Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ALARIK
T he clearing outside the market stretched quiet and still, dry grass shifting in slow ripples beneath the whisper of wind. Alarik adjusted his grip on his bow, the weight familiar in his hand as he waited.
This spot, tucked beyond the bustle of the market, was meant for solitude. It was where he came when the caravanserai pressed too close, when his thoughts grew too heavy to carry among others.
But today, he wouldn’t be alone.
He heard her before he saw her—the soft crunch of boots over uneven ground, the rhythm of someone trying not to hurry.
When he looked up, Reiya was weaving her way toward him from the direction of the market, steps cautious at first, then gathering purpose with every stride.
The breeze teased at her hair, dark strands lifting before tumbling down her back in loose waves.
“You’re prompt,” Alarik said, one brow lifting.
Her lips curved in a small smile. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day. Ru Rong sent me away early because I couldn’t sit still.”
A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “No trouble at the stall today?”
She shook her head, sending the wind chasing the flyaway strands .
“Kaelen was there most of the time after you left.”
He nodded. They’d been taking turns lingering near the stall, keeping a careful eye on the Xians—and on her. So far, no bounty-minded mercenaries were sniffing around.
No sign of Castiel Vaelmont either.
Alarik’s jaw tightened. Castiel was a Beta. It should’ve meant less danger, not more. But the wrong kind of Beta could still do damage—especially one who wrapped ambition in tenderness and made fear feel like a choice.
Castiel hadn’t overpowered Reiya with strength. He’d crept into her doubts, twined himself through the cracks she tried to pretend weren’t there. And now he’d disappeared, laying low, vanished into the cracks he’d created and left them wondering about his plans.
Alarik’s gaze drifted back to her—the faint bruises at her throat, already fading, the stubborn lift of her chin against the wind. She moved like the worst was behind her, but he saw the tension running just beneath her skin—tight, unfinished, sharp.
Maybe that was why she wanted to learn to fight. Not to erase what had happened. Not to prove anything to anyone. But because somewhere deep down, she knew: next time, it might be the difference between survival and silence.
He tilted his head toward the archery target. “Ready?”
“I think so.” She straightened, but the nerves in her stance didn’t escape him.
Alarik extended the bow to her. Their fingers brushed as she took it, the contact brief but enough to stir him—a quiet awareness of the contrast between them. Her hand, delicate yet steady, looked almost fragile against the weight of the weapon.
She held out the bow, testing its heft. The first feel of it made her sway, but she dug in her heels and steadied herself, brows drawing together in concentration.
“It’s heavier than I thought.”
“This bow was made in Elloryn. Their weapons aren’t made to be temporary tools. They’re made to stand the test of time.”
Elloryn was a kingdom renowned across Issoirea for its unparalleled weapon makers.
Their craftsmanship wasn’t just skill—it was artistry, refined over generations.
To an Elloryn smith, steel and wood were sacred.
A blade from their forges was sharp and perfectly balanced, a whisper of death in the right hands.
Their bows, carved from the finest heartwood and reinforced with near-unbreakable sinew, were often heirlooms, built to endure long after their wielders were gone.
He watched as Reiya’s fingers traced the faint carvings along the limbs—patterns of waves and stars woven together in intricate, unbroken lines.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, reverence threading through her voice. “Do the carvings mean something?”
He nodded. “Every bow crafted in Elloryn tells a story. This one stands for balance. The waves and stars symbolize finding strength in both chaos and stillness. It reminded me of the kind of strength I wanted to have.”
Reiya’s fingers brushed over the carvings again, slower this time, as if sensing the unspoken significance they carried. “It’s like a piece of who you are.”
Alarik’s eyes flicked to hers, and she held his gaze.
“That’s the thing about weapons,” he said. “They’re extensions of us. They carry our choices, our mistakes.”
He saw how her grip tightened, a faint frown drawing between her brows. She looked quite solemn just then, as though they were going to war instead of an amateur archery practice.
“Then I’d better make sure my choices are worth carrying,” she said.
A quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He stepped closer, adjusting her stance with a steady hand on her shoulder.
“If you ever doubt it, remember—this bow wasn’t perfect in the beginning either. It had to be shaped, tested, just like anyone who wields it.”
She turned her head slightly, looking up at him, and for a fleeting moment, the sunlight caught in her eyes, brightening the clear blue to something almost luminous.
“Thank you,” she said softly. “For letting me use it. I know how much it means to you. ”
His chest tightened at the warmth in her voice. He inclined his head. “Don’t thank me yet. We haven’t even started. You might hate me by the end of this practice when your arms feel like they’re about to fall off.”
Her laugh was quiet, but it brushed against the tender place inside him.
“Hate you? Never.”
Her glib reply should’ve been dismissive, but somehow, it wasn’t. It lingered, wrapping around him in a cocoon of warmth.
And he realized, in that moment, he believed her.
S he was eager to learn, but she wasn’t a natural.
Her first shot missed entirely, the arrow burying itself in the dirt far from the target. She exhaled and lowered the bow with a frustrated frown.
“That was underwhelming,” she muttered.
Alarik chuckled. “First, you have to understand the bow.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “ Understand it? Why? Has it been mistreated?”
He huffed. The tickle of amusement felt foreign in his chest. “No, but it’s about to be.”
Her laughter caught him off guard, an uplifting, genuine sound settling somewhere deep in his chest. His lips twitched despite himself.
He gestured for her to try again, schooling his features back into focus. “Control your breathing. Find a rhythm. Let the bow guide you.”
She lifted the bow again, but her grip was still too tight, her posture stiff with resistance. He stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow over hers as he adjusted her.
“You’re holding too tightly,” he said, his voice dropping as his fingers brushed against hers. “Ease your grip a little. The bow doesn’t need to be forced. Let it do the work for you.”
Her warmth bled into him, a slow burn gathering low in his gut, coiling tighter with every second. His mind betrayed him, conjuring the memory of last night—the way steam had curled around the delicate slope of her throat in the bathhouse, the shimmer of her skin under lantern light.
He hadn’t meant to look.
Hadn’t meant to want.
But the memory clung to him now, raw and visceral, gnawing past every line of restraint he tried to hold.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing his focus back to the bow, to the moment, but it was already too late. He felt the tremor of her fingers on the bowstring—exertion, or something else?
Did she realize how close they stood?
How easily he could lower his head, bury his nose in the soft curve beneath her ear, drown in the scent already stirring the air between them?
His grip tightened, adjusting her stance, but when he spoke, his voice slipped lower, rough at the edges.
“Breathe,” he murmured, and it was less an instruction and more a plea—for both of them.
Reiya shifted, and her back brushed his chest—barely a whisper of contact, yet his pulse snapped taut, sharp and demanding. His fingers flexed against hers, every instinct screaming to close the last sliver of space, to give in to the pull tightening like a noose between them.
Not here, not now.
He ground his teeth against the ache unfurling inside him, fighting it back one heartbeat at a time.
Then she inhaled—slow, shaky—and he felt it like a tremor through his own body. The tension between them stretched thinner, finer, like the bowstring they both gripped. His mouth hovered only a hair’s breadth away from her temple. If she turned, even slightly, his lips would graze her skin.
The thought seared through him, fraying what little restraint he had left.
Reiya released the arrow. The string snapped against her fingers, and she flinched—just barely—but he was already there, catching her hand before she could lower it.
He shouldn’t have .
Shouldn’t have let his thumb sweep over the delicate ridge of her knuckles, shouldn’t have held her like that—like he was testing something, waiting for the moment she might pull away.
But she didn’t.
If anything, she leaned back. The soft press of her against him—subtle, unthinking—sent a raw, aching hunger curling through him. He could wrap his arms around her, pull her flush against him, bury his face in the curve of her neck, inhale the almond and orange blossom scents, and devour . . .
He wrenched himself back, clearing his throat, steadying his voice.
“Again,” he said, forcing himself into detachment, into control. “Draw slowly. Let your body align with the bow.”
Reiya adjusted, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulled the string taut. He caught the small hitch in her breath, the subtle quiver in her stance before she steadied herself. She was trying—fighting against her own inexperience, against hesitation, against the tension thrumming between them.
The effort, the will to master something foreign, sent a pang through him. She wanted this. The control. The knowledge. The power to carve her own path.
And gods save him, he wanted nothing more than to help her find it.