Mate 19 - Unwanted Night

Sage

Two days had passed. The news arrived with the setting sun, carried through the palace halls like a ghostly whisper—soft at first, then a roaring storm.

The Emperor had fallen ill.

The royal physician was the first to speak the words aloud. He had emerged from the Emperor’s chambers, his hands shaking, his face ashen. Behind him, the Empress's cries rang through the marble halls, raw and desperate.

"Find the cure! He is the Emperor! There must be something!" she screamed, clutching the front of the physician’s robes. Her usual regal composure had shattered. Her pale, tear-streaked face twisted in agony as she turned to the gathered council members. "You will not stand here and do nothing! Fix this!"

No one dared to meet her gaze.

The Emperor was breathing—but barely. He did not wake, did not respond. It was as if he were trapped in a slumber too deep to return from.

Some called it an illness. Some whispered of poison.

I stood among the onlookers, my fingers tightening against the sleeves of my dress as I watched the chaos unfold.

And in that moment, I knew.

This was Rosana.

I didn’t know how, not yet. But I had seen her exchanging something in the library. I knew she was plotting something.

And now the Emperor had fallen.

My stomach churned. I needed proof. I needed to find a way to expose her before it was too late.

"Your Majesty," a soft, honeyed voice cut through the chaos.

Rosana.

She glided toward the Empress with practiced grace, her emerald green gown flowing around her as if she were a savior stepping into the fray. Her hands, delicate and unblemished, reached out to the grieving woman.

"You mustn't overexert yourself," she soothed, her voice gentle, coaxing. "The Emperor needs you to be strong. We all do."

The Empress, trembling, turned to Rosana like a drowning woman grasping for a lifeline.

"He won’t wake up, Rosana," she choked out. "He won’t wake up, and I—I don’t know what to do."

Rosana’s lips pressed together in a delicate frown. "We will do everything possible. I swear it. The council will not fail you." She turned toward the guards standing by the entrance. "Send word to His Highness. Prince Damien must return to the palace at once."

A brief pause.

Then, a knight bowed his head before stepping out into the halls, his hurried footsteps echoing down the corridor.

I clenched my fists.

How perfect. How effortless.

In one breath, she had placed herself at the Empress’s side, whispered the right words to cement herself as a pillar of support, and ensured that Damien would return—because of her.

It was calculated.

And it worked.

The Empress’s sobs quieted, her grip on Rosana tightening as if she were the only one she could trust.

Meanwhile, I stood in the shadows, unnoticed.

I swallowed down the frustration bubbling inside me.

I didn’t have proof. Not yet.

But I would find it.

I had to.

The palace gates swung open with urgency as Damien rode through the courtyard, his black stallion kicking up dust beneath its hooves. His cloak was still stained with the remnants of his battle—a sign of the monsters he had been sent to exterminate.

But he had returned.

Because the Crown Prince was needed in the palace.

The extermination efforts near the temple had now fallen onto Greyson’s shoulders, while Damien was pulled back into the political battlefield, forced to sit upon a throne that was not yet his.

I watched from the balcony as he dismounted, his blue eyes dark with something unreadable.

He hated this.

The Emperor was dying, and the weight of the empire was shifting onto his shoulders.

A hush fell over the palace entrance as he stepped forward, his boots echoing against the marble floors. And then—

"Damien,” a familiar voice rang out.

Rosana stood poised, her emerald gown untouched by the chaos around her. Not a single curl had fallen from place, as if she had spent the entire day preparing for this moment.

As if she had been waiting for him.

Her eyes softened, her lips curling into something warm and welcoming.

"I knew you would come back as soon as you heard the news." Her voice was gentle, filled with concern. "I was so worried—"

Damien’s steps didn’t falter.

But this time—he acknowledged her.

His eyes flickered toward her, unreadable. Then, a single nod. Nothing more.

"How is the Empress?" His voice was steady, but there was something cold beneath it—detached, impersonal.

Rosana’s smile widened. She lowered her lashes, voice light and reassuring.

"She’s holding on. I’ve been with her since the news broke. She’s exhausted, but I’m making sure she’s taken care of."

Damien didn’t respond.

Instead, he moved forward, his strides purposeful, unwavering.

But Rosana didn’t let him go alone.

Without hesitation, she fell into step beside him, her hands delicately clasped in front of her. And then—just as effortlessly—she reached for his arm, her fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve as she clung to him.

Later that evening, I found myself standing outside his chambers.

I had planned to ask him about Greyson—to know if he was safe, to know if the battle had turned in our favor. But as soon as I stepped inside, I knew something was wrong.

The room was dimly lit, the heavy scent of liquor thick in the air.

And there he was.

Damien.

Seated at the edge of his bed, half-dressed, a bottle of wine clutched loosely in his fingers. His discarded shirt lay crumpled on the floor, his blue eyes unfocused—yet sharp when they landed on me.

I hesitated. “Damien—”

"If you’re here to ask about Greyson," he muttered, taking another sip from his glass, "then don’t."

I frowned. "I just wanted to know if he's—"

A low scoff cut through the air.

Damien lifted his gaze to mine, something dark and dangerous flickering beneath the surface.

"So that’s how you plan to get my attention again?" His voice was smooth, deceptively calm. "By being close to him?"

I stiffened. "That’s not—"

"Then why are you really here, Sage?"

I swallowed. I didn’t have an answer. Did I want to check on him? Did I just… want to see him?

He let out a quiet laugh—bitter, hollow.

"You should be happy," he murmured, setting his glass down with a deliberate motion. "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?"

I frowned. "What are you talking about?"

He stood abruptly, closing the distance between us in slow, measured steps. I took a step back—only to hit the wall behind me.

He caged me in, one hand resting beside my head.

"The Emperor is sick," he murmured. "And soon, I’ll have to provide one too." His lips curved, but there was no amusement in his voice. "Isn’t that what you wanted?"

The words felt like a slap.

"That’s not—"

Before I could finish, he kissed me.

My breath caught.

His hands, rough and calloused, pressed against my waist. The heat of his skin burned through the fabric of my dress, his lips demanding, unrelenting.

I pushed against his chest, but he didn’t stop.

"Damien," I whispered against his lips, trying to turn my face away. "Stop—"

"Why?" His breath was hot against my skin. "You’re my fated mate, aren’t you?"

I shuddered.

"You need to provide an heir to secure your position, right?” His voice was dark, mocking. "Then why not take one from me now?"

I clenched my jaw. "You want Rosana," I shot back. "Why not her?"

His scoff was cold.

"She’s not my mate," he murmured, his lips brushing against my collarbone. "It’s not my duty."

I felt my stomach twist.

"Why now? You said that you don’t want to mark me as your mate. You love her," I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze. "Why not make her the mother of your heir?"

Damien’s fingers tightened around my waist. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes burned with something I couldn’t quite name.

Maybe, I expect that he wants me not because of responsibility tied to him, but just because he felt something for me.

"I told you," he said lowly, his voice carrying the weight of an unspoken truth. "She is not my mate. And love has nothing to do with duty."

I hated how his words echoed the ones my father and my tutor had drilled into me.

Duty.

Obligation.

My fate as the Luna of this empire.

I closed my eyes.

This was inevitable.

I let my hands fall from his chest, no longer pushing him away.

Damien took my silence as permission. His lips trailed lower, pressing into the delicate skin of my throat, his hands skimming over the fabric of my dress. His touch was possessive, yet distant, as though this was something he, too, had accepted rather than desired.

His fingers moved to the laces of my gown, undoing them with practiced ease. The fabric slipped from my shoulders, pooling at my feet, leaving me bare beneath his gaze.

I felt nothing.

No heat, no longing.

Only the quiet voice in my mind reminding me: This is your duty. This is what you were meant for.

Damien pulled me toward the bed, his movements unhurried, his blue eyes watching me carefully.

He wasn’t tender.

He wasn’t cruel, either.

He was just… going through the motions.

And so was I.

I let him lay me down against the sheets. I let him kiss me, let him take what he needed from me—not because I wanted him, not because I longed for him, but because I knew this was what had to happen.

I had to secure my place.

The alliance my father wanted.

I had to make sure he couldn’t reject me.

So I let it happen.

Even as I lay beneath him, staring at the ceiling, my hands gripping the sheets instead of reaching for him.

Even as his lips traced the curves of my body, even as he whispered my name against my skin.

Even as he finally claimed me as his mate.

I let it happen.

Because this was fate.

And because I had no choice.

The room was quiet, save for the sound of Damien’s steady breathing.

He lay beside me, his arm draped over my waist, his face turned away. The warmth of his body should have been comforting, but I felt nothing but the cold emptiness settling in my chest.

I turned onto my side, staring at the darkened ceiling.

It was done.

I had done what my father wanted.

I had given myself to Damien, ensuring that he would never be able to reject me now that our bond had been sealed.

I should have felt victorious.

But all I felt was hollow.