never bothered teaching me a complex cipher — he didn’t think I was worth the investment.

‘I march in six weeks. If your reports don’t improve, I will assume you’ve betrayed me, and I will treat you accordingly.’

Forty-two days before my brother brings his wolves to these walls, expecting the gate to open from inside.

I sit on the edge of my bed, holding the parchment, and the clock is ticking. I have no idea which side of it I want to be on when the time runs out.