Chapter 25 #2
The tea was rich with tamarind and warming spices, honey’s lingering sweetness threading through it. Setting her cup down, she eased into her seat, gaze drifting to her companion as he looked out the window. Sunlight softened the sharp lines of his profile, catching in his hair and along his jaw.
For once, there was no leather gauntlet on his arm.
Her eyes traced the iridescent markings curling over his skin—the shape of the Sunborn sigil, etched in delicate, glowing ink. It was the first time she’d seen it unobscured by leather or sleeve.
In the shifting light, his golden hair seemed to catch every beam, casting him in a soft, gilded glow. The further south and east they travelled, the more Reiya noticed how much he stood out—his fair skin and bright hair a stark contrast to the deeper brown tones of the locals.
For a crown prince of Asadia—a land of sun-bronzed skin and desert-born features—he hardly looked the part.
“Can I ask you something?”
He turned, curiosity glinting in his eye, but he didn’t hesitate. “Anything. ”
“You don’t . . . look like most Asadians.” Her gaze lingered on his hair. “You must’ve stood out back home.”
A small, sheepish smile tugged at his lips as he raked a hand through the pale strands. “You’re not the first to notice. Most aren’t as polite about it.”
His hand dropped to the table, resting just inches from hers. “My mother came from the north—a Tremorian nobleman’s Omega daughter. My father met her during a trade delegation. They say he fell for her the moment he saw her.”
That explained it, she thought, picturing the woman who’d passed her fair colouring to him.
“Is that how you know Alexander Wulfbane?”
Kaelen nodded, tilting his cup in an easy gesture. “Distantly. He and my mother trace back to the same ancestor a few generations ago.”
Leaning forward, she asked, “What was she like?”
His expression softened, his gaze drifting somewhere distant. “She died when I was three, so I don’t remember much. People say she was vibrant, the kind of person who’d fill a hall with laughter. My father calls her ‘rain after drought’—a blessing no one expected but couldn’t live without.”
Something caught in Reiya’s chest, picturing the boy he’d been, never knowing his mother, left with only stories of that warmth but too young to remember.
“Your parents had a love match?” she asked gently.
His smile was wistful. “Yes, something beyond duty or politics.”
She cradled her cup, letting its warmth settle her thoughts. “It’s rare, isn’t it? For an Alpha and Omega to have that kind of bond.”
His brow lifted thoughtfully. “Rare, yes. Omegas are scarce enough that any Alpha is fortunate to marry one. And love . . . tends to come second to alliances.”
She hesitated, watching him carefully. “Have you ever been in love?”
The question settled between them. Kaelen held her gaze, something unreadable flickering beneath his usual ease before he exhaled softly and shook his head.
“Not in the way my parents were,” he admitted. “I’ve felt infatuation, admiration, but . . . looking back, those weren’t love.” A wry smile touched his lips. “Sometimes, it’s easy to mistake the need to be seen for love.”
She sat with the words in her mouth a moment before letting them out, soft but sure. “I used to think I loved Castiel.”
It felt strange saying it aloud—like tasting a truth she hadn’t fully swallowed until now.
He straightened, but he didn’t rush her. He waited, steady as ever.
She traced the rim of her cup. “I miss what we had,” she admitted. “The comfort of it. The safety.”
Her fingers slowed, voice softening. “I miss him as a friend.”
A quiet breath slipped past her lips. “Maybe I never really loved him at all.”
Beneath the words, she felt the faint pulse of shame—because perhaps Castiel had seen that truth long before she did.
Kaelen’s gaze softened, something warm flickering behind it. “Feelings aren’t simple. Sometimes we see what we need in someone, not who they really are. And maybe that was love, in its own way—the best we could manage, back then.”
He exhaled and gave a faint smile. “But it sounds like you’re closer to the truth now.”
“I suppose I am. But some things don’t change. Even when love is real, it rarely comes without a cost. It always comes second—to duty, to power, to something.”
His expression shifted, something thoughtful flickering beneath his usual ease. “Not always,” he murmured.
Reiya studied him, uneasiness curling in her chest. She’d expected an argument, a clever retort—but instead, he offered restraint, a quiet certainty that disturbed her more than if he’d fought her outright.
She leaned in slightly, aware—painfully so—that she was slipping back into old patterns. She could feel the guarded edges of the Omega who’d spent every day since her Awakening questioning every Alpha’s intention.
And yet, she couldn’t help it. “Are you saying you and Alarik are different? ”
He watched her closely, as if already following the path of her thoughts. The steady certainty in his gaze made her pulse quicken.
She said, sharper than she meant to, “Throughout history, Alphas have made sure Omegas have no voice—why should I believe you’d be any different?”
He shook his head. “You really do love that argument.” His voice was even, but there was something knowing beneath it. “You said almost the same thing during our dance in Nymaris. Back then, I let you have it.”
He leaned forward, until their noses were only inches apart. “But tell me, Yara—do you still believe it?”
She opened her mouth, but hesitated.
Did she?
When they’d first danced, her world had been small—ruled by duty, expectation, and the certainty that all Alphas were the same. That belief had shaped every choice she’d made, every wall she’d built.
But now . . .
She wasn’t in Aethonia anymore. She wasn’t that same girl. And if she’d been so wrong about Castiel, wasn’t it possible she’d been wrong about Kaelen and Alarik too?
The thought alarmed her, an itch at the edges of her certainty. It pricked at her, whispering doubts she didn’t quite know how to face.
Her body screamed at her to hold her ground, to barrel forward rather than risk falling apart. It was easier—safer—to cling to indignation than face the uncertainty twisting in her gut.
She lifted her chin. “You made a pact before you even knew me,” she said, her voice steady despite the pounding of her heart. “You decided between yourselves to share an Omega without asking what she wanted. How is that any different from the rest of them?”
Kaelen’s lips parted, then pressed into a firm line. For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he closed his eyes, exhaling a breath that seemed to drain the fight from his body.
“You’re right,” he said at last, and the rawness in his voice caught her off guard. “We made a pact. Maybe that makes us selfish.”
He opened his eyes, gaze steady. “But if you had stayed, we would’ve explained it. Given you the choice to weigh it, to challenge us—even to refuse it.”
He shifted slightly, something unguarded passing over his face. “Two Alphas doesn’t mean double the cage, Yara.” His voice dropped, low and certain. “It means double the strength. Double the people pushing you forward, not holding you down.”
Then—almost sheepishly, his grin broke free, tugging the edges of his mouth into something irrepressible.
“It also means double the pleasure ,” he added, voice dipping into something warmer, “but . . . we’d get to that later.”
Despite his light tone—and the way he moved past the words without lingering—heat scorched her cheeks all the same.
It wasn’t just the teasing. It was the way he said it, effortless and knowing, as if he wasn’t imagining some distant future but speaking of an inevitability already set into motion.
And worse—worse than the glint in his eye, worse than the way her body reacted without permission—was the part of her that wondered.
Wondered what it might be like to surrender to the kind of pleasure only whispered about in the dark.
Wondered if she could ever let go at all.
If she even knew how.
Kaelen’s solemnity returned, his head tilting slightly.
“You hate being seen as a weak, submissive Omega,” he said, “but you’re so certain I’m merely another power-hungry Alpha. Don’t you realize . . . maybe we’re both fighting the same thing—the prejudice this world thrusts on us?”
The words landed with the force of a quiet blow, harder than expected.
Wasn’t that the truth she hadn’t dared to face?
She’d been so busy guarding herself, so determined not to be reduced to her caste, that she’d done the very thing she despised—shoving him into the same narrow box as every other Alpha who’d tried to claim her.
She prided herself on being different. On defying the chains the world had forged around her.
Yet here she was, clinging to the oldest defence she knew: suspicion .
Still, Kaelen didn’t push, didn’t demand, didn’t try to batter down her walls. He simply sat there, offering something far more dangerous: hope.
His fingers brushed against hers—then lingered, warming her skin.
A slow stroke over her knuckles, featherlight.
A graze that felt hotter than it had any right to be.
A promise not yet spoken aloud.
Her breath snagged low in her chest, a trembling awareness she couldn’t outrun.
When he spoke again, his voice was low. “You’ve spent so long fighting against us. Maybe . . .” She watched his throat worked. “Maybe you could consider what it would be like to have us fight with you. Beside you.”
She looked down at their hands, at the space between them that suddenly felt impossibly small—impossibly vast. For the first time, she wondered.
If she stopped fighting and let herself truly see them for who they were . . .
What might she find waiting on the other side?