Beast Gacha System: All Mine-Chapter 263: Second Chance

The underground basement cell beneath Dawnoro’s Iondora capital residence was engulfed in darkness.

Shadows pooled in corners like spilled ink. The only light came from a single torch mounted high on the far wall, quite a dim, sickly glow that did little more than illuminate the misery it couldn’t dispel.

In the center of the cell, behind a set of metal bars that had been bent, wrenched out of shape by a force that shouldn’t have been possible for human hands, sat Roarke Raul.

Even though he could get out of the metal bars with his strength, he would be swarmed by the elite wolves from the pack immediately. So, he stayed.

His ruined face showed everything that had happened. Bruises in every shade of purple and black. Swelling that distorted his features into something almost unrecognizable. Dried blood caked at the corner of his mouth, on his chin, in the lines of his neck.

His clothes were the same he had worn when Arkai had beaten him, now days old, stained, torn.

He hadn’t moved in hours. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t done anything but sit there, staring at nothing, waiting for whatever came next.

Then—

CLANG.

The sound of the heavy metal door from upstairs, opening.

Footsteps. Slow. Alone.

Roarke’s eyes, what could be seen of them through the swelling, tracked the sound as it descended the stone stairs. One set of feet. Light.

A figure emerged from the shadows.

A woman. Beautiful. She wore black, a flowing dress that seemed to drink the meager light, that moved with her like water, that made her look like something from a dream. Or a nightmare.

Arkai’s Luna.

The moment she approached, a bench from the side of the cell lifted into the air. It floated, steady as if carried by invisible hands, and positioned itself to catch her as she sat.

She arranged herself gracefully, her dress pooling around her, her sea-glass eyes fixed on him through the bent bars.

Roarke stared at her.

"What do you want?" His voice was wrecked from disuse, a rasp, a croak, barely human. Yesterday, she had pronounced judgment upon him. Had ordered him killed. Was today the day, then? Had she come to finish it herself?

"Why did you come the night of our wedding announcement?"

Instead of an answer, she asked a question.

Roarke raised his head. His eyes widened, as much as the swelling allowed.

A conversation?

Now?

He scoffed.

It was ugly, wet and broken, ruined by the damage to his throat and mouth. But the contempt behind it was unmistakable.

"That man would have never come to this place." Roarke’s voice dripped with bitter amusement. "And suddenly he announces a banquet here?" He shook his head slowly, wincing at the movement. "And then there’s talk of a woman in the estate. Someone called the Luna."

Ah.

So he had somehow found out about her before the banquet. And it had convinced him to come?

"Were you worried about Rinne’s position, then?" Cecilia asked.

It was accurate.

Roarke growled, purely animal, raw and dangerous. "Arkai Dawnoro had never considered any woman before. Not once. Not ever." His eyes, visible through the swelling, burned with suspicion. "You must be a witch."

Cecilia’s smile was lopsided.

To compare this man, this broken creature, to the Roarke she had known in the fabricated world... it was like night and day. That Roarke had been young, principled, good. This Roarke had been twisted by years of pain and jealousy and manipulation. He had fallen so far.

"And you were worried about your son and your Alpha." She tilted her head, watching him. "That’s why you came."

Roarke didn’t deny it.

He felt that she was a threat to everything he had once loved. To the Dawnoro he had served. To the family that had been his, once, before everything went wrong.

"Who are you?" His voice dropped, dangerous.

"I can ask you the same thing." Cecilia was calm, unhurried. "And tell you the same thing."

She paused, letting the words settle.

"I don’t know who you are. Or what kind of person you are." Her sea-glass eyes held his through the bent bars. "I can tell you that you’re a threat to this family, which, from my perspective, you are."

Roarke stared at her, his ruined face unreadable.

"So you came here just to ask me why I came?" His voice was flat. "Or is it time to kill me?"

"Perhaps." Cecilia nodded, the motion graceful. "Unless you agree to make a deal with me."

A deal.

Roarke’s mind raced despite the fog of pain and despair. This woman... this impossible woman who had somehow made Arkai Dawnoro fall... what was she trying to do?

"Do you want a chance at being in Rinne’s life?"

Roarke’s eyes widened.

A chance...

Cecilia saw the change in his expression. The desperate, hopeless want that flickered behind all the anger and suspicion.

"But I don’t believe you yet." She said gently. "Nor does Arkai. And especially, not Rinne."

She leaned forward.

"So. Prove yourself."

Roarke’s breath caught.

"Take this deal. Prove that you’re trustworthy, that you’re on Dawnoro’s side." Her eyes held his. "Redeem yourself."

"And I might convince Rinne that you have a right to be in his life."

***

Tap. Tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap. Tap tap.

Eastiel sat with his feet propped on the table, his long claws drumming against the arm of his chair in a rhythm that was almost music. Just a subtle, repeating pattern that seemed familiar but impossible to place.

His golden eyes were half-lidded, his expression one of lazy satisfaction, a predator at ease in his domain.

Around him, lions and lionesses knelt on the ground, all in their half-beast forms, claws and fangs and fur visible, their bodies coiled with the particular tension of warriors who had just returned from a successful battle.

"What do we burn next, my King?" The question came from the front, from a massive male with scars crossing his chest.

Eastiel’s lips curved.

"Good work on the logistics supplies. The Delanivis will be eating their own tails before the month is out." He waved a hand dismissively. "For now, we stand by. The war won’t go anywhere."

A melodic hum accompanied his words, as if he were singing to himself.

The gathered lions exchanged glances, barely suppressed giddiness in their expressions. The King was relaxed. Truly relaxed. It was a good sign. The best sign.

They knew, of course, about the assassins. Multiple attempts on Eastiel’s life every single night, sent by the desperate, cornered Delanivis. Poison in his food. Blades in his bed. Spells in the dark.

Every single assassin was still alive. Apprehended without significant injury, held in comfortable captivity, waiting for... something.

It meant Eastiel was leagues above those vermin. Could see them coming from miles away and capture them without even trying.

"It’s rest for tonight." Eastiel’s voice cut through their thoughts. "Tomorrow, we go for the next mission."

Then, a pause and a flicker of something warmer in those golden eyes.

"I’m expecting guests tonight."

"Yes, Lord!"

The lions dispersed, growling orders to the younger ones, the weaker ones, those still in full beast form, unable to control their transformations yet. The tent emptied, leaving Eastiel alone with his thoughts and the broken communication crystal beside his leg on the table.

Cecilia said she’d come soon.

With Arkai.

And Oathran.

His tail twitched behind him.

It had been a while since they had all been together, the four of them. Since they had shared a bed... pleasure... the particular magic that happened when all four bonded mates were in the same space.

He knew Cecilia and Oathran could create barriers. Sound barriers and scent barriers that would keep their activities completely private. No one would know.

He lifted his hand, licked the back of it, and rubbed it against his ear.

Grooming.

Yes. Grooming. He needed to groom. Tonight, he would smell like sunshine and clean linen. Like himself, but better. Like someone worth coming home to.

"Prepare a bath!" He called out, already rising from his chair.

"Excuse me, my Lord."

A werelioness warrior appeared at the tent’s entrance. She was one of his most trusted, her body almost fully humanoid, her form proof of decades of control and power.

"You have a guest."

Eastiel’s eyebrow rose. He turned as she parted the tent flap, revealing the figure beside her.

"My lord~"

A woman stepped forward.

She was strikingly beautiful. Pure white fur covering an almost fully humanoid form, with only certain areas still showing her beast.

Her paws, delicate and soft. A stripe of fur along her spine, visible through the careful cut of her garments. Two tall, fluffy white ears standing at attention on her head, twitching with barely contained curiosity, and a tail magnificently fluffy it swept the ground behind her like a cloud given form.

She curtsied, the movement graceful and inviting.

"My name is Emra Mero. The local Werefoxes Lord." Her voice was musical, a lilting melody that seemed designed to please. "I’m sorry I only just now get to visit you~"

Eastiel’s golden eyes swept over her. He inclined his head for a small, gracious nod.

"Yes. I’ve been waiting to meet you, Lady Mero."