Chapter 62
The heavy double doors at the far end of the castle groaned open, drawn back by two Silverwards. A wave of warm air drifted out, scented with sandalwood and oranges.
Evelyne halted at the doorway and glanced over her shoulder. Isildeth met her eyes with a small, unwavering nod.
One last breath.
Then Evelyne stepped forward.
The doors closed behind her with a muted thud, sealing her in.
Evelyne glanced around the room, taking in every detail.
The chamber was lit by a soft, golden glow—dozens of candles arranged with care along shelves and ledges.
Wildflowers had been placed in glass vases.
At the center stood the bed, its four dark wooden posts rising high, draped with deep blue and gold silk.
It looked beautiful.
Alaric waited near the hearth. His navy shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the fabric loose, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The fire cast a warm light along the edge of his jaw and across the bare line of his collarbone.
She lingered at the door longer than she meant to.
She drew in a deeper breath. Let it go. Then, finally, she stepped forward, the carpet soft beneath her feet.
Her fingers curled tighter around the sash of her robe.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, her training begged her to say something, but the words refused to line up. They scattered like startled birds.
Alaric placed his glass on the mantel above the fireplace.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes searching hers.
The sentence echoed in her chest like a bell that had been struck too hard. She wasn’t sure if she hated it or wanted to curl into it like warmth on a nivalen morning.
“The worst is behind us, right?”
She wished she could believe that.
Alaric regarded her carefully. “A lot has happened. And… a lot hasn’t. Which is exactly what worries me.”
She raised an eyebrow, defensive already. “You’re going to have to be clearer than that.”
Alaric looked down for a breath, then met her gaze again.
“I mean that none of this was directed at me. I wasn't the one who avoided assassination. I don’t dream. My favorite priest didn’t mysteriously vanish.
I don’t have… past experiences with weddings that ended in blood.
My name is not on the haunted list. And still, I’m shaken. ”
He paused, taking a few steps in her direction. “So, I worry when you act like nothing touched you. Like everything is fine.”
Her throat felt tight by the end of it, but she didn’t look away.
“Maybe some reaction would make you feel more comfortable with it?”
Evelyne furrowed her brow at that.
Why he sounded like Isildeth all of the sudden?
She’d let her guard slip these past few days and it felt awful. Exposed. As if every soft place in her had been dragged into the light for others to comment on.
“I just want to say that I’m worried,” he explained. “But… alright. If that’s what you neeed, I’ll respect it.”
The way he said it left her staring at the empty space between them and wondering why she wanted to close it.
But instead, she lifted her chin a fraction and said, “Thank you.”
Alaric gave her a look that said he didn’t believe her but wouldn’t press. He smiled, that disarming, crooked smile that made her stomach flutter in ways that had nothing to do with nerves.
“Well,” he quipped, drawing the moment back from the edge, “at least no one threw a tomato. I was fully prepared for that.”
Despite herself, she let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
He raised a hand, and she froze. A tremor—slight as a breath—passed through her, an unmeant flinch. He caught it. His hand hesitated midair, then eased back a little.
“Can I touch you?” he asked.
Her throat felt dry as she forced herself to respond. “You know you don’t have to ask.”
But even as the words left her, Evelyne wasn’t sure if it had been duty that inclined her head—or it was the part of her that wanted to be seen. To believe that wanting was still allowed.
“You’re right,” he murmured. “I don’t have to ask. But I want to.”
She drew in a steadying breath, and after a moment, nodded.
She hadn’t noticed him reaching for her hair until she felt the ghost of his fingers on her scalp.
Instinctively, her spine tightened, bracing for a memory of a bloodless palm pressed to her hand that didn’t come.
Before she could react, he touched the first pin.
A shudder rippled through her body.
He stepped behind her, removing one pin, then another, each metal piece slipping free.
The weight of her hair began to loosen, and then they were no longer confined.
Thick waves tumbled past her shoulders, cascading down her back, spilling like liquid silk.
A slow exhale left him, almost inaudible, but she heard it.
Felt it.
Evelyne’s breath caught as he threaded a careful hand through her hair, untangling the thick waves with a tenderness that made her stomach tighten.
He gathered a lock, twisting it lightly before letting it fall through his palm.
“…It’s beautiful,” Alaric murmured. “No wonder you hide it. It feels almost forbidden.”
Evelyne closed her eyes for a fleeting second.
“It’s… tradition,” she managed.
He brushed a stray strand behind her ear. From there, his touch drifted to her shoulder.
“I know,” he said. “And it reminds me of you.”
His touch traced down her arm, gliding over the thin fabric of her sleeve like a cartographer learning new terrain by candlelight. Then lower, until his palm hovered over the inside of her wrist, circling gently, as though mapping the rhythm of her pulse.
“Do you want me to keep going?” he asked.
Evelyne inhaled, but the breath caught—shallow, sharp.
Heat pooled low in her stomach, a slow ache blooming with every second his skin lingered near hers.
She gave a small nod, so quick it almost surprised her.
He moved closer, his eyes watching her. His hand slid to the ties of her robe, slowly untied it. Evelyne’s breath caught when fabric loosened. Without breaking the eye contact, he brushed her shoulders and drew it away, the robe slipping soundlessly to the floor.
“You must've noticed I don't like traditions,” he murmured. “I don’t always understand them.”
Alaric’s attention dropped, studying her the way a scholar might regard a rare, untouchable relic—something he couldn’t fully comprehend, yet found endlessly captivating.
“But you're the only one I want to respect.”
Evelyne clenched her fingers at her sides, trying to wrest away the warmth creeping up her spine. He barely touched her, yet she felt it everywhere, heat blooming in places she had never thought about before.
She swallowed hard, chin lifting. “If you’re trying to seduce me by disregard for our heritage again, I feel obliged to inform you that equating a royal bride with a sacred custom—”
He stepped closer, looking straight into her eyes. His expression was focused, eyes dark.
“—is, at best, wildly inappropriate and—”
He kissed her.
Mid-sentence. Without hesitation.
Finally.
And just like that, the rest of her words vanished between them.
The first touch was a whisper—barely pressure at all.
It startled her in its restraint. For the space of a heartbeat, she flinched at the unknown, muscles tightening as if bracing for something harsher, something she knew too well.
But it didn’t come. It was gentle. Careful.
And against her better judgment, she let herself ease into it.
Then he angled his head and kissed her again—slower, deeper, yet still tender. A question shaped like a promise. His mouth carried the warmth of him, a trace of wine and citrus lingering in the air between them.
Her pulse stumbled in her chest, lips tingling from the gentle pull of contact. The faint scrape of his stubble brushed her cheek, and to her surprise, she liked the roughness of it.
He kissed her a third time.
This time he cupped her face, his thumb grazing the hollow of her cheekbone as though memorizing it. She hated how much she wanted to lean into his steadiness. How easy it would be to stop fighting for just a second.
He sucked gently on her lower lip, and something inside her—something long buried beneath duty, silence and fear—broke.
A quiet sound escaped her, just as the one of Alaric's hands slid down her back, his arms pulling her flush against his body. The moment their bodies connected, heat pooled in the juncture of her thighs.
His lips moved more urgently now, tasting, teasing, learning her. His tongue traced the seam of her lips.
She gasped.
That was all he needed.
His tongue slid into her mouth, stroking against hers with slow precision, and her knees buckled.
Alaric let out a quiet sound, that she felt vibrating down her spine.
He kissed her deeper, hungrier. She could feel him—all of him—pressed against her stomach.
The knowledge sent warmth spreading through her limbs, setting her nerves alight.
His arms wrapped around her waist in one sure motion, pulling her tight against him. No room left between. Only sensation.
The kiss deepened until it wasn’t just a kiss—it was surrender. She arched into it, into him, her spine bowing instinctively as her head tilted back. Her fingers gripped his shoulders, holding on as if he were the only solid thing left in a world spinning off its axis.
And then she kissed him back. For once in her carefully ordered life, Evelyne Tresselyn stopped thinking.
And felt.
The kiss lost the last of its restraint and unraveled into a rhythm that made her forget every lesson in composure she’d ever been taught. And he kissed her back like a storm with nowhere left to go. Like he was coaxing something out of her, that he already knew was there.
One of his hands gathered the hem of her nightgown slowly until it bunched around her hips. Then his palm slipped beneath it and brushed the bare skin of her thigh.