Chapter 170

Chapter 170: Chapter 170

Lysander’s pov

For weeks, I had carried the weight of my secrets like jagged glass in my throat, cutting myself every time I tried to speak. I had let Drake hold me while I hid the truth about everything.

And now, the ultimate secret was growing inside my own core, a child whose paternity was a terrifying black abyss.

I reached the double doors of the master suite at the end of the east wing. The heavy dark oak was pulled shut, the brass handles gleaming cold under the wall sconces.

I stopped in front of the door, leaning my forehead against the cool wood, my hands resting flat against the panels.

How do I say it?

I closed my eyes, rehearsing the words in my head, my jaw trembling as I tried to construct a confession that didn’t sound like a death sentence.

Drake, I’m pregnant. But I went to Darius’s compound... I let him put a collar on me... and I don’t know whose child it is.

The sentence sounded insane. Filthy. An unforgivable betrayal forged from weakness and terror.

I swallowed the dry copper taste in my throat, tears burning behind my eyelids. I knew what would happen when those words left my mouth. Drake wouldn’t just be angry; his ancient, possessive heart would break. The bond we had built, the sanctuary he had created for me in this mountain fortress would shatter beyond repair.

He would hate me. He might strip the silver blood-token from my neck and cast me out into the rain. He might lock me in the subterranean vaults beneath the estate where the sun never reached, keeping me as a prisoner until the child was born.

"Let him," I whispered to the empty hallway, my voice a barely audible thread. "Let him hate me. Just let it be over."

If he cast me out, I would accept it. If he locked me away, I wouldn’t fight. Telling him the truth was the only honorable thing I had left to give him, a final, bitter gift to replace the mountain of lies I had built between us.

I took a deep, steadying breath, forced my shoulders square, and reached for the brass handle.

I turned the lever slowly. The heavy oak door disengaged with a soft click and swung inward.

The master bedroom was dark, lit only by the pale, gray storm light filtering through the sheer curtains. The massive king-sized bed was unmade, the heavy velvet duvet thrown back.

Drake wasn’t in the room.

I stepped inside, letting the door slide shut behind me, my eyes scanning the quiet space. His dark leather jacket was thrown over the back of the armchair by the fireplace. The air smelled faintly of his cedar soap, but beneath it ran that same anger I had felt on the phone.

"Drake?" I called out softly, my voice trembling as I walked toward the center of the room. "Drake, are you in here?"

No answer.

I stood by the edge of the bed, my hands digging into the damp wool of my sweater over my lower abdomen. The silence in the suite felt dense, almost deliberate, pulling at my fraying nerves.

He was in the house. I could feel the faint, vibrating hum of his essence radiating through the floorboards from further down the private hall, near the secluded sitting rooms reserved for high-ranking guests.

I turned back toward the door, my chest tight, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm as I stepped out into the quiet corridor to look for him, ready to lay my soul bare and face whatever judgment he had prepared for me.

I walked bare-foot down the carpeted hallway, the damp wool of my socks soaking up the cold draft creeping through the floorboards. The wall sconces had been dimmed to a low, amber flicker, casting long, liquid shadows against the dark wood paneling.

Every step felt like dragging an iron chain. My heart hammered against my ribs, so loud and frantic I was certain the entire house could hear it.

Just tell him, I repeated like a mantra, my fingers digging into the fleece of my sweater over my lower abdomen. Walk in, look him in the eye, and lay it all out. Accept whatever he does to you.

I reached the end of the corridor, where the hall veered left toward the secluded sitting rooms—the private, sound-dampened suites reserved for high-ranking council members or private domain business.

A sound cut through the silence, a familiar sound.

I froze, my breath locking up in my throat.

The door to the corner sitting room was slightly ajar. A thin strip of warm, golden candlelight spilled out across the dark floorboards, cutting through the shadows of the hallway.

My mind raced. I thought I would find him sitting alone in the dark, staring out at the storm with a glass of blood-wine, his eyes glowing with that cold, lethal rage I had heard over the phone. I thought I would find a man torn apart by my confession, waiting to deliver my sentence.

I stepped closer, my bare feet sinking silently into the plush runner rug. I reached out a hand, my fingers hovering an inch over the cold brass handle, and peered through the crack in the door.

The breath was brutally ripped from my lungs.

The world stopped turning. The floorboards beneath my feet felt like they were giving way, dropping me into a dark, endless void.

Drake was in the bed.

He was stripped to the waist, his broad, marble-pale shoulders illuminated by the soft flickering candlelight. But he wasn’t alone.

Wrapped in the heavy duvet beside him was another man, a stranger with sleek, pale skin, sharp features, and dark, silver-tinted hair spilled across the white pillows.

The stranger’s hand was resting casually against Drake’s broad chest, long fingers tracing the sharp, carved muscle of his ribs with an easy, practiced intimacy that made my stomach violently turn inside out.