Page 117 of The Reaper's Vow
He nods grimly. “What I have to tell you couldn't wait for better conditions.”
My stomach tightens with familiar dread. In our world, news that requires absolute secrecy is rarely good news.
“Sit,” Damien gestures toward the leather chairs arranged near the fireplace. “You look like you could use the warmth.”
Elias settles into the chair closest to the fire, his hands extended toward the flames. I notice they're trembling slightly—whether from cold or nerves, I can't tell.
“Drink?” I offer, moving toward the bar cart in the corner.
“Please. Something strong.”
I pour three glasses of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the firelight as I hand them out. Elias downs his in one gulp, while Damien and I wait with untouched glasses in our hands. He sets the empty tumbler down with a decisive click against the side table.
“Saloma was executed at dawn this morning,” Elias blurts out.
The whiskey glass nearly slips from my fingers. I tighten my grip. “Was it...was it quick?”
“No. My father insisted on the old ways. Public. Before the entire pack.”
I sink into the chair opposite him, memories flooding back with nauseating clarity.
“Good,” Damien says beside me. “She deserved nothing less.”
“I don’t disagree. Saloma was a grade A bitch, and she reaped what she sowed. But there's more,” Elias continues, reaching for the bottle to pour himself another measure, “my stepbrothers have been exiled.”
“Both of them?” I lean forward, the whiskey forgotten in my hand. “Matthew and Leo?”
“They're barely adults,” Damien interjects. “What did they do to warrant exile? Surely, they weren’t involved.”
Elias runs a hand through his damp hair, leaving it standing in disheveled spikes. “They knew. About Saloma's plans with Lockhart. Not everything, but enough.”
The room suddenly feels colder despite the roaring fire. I set my glass down before my trembling hands can betray me.
“Old enough to know right from wrong,” Damien growls beside me. “Old enough to understand what kidnapping and forced mating means.”
I reach for his hand, feeling the tension vibrating through him. “What happens to them now?”
“They've been stripped of the Bellandi name and protection,” Elias explains, staring into his whiskey. “Given enough money to start somewhere new but forbidden from contacting anyone in the pack. If they return to our territory...” He trails off, the implication clear.
Death. The punishment for returning from exile is always death.
“Your father's handling of this situation seems...thorough,” I say carefully, watching Elias's face. There's more he isn't telling us—I can see it written clearly on his face.
“Thorough doesn't begin to cover it,” Elias says, draining his second glass. He shifts in his seat, suddenly finding the fire intensely interesting. “There's something else. Something that concerns both of you, actually.”
I exchange a glance with Damien. “What is it?”
Elias fidgets with his empty glass, turning it between his fingers. “My father has...made arrangements.”
“Arrangements?”
“For me,” Elias clarifies, still not meeting our eyes. “I'm to be mated at the next full moon.”
The statement hangs in the air like smoke, unexpected and suffocating. I blink, trying to process what I've just heard.
“Mated?” I repeat, leaning forward. “Considering what your father went through, I would have thought he’d have wanted to wait for the smoke to settle.”
“You’d have thought so, but not my father,” Elias confirms, “He thinks the family line needs immediate strengthening after a scandal.” His bitter laugh holds no humor. “Nothing says 'business as usual' like a traditional mating ceremony, apparently.”
