Page 30 of Claimed By the Alien Prince
“She has no reason to harm us,” I insist, desperation creeping into my tone as panic churns within me like a tempest threatening to break loose. “I will speak with her.”
“Speak with her?” one councilor scoffs incredulously. “She may very well be responsible for this attack! And if she is clever enough to poison, she's clever enough to manipulate?—”
“Do not imply that I do not know when I am being manipulated,” I roar, slamming my fist on the table.
I glare at the council, their silence thick and heavy, punctuated only by my ragged breaths.
“Carys had nothing to do with this,” I bark, my voice cutting through the tension like a sharpened blade. “She’s been confined to her room since she was brought here.”
“But—”
“She’s responsible,” one noble interjects, his voice dripping with accusation. “I saw her in the halls last night.”
Ice grips my veins. The very idea that she could have roamed these corridors unguarded sends a wave of dread crashing over me.
“Which halls?” I demand, feeling my pulse quicken. “What time?”
“I can’t be certain of the hour?—”
“Enough!” I shout, unable to contain my fury any longer. I push past them, shoving through the doors and into the open air of the corridor. My heart pounds against my ribs as I race down the hall, thoughts spiraling out of control.
Had Carys slipped away? What if she had been plotting all along? No… No, it can’t be true.
The truth burns inside me, stoking a wildfire of rage and fear. I reach her door, fists clenched and breathless with urgency.
It can't be her. It can't be. She's my mate, not an assassin. A botanist, not a soldier. She can't have been lying to me the whole time… right?
Suddenly I don't feel so sure.
CHAPTER 23
CARYS
Ishift my attention to the delicate spores sprawled out before me, their intricate patterns swirling and intertwining like miniature galaxies dancing in the vast expanse of space. I lean in closer, enchanted by the mesmerizing details, as my pencil glides effortlessly across the page, tracing the essence of each tiny organism with painstaking precision. Every stroke feels like a tender caress, a way to immortalize these fragile wonders in the realm of my art.
However, this moment of serene focus, where I am completely absorbed in my craft, shatters abruptly when the door crashes open with a force that reverberates through the room. The sudden intrusion jolts me from my creative reverie, my heart racing as I instinctively glance up, ready to confront whatever chaos has barged into my space.
Zevran stands there, his tall figure tense with an electric energy that radiates from his wild, fierce gaze. The intensity of his expression sends a shiver down my spine, igniting a whirlwind of confusion and concern within me.
“Zevran? What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice trembling slightly as the rapid beat of my heart thrums in my ears. The uneaseswirling in my mind grows heavier, filling the space between us with an almost tangible weight.
“Is it true?” he demands, his voice low and strained, each word dripping with a simmering accusation that makes the air around us feel colder, more oppressive. The intensity of his inquiry sends an icy chill coursing through me.
“What are you talking about?” I reply, my breath catching slightly in my throat.
I carefully set my notebook down, feeling the cool surface of the table beneath my fingers, and step closer to him, driven by a desperate need to understand. I can sense the storm brewing within him, a tumultuous mix of emotions that I am determined to navigate, even if I’m unsure of the exact cause.
“Tell me it isn’t,” he spits out, his tone sharp enough to cut. But then—just like that—the anger fades from his eyes, replaced by something raw and desperate. I’ve never seen this side of him before. “Tell me it isn’t fucking true.”
My stomach knots. Does he know? The weight of silence stretches between us as I twist my fingers nervously. I can’t find my voice, dread pooling at the base of my throat.
“Did you leave this room last night?” he asks finally, each word dripping with urgency.
“Zevran—” I reach toward him instinctively. The desire to comfort him pulls me closer, but as I extend my hand, he steps back.
The movement stings more than any physical blow could. It breaks something inside me that I didn’t realize needed protection. His retreat sends shards of disappointment slicing through my chest; I’ve never felt so exposed.
“What’s going on?” I force the question out through gritted teeth, desperation clawing at me now. “You’re scaring me.”
