Chapter 42 Alain
forty-two
Alain
My father’s study always smelled like regret.
Aged leather, bourbon, and the lingering stench of political schemes laid bare behind closed doors.
I closed the heavy oak door behind me, watching Theron sprawl in one of the high-backed chairs, already three fingers deep into whatever bottle Father had opened.
The amber liquid in his glass caught the firelight, reminding me of eyes I couldn’t stop thinking about.
Isabeau’s eyes, wide with barely concealed terror at the mention of Gaspard Coventry’s name.
Something had happened there, something that made her fingers tremble against the fine silk tablecloth.
Something that made me want to punch the smirk off my brother’s face when he’d stared at her like she was meat to be consumed.
“Finally decided to join us,” Father remarked, not looking up from the parchment spread before him. Maps of neighboring kingdoms, no doubt. Always planning the next conquest, whether of land or allegiances. “How is your forest maiden?”
The possessive phrasing made my jaw clench, but I crossed to the sideboard and poured myself a drink before answering. “Exhausted. The dinner was too much, too soon.”
“Seemed sturdy enough to me,” Theron drawled, swirling his drink. “Filled out rather nicely for someone supposedly at death’s door weeks ago.”
I took a long swallow of bourbon, letting it burn down my throat before trusting myself to speak. “Her recovery has been... remarkable.”
That much was true. Isabeau’s transformation from the skeletal woman I’d rescued to the vision in gold who’d graced our table tonight defied natural explanation.
But I’d seen what she could do. The poison being drawn from Thibaut’s body like water from a well, her own flesh absorbing the deadly toxin without succumbing to it.
Whatever power ran in her veins, it was unlike anything I’d encountered in all my years patrolling the kingdom’s borders.
“That’s one word for it,” Theron snorted. “I’d use ‘suspicious’, myself.”
Father glanced up, setting aside his quill. “Does it matter? She saved Thibaut when our best physicians couldn’t. That makes her an asset, not a threat.”
“For now,” Theron muttered into his glass.
I settled into the chair farthest from my brother, closest to the fire.
The flames cast dancing shadows across the room, reminding me of the forest that might have claimed my sister and nearly claimed Isabeau as well.
What secrets did those trees hide? What darkness lurked between those ancient trunks?
“Did you know,” I began carefully, keeping my tone casual, “about Thorndale’s Harvest Moon sacrifice?”
Father’s expression didn’t change, but his fingers stilled on the parchment. “Of course. All the border villages have their... traditions. Superstitions, really. Ways to explain away the dangers that come with living so close to the Forbidden Forest.”
“You’ve never tried to stop it?” I pressed, watching his face for any flicker of conscience.
He shrugged, a dismissive gesture that encompassed the entire concept of caring about peasant lives.
“Why would I? It keeps them feeling safe, feeling protected, and I don’t have to station men to die.
One life a year in exchange for the forest leaving them alone? Seems a fair trade from where I sit.”
My stomach turned. That one life had been Isabeau’s father. That fair trade had left her vulnerable to whoever had taken her in afterward. Whoever had hurt her so badly she’d fled into the very forest meant to claim her village’s sacrifice.
“Why the sudden interest in border folklore?” Theron asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “Does it have something to do with your little witch?”
I kept my face neutral, though my fingers tightened around my glass. “She’s not a witch.”
“Then what is she?” he pressed. “Those eyes aren’t natural, brother. And those marks on her shoulder...” He trailed off, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. “Unless you’ve seen monsters with human teeth.”
“Her father was Thorndale’s sacrifice this past Harvest Moon,” I said, ignoring his baiting. “She was left alone afterward.”
The room fell silent. Even Father looked up, surprise briefly flickering across his weathered features before being replaced by calculation. Always calculating, my father. Always weighing the political value of every revelation, every connection.
“And what happened to her after her father was taken?” Father asked, his voice carefully neutral.
I shook my head, draining the rest of my drink. “She doesn’t talk about it.”
“But you have theories,” Theron prodded, leaning forward. “Otherwise, why bring it up at all?”
Because I couldn’t stop seeing her face when Father mentioned Gaspard. Couldn’t forget the way all color had drained from her cheeks, the way her knuckles had whitened around her spoon. As if the mere mention of his name was a blade pressed against her throat.
“No theories,” I lied. “Just filling in pieces of her history.”
Father studied my face for a long moment before sighing heavily. “You care for this girl,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact delivered with the same disappointed tone he’d used when I’d failed my first sword assessment at age eight. The same one for me entering the tournament.
“I owe her Thibaut’s life,” I deflected.
“And that’s all?” Father pressed, his piercing gaze uncomfortably reminiscent of Theron’s predatory stare.
I met his eyes steadily. “What more would there be? She’s a peasant girl I rescued. Nothing more.”
“Good,” Father nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer. “Because you know your duty to this kingdom. To our bloodline.”
“Which doesn’t include fucking forest wenches,” Theron added helpfully, refilling his glass with practiced precision.
I bit back the retort that rose to my lips, choosing instead to examine the empty tumbler in my hand as if it held answers I couldn’t find elsewhere.
Duty. Always back to duty. As if I could forget for one moment the weight of the crown that would never rest on my head but would dictate my every choice nonetheless.
“You need to get her out of your system,” Theron continued, either oblivious to or uncaring about my darkening mood. “Fuck her senseless for a week, then move on. It’s worked well enough for you before.”
“That’s enough,” I warned, my voice dropping to a register that had made hardened soldiers step back.
Theron ignored the warning, warming to his topic as he always did when he sensed weakness. “Though I’ll admit, if I had those tits in my bed, I might need longer than a week. Did you see how they strained against that gown? Like ripe fruit ready for plucking.”
“Theron,” Father admonished, though there was no real censure in his tone. Just the mild embarrassment of a man who thought such observations should be made in private rather than mixed company.
“What?” Theron shrugged innocently. “It’s not like he’s going to marry the girl. She’s got no title, no wealth, no connections. Just a pretty face and a body made for sin.”
I set my glass down with deliberate care, focusing on the controlled movement to keep from launching across the room at my brother. “I said that’s enough.”
Father cleared his throat, recognizing the dangerous edge in my voice. “Alain, your brother is crude, but not wrong. Whatever fascination you have with this girl, it cannot lead anywhere. You have responsibilities that exceed personal desire.”
“He’s just being selfish,” Theron said, the alcohol loosening his tongue further.
“Wanting to keep all that sweetness to himself when sharing is the brotherly thing to do.” His smile turned vulgar.
“If you’re not inclined to bed her, I’d be happy to take her off your hands.
Show her what a real prince can do between the sheets. ”
My mind filled with images I couldn’t bear of Isabeau’s delicate hands pinned above her head by my brother’s meaty grip, her eyes wide with the same fear I’d glimpsed at dinner, her body used like so many others Theron had discarded when he tired of them.
“Though I imagine after being chained in a monster’s den, she might appreciate a gentler touch first,” Theron mused, oblivious to the rage building in my chest. “I could start slow, work my way up to—”
“I said,” I repeated, each word carved from ice, “that’s enough.”
Father sighed, setting aside his parchment entirely. “Alain, you’ve bedded your share of court ladies without developing this... attachment. What makes this one different? Is it the mystery? Once the novelty wears off—”
“She’s not a novelty,” I interrupted, surprising myself with the vehemence in my voice. “She’s a person who’s survived more than either of you could imagine.”
“Oh, he’s got it bad,” Theron laughed, the sound grating against my nerves like steel on stone. “Look at his face, Father. Our cold, controlled Alain, finally losing his head over a pair of tits.”
“They are exceptional tits,” Father agreed with the casual misogyny of a man who had never considered women as more than decorative or functional. “But hardly worth throwing away your future for.”
I’d fucked my share of women over the years. Courtiers who knew the rules of the game, who wanted a prince in their bed for the status it conferred. Arrangements of mutual pleasure with clear beginnings and cleaner endings.
No attachments, no complications. Just bodies moving together in darkness, satisfying basic needs before returning to separate lives.
But Isabeau... She wasn’t a body to use and discard.
From the moment I’d lifted her from that frozen dungeon floor, something had shifted inside me.
Something fundamental and irreversible. If she ever came to my bed—willingly, joyfully—I knew with bone-deep certainty that I would never leave it. Would never want to leave it.
“I wonder what sounds she makes when she comes,” Theron mused, staring into the fire. “The quiet ones always surprise you. Bet she’s a screamer once you get past all that proper restraint. All that pent-up passion finally released. Might have to gag her to keep the whole castle from hearing—”
My fist connected with his jaw before I’d consciously decided to move. The satisfying crunch of bone meeting bone echoed through the study as Theron tumbled backward, his chair tipping with the force of the blow. His drink splashed across his chest, staining the fine fabric of his formal attire.
“What the fuck?” he sputtered, hand flying to his jaw as he sprawled on the carpet.
Father rose halfway from his chair, shock registering on his face before settling into the cold disapproval I knew so well. “Alain! Have you lost your mind?”
I flexed my fingers, feeling the sting across my knuckles with distant satisfaction. “Apologize,” I said quietly.
“For what?” Theron demanded, struggling to right himself. “Saying out loud what we’re all thinking? She’s just a peasant girl, brother. No different from any other woman you’ve fucked and forgotten.”
“Apologize,” I repeated, my voice deadly quiet, “or the next one breaks something you can’t hide beneath a beard.”
“Enough!” Father slammed his hand down on the desk. “Both of you! Behaving like common brawlers instead of princes of the realm. Disgraceful.”
I stepped back, still watching Theron with narrowed eyes as he clambered to his feet. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and a bruise was already forming along his jawline. Good. Let him carry the mark for days, a visible reminder that some lines shouldn’t be crossed.
“I need to rest,” I said flatly. “The tournament begins early, and I intend to be in top form.”
“Running away, little brother?” Theron taunted, though he kept a careful distance between us now. “Or running back to your wench’s bed?”
I turned toward the door, refusing to dignify his baiting with a response. “Goodnight, Father. Brother.”
“Alain,” Father called as I reached for the handle. “This discussion isn’t finished. The girl cannot stay here indefinitely. Either find her a suitable position elsewhere or... make other arrangements. But remember your duty to this family.”
I paused, hand on the ornate brass. “My duty has never been in question,” I said without turning. “But neither has my judgment. Trust that I know what I’m doing.”
I closed the door behind me before either could respond, cutting off whatever new argument Theron was already formulating.
The hallway stretched before me, dimly lit by wall sconces that cast more shadows than light.
My chambers lay to the right, a hot bath and soft bed waiting to ease the tension from my muscles.
Instead, I turned left.
I told myself I was just checking on her.
Making sure she’d settled comfortably after the strain of dinner.
That’s what I always told myself during these midnight wanderings that inevitably led to her door.
Just checking. Just making sure she was safe.
Just needing to see her breathe, to know she hadn’t disappeared like my sister had, swallowed by whatever darkness had claimed her.
The guards posted outside Isabeau’s room straightened as I approached, their expressions carefully neutral. They’d grown accustomed to my nightly visits, though I knew they talked when I was gone. Let them talk. I was beyond caring what rumors circulated about my midnight vigils.
“Has she retired?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
“Not yet, Your Highness,” the older guard replied. “The maid left an hour ago, but we’ve heard movement since then.”
Still awake. The knowledge quickened my pulse in a way that made me feel like an untried boy rather than a seasoned warrior.
I shouldn’t disturb her. She needed rest, needed peace after the tension of dinner.
I should return to my chambers, work off this restless energy with training exercises or battle plans for the upcoming tournament.
Instead, I nodded to the guard. “I’d like to see her.”
He hesitated only a moment before unlocking the door, proof of how routine these visits had become.
As it swung open, I steeled myself for what I might find.
Isabeau asleep, her auburn hair spread across white pillows like fire on snow.
Isabeau reading by candlelight, her profile gilded by the flame’s glow.
Isabeau staring out the window toward the distant forest that still called to her in ways I couldn’t understand.
What I found instead was Isabeau fully dressed, a small bag clutched in white-knuckled hands, her face a mask of panic as she whirled toward the opening door. Rage consumed me like never before. She was trying to leave. She planned to leave me.