Chapter 5 The Oil!

The adrenaline of the confrontation with Gideon was fading, replaced by a much more primal and persistent problem. 

Between the three glasses of mineral water I’d downed to keep my throat from seizing during the interrogation and the sheer, relentless pressure of the linen binding against my lower abdomen, I was reaching a physical breaking point.

"Your Highness," I whispered, leaning toward Rayder as he feigned interest in a Duchess’s long-winded story about her prize-winning hounds. I tried to keep my face a mask of stoic duty, but my vision was starting to swim at the edges.

"Not now, Cyrus," he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, his smile never wavering as he nodded at the Duchess. "Duchess Marguerite is a primary donor to the border patrols. If I walk away mid-sentence, she’ll cut the budget for the Silver Valley before the moon sets. Smile and look lethal."

"Sir," I hissed, shifting my weight from one foot to the other in a rhythmic, desperate motion I hoped looked like a soldier’s restlessness. "It’s an emergency. A... tactical withdrawal is required."

Rayder flicked a glance at me, his eyes widening slightly as he saw the beads of sweat on my forehead,sweat that had nothing to do with the Red Moon. In the harsh, violet light of the chandeliers, I probably looked like I was about to go into cardiac arrest. 

"Are you wounded? Did Gideon hit you somewhere I didn't see? Is it internal?"

"No, sir. I just... I need to excuse myself. Immediately."

Rayder’s lips quirked into a suppressed, wicked smile. He finally turned back to the Duchess with a charming, apologetic tilt of his head that made the older woman blush like a debutante.

"Forgive us, Duchess. My guard has apparently encountered a foe even he cannot defeat. Nature calls, and it seems she is being quite insistent tonight. I fear if I don't let him go, he’ll start growling at the guests."

The Duchess let out a tittering, high-pitched laugh. "Oh, bless his heart! The poor dear looks positively green. The bathrooms are through the gilded archway, past the portraits of the First Alphas, dear boy. Do try not to get lost in the marble."

I didn't wait for a second invitation. I bowed stiffly,a movement that made my bladder scream in protest and turned, marching with as much "masculine" purpose as I could muster toward the archway. 

I kept my shoulders squared and my chin up, channeling every ounce of the gruff, arrogant energy I’d observed in the barracks. To anyone watching, I was a soldier on a mission. To me, I was a ticking time bomb.

The problem hit me with the force of a physical blow the moment I crossed the threshold of the guest wing.

To the left, a door of heavy, polished oak with a silver wolf-head knocker: the Men’s room. To the right, a door of delicate frosted glass etched with a golden lily: the Women’s.

I stood paralyzed in the hallway, the silent portraits of ancient Alphas seeming to judge me from their gold-leaf frames. 

The logic of my situation was a cruel trap. If I went into the women's room dressed as a male guard, the screams would alert the security team within seconds, and I’d be tackled to the floor before I could explain. But the men's room? That was a territory I had only seen in my nightmares.

In the Neutral Zone, Alyssia had told me stories. She’d warned me that men were different when they thought they were alone,looser, louder, and terrifyingly observant of things that didn't fit their mold.

I closed my eyes, a silent prayer to the Moon Goddess on my lips. Please, let the stalls be empty. Please, let no one talk to me. Please, let me survive this without shattering the mask.

I pushed open the heavy oak door.

The room was a temple of masculine vanity,mahogany walls, marble floors, and the scent of expensive tobacco and cedarwood hanging thick in the air. To my horror, it wasn't empty. 

Two Betas from the Southern Pack were standing by the long row of porcelain sinks, adjusting their ties in the mirror and laughing about a bet they’d made on the next full moon race.

"I'm telling you, Jax, the Red Moon wolves are all bark," one was saying, splashing water on his face. "They look like they haven't bathed since the last Great War."

I kept my head down, the brim of my guard’s hat pulled low over my eyes, and walked straight for the furthest stall. I moved with a heavy, stomping gait, my boots echoing like thunder on the marble, trying to project a sense of "I belong here and I’m in a hurry."

"Hey, isn't that the Prince's new shadow?" the one named Jax asked. I could see his reflection in the mirror. He was looking at me, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah," the other replied, drying his hands on a linen towel. "The one who stood up to Gideon. Brave kid. Or just too stupid to know when he’s outmatched. He looks a bit small, doesn't he? Like he’s still waiting for his first growth spurt."

I ducked into the stall and slammed the door, sliding the brass bolt home with a hand that wouldn't stop shaking. I leaned my forehead against the cool, dark wood of the door, waiting for the sound of my own blood to stop roaring in my ears.

But they didn't leave. They stayed by the sinks, their conversation shifting into the one topic I dreaded most: the prophecy.

"Think the Red Moon really brought a mate for Rayder tonight? My father says the Council is pushing for a political match. They want to tie Thorne’s hands with a marriage contract."

"Doubt it. Gideon looked like he wanted to bite the Prince’s head off, not hand over a sister. Besides, did you see the way the Prince was hovering over that guard? It’s a bit weird, isn't it? He treats the kid like a porcelain doll. I’ve never seen Rayder care if a guard was breathing, let alone if he was 'relaxing.'

I held my breath, my face burning with a heat that felt like it would melt the walnut oil right off my skin. I felt a surge of indignation, I wasn't a "porcelain doll." I was a Thatcher. I was a survivor. But beneath the anger was a cold spike of fear. If the common soldiers were noticing Rayder’s strange behavior, how long before the Council did?

I waited for three agonizing minutes, listening to the drip of a faucet and the distant thrum of the ballroom music, until the sound of the outer door finally clicked shut.

Silence.

I moved to handle my business, but the reality of my disguise presented a secondary, more complicated hurdle. The suit was a marvel of Southern tailoring,stiff, multi-layered, and designed for a man’s frame. 

Between the heavy jacket, the high-waisted trousers, and the linen binding that was wrapped so tight it felt like it had fused to my skin, I was essentially encased in armor. Trying to navigate this while my ribs ached and my hands were slick with cold sweat was an exercise in pure frustration.

I was struggling with a particularly stubborn silver button, my fingers fumbling against the fabric, when the outer door swung open again. 

These weren't the light, casual footsteps of the Betas. These were heavy, rhythmic, and carried the weight of absolute authority

.

And then came the scent. Ozone. Expensive cedar. The smell of a storm breaking over the ocean.

Rayder.

"Cyrus?" he called out. His voice echoed off the marble, sounding far too loud in the confined space. "You've been in here for ten minutes. If you’ve fallen into the plumbing, I’m not coming in after you. The Alpha has arrived, and I don't have time for your stage fright."

I froze, my hand hovering over my belt. "I'm fine, Your Highness! Just... a momentary delay! Please, return to the Gala!"

"You're not fine. Your scent is spiking so hard I can smell the panic from the hallway. You smell like a rabbit in a snare. Open the door. Are you sick? Did that Red Moon bastard poison you?"

"I am currently... indisposed, sir! Tactical reasons!"

"Tactical reasons?" I heard him take a step closer. He was right outside the stall now. I could see the shadow of his boots beneath the door. "Since when is the bathroom a tactical maneuver? Open this door right now, or I’m taking it off the hinges. I don't care about your privacy if you're dying in there."

He banged on the wood. The vibration traveled through the door and into my forehead.

"I'll be out in a second!" I yelled, frantically trying to fix my clothing. In my haste, I reached for the small shelf where I’d placed my emergency kit, and my hand slipped. 

My small glass flask of walnut oil hit the marble floor with a dull, sickening thud. The cap popped off, and the liquid splattered across my boots.

The acrid, bitter scent of tobacco and walnut flooded the tiny stall, overwhelming everything else.

"What was that?" Rayder’s voice dropped. The humor was gone, replaced by a low, predatory edge. "Cyrus? What is that smell? It’s the same one you always carry, but it’s... concentrated. It smells like a chemist’s shop. What are you doing in there?"

"It’s nothing! I dropped my... my medicine!"

"Medicine? For what? You don't have a scent of your own, Cyrus. You just smell like that bitter sludge. Open the door. Now."

I looked at the spilled oil, the dark stain spreading across the white marble. I looked at the red welts on my wrists where the binding had rubbed me raw. I was a mess. If he saw me now, flushed and panicked, he’d realize I wasn't just a guard with a skin condition. He’d see the "Hidden Thing" Gideon had smelled.

"I'm coming out!" I shouted, my voice cracking.

I took a deep, shaky breath, straightened my jacket, and slid the bolt.

I stepped out, trying to channel every ounce of arrogance I had left. Rayder was standing right there, his arms crossed over his chest, his golden eyes scanning me with a terrifying, clinical intensity. 

He looked like an Alpha about to dismantle a rival.

He looked down at the floor of the stall, at the dark, oily puddle, then back at my face. "You're wearing enough of that stuff to coat a battleship, Cyrus. And you’re flushed. Your heart is beating so loud I can hear the valves snapping."

"I have... a chronic skin condition," I lied, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "The oil helps the itching. The stress of the Gala makes it flare up. It’s a Northern ailment. Very common in the wastes."

Rayder didn't move. He stepped closer, invading my personal space until I was backed against the sink. 

He was so close I could see the flecks of amber in his eyes and the way his pupils dilated as he searched for the truth. He reached out, his hand hovering near my jaw. 

For a heartbeat, I thought he was going to wipe away the dark smudge of oil near my ear—or worse, feel the softness of the skin underneath.

"You’re a terrible liar," he whispered, his voice vibrating in my chest. "Your eyes are screaming, and your skin is practically humming. You’re not sick. You’re hiding."

"Sir, the Alpha is waiting," I reminded him, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and something else,something that felt dangerously like a desire for him to just know.

Rayder stared at me for a long, agonizing beat. I could feel the heat radiating from him, the sheer power of his wolf demanding that I submit. Then, he sighed and stepped back, the pressure lifting just enough for me to breathe.

"Fine," he muttered, turning to look at himself in the mirror, though his eyes never left my reflection. "Keep your secrets for now. But don't think I’ve forgotten the way Gideon looked at you. Or the way Lyric was whispering. After this Gala is over,after we deal with Thorne—we’re having a talk. No more 'Northern' excuses. No more 'medicine.' I want to know who is standing behind me."

He turned to lead the way out, his gait regal and commanding once more. I caught my reflection in the mirror,the short hair, the sharp eyes, the oil-stained suit. I looked like a soldier. I looked like a man. But as I followed the Prince back into the den of vipers, I knew the "Choice of the Goddess" was closing in, and I was running out of places to hide