Chapter 5
Perock
I sat at the heavy oak desk in my study, surrounded by a towering stack of reports and sealed letters. Yet, my mind kept drifting to yesterday’s encounter in the corridor.
The woman who called herself Viossi—my new bride—had appeared out of nowhere, barefoot, her pale feet rubbing together against the cold marble as if seeking comfort. The hurt in her green eyes, the way she stood there, vulnerable yet defiant, gnawed at me.
Elder Adrian’s sharp, unrelenting stare had tracked every word of our conversation.
Later, during the council meeting, he shuffled over to me with his usual air of authority, a reminder of his revered status as a long-standing pillar of the pack.
His words, steeped in outdated tradition and stubborn rigidity, were a pointed lecture on my responsibilities as heir—a tiresome refrain he’d repeated relentlessly since my father fell ill.
“Your Highness,” he’d said, his weathered eyes boring into mine, “your relationship with your bride must remain within the bounds of tradition. Too much closeness risks distraction, and we cannot afford another mistake.”
I knew what he meant. With Jackson circling like a vulture, waiting for any misstep, this was no time for weakness.
Pushing aside a border report detailing rogue werewolf attacks and Jackson’s personal inspection of the frontier—a detail that made my jaw tighten—I forced myself to focus. Supplies were running low, villages were under threat, and Jackson’s movements hinted at something larger.
What was he planning?
I jotted down key points, ordering my trusted scouts to investigate further. Suddenly, a faint knock at the door snapped me out of my thoughts. Before I could respond, it creaked open, and a familiar scent—clean, like rain-soaked leaves warmed by morning light—filled the room.
My head snapped up.
There she was, Viossi, my arranged wife, stepping lightly into the study with a small tray in her hands. A steaming bowl of soup sat on it, and she offered a tentative smile as she approached.
“Pero-Your Highness,” she realized she had misspoken and quickly corrected herself, her embarrassment causing her cheeks to flush. Then she began softly, “I heard from the maids you’ve been working all night. I thought you might need—”
Before she could finish her sentence, I had her throat in my grip, pinning her against the wall. The soup bowl slipped from her hands, crashing to the floor with a sharp, shattering sound, the broth splattering across the ground.
Despite my wolf’s reluctance, years of honed battle instincts drove me to act. Living in a world rife with danger had forged me into a man who trusted no one, making me wary of anyone who dared to cross into my territory uninvited. Especially not an unexpected intruder in my domain.
My wolf snarled further, furious at my actions, but I ignored it.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, my voice low and cold. My free hand rested on the dagger at my waist, ready for any threat. “Who told you where my study is?”
Her eyes widened in terror, her fingers clawing weakly at my wrist. She tried to speak, but only a faint gasp escaped her lips.
Her heaving curves strained against the thin fabric, every breath a forbidden promise.
Each pulse dragging me back to that night—the slick heat of her skin, the way her breath hitched into broken pleas. I fought to barricade the memories.
“Who gave you permission to enter my study?” I pressed, my eyes narrowing. “Who sent you?”
Her face paled, tears welling in those emerald-like eyes, but beneath the fear was something else—something complex I couldn’t quite place. Pain, perhaps. Disappointment. A strange, desperate longing.
When I saw those complex looks in her eyes, I instinctively loosened my grip slightly.
She coughed, gulping air, but didn’t scream or lash out.
“I’m… I’m sorry, Your Highness,” she stammered between ragged breaths. “I just wanted to bring you some soup. I asked the guards where you were… they said you’ve been here since yesterday’s meeting, working without rest.”
I studied her trembling lips, my mind flashing back to the corridor yesterday. The same woman, the same wounded look in her eyes. She’d tried to approach me then, and I’d brushed her off with icy dismissal. Why was she here again, risking my temper?
“Who sent you? Don't let me repeat myself.” I asked again, my grip on the dagger easing but my suspicion unwavering.
“No one,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from my hold. “I thought… you might be hungry.”
Her gaze dropped, long lashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. “I know you don’t want me near you, but…” Her voice faded to a murmur. “I just wanted to help.”
I stared at her, searching for deception.
Decades in the palace had sharpened my senses to lies and hidden agendas, but her eyes held only a disarming sincerity.
It was unsettling. The proud, haughty Viossi Thornfield, daughter of a noble house, caring about my meals?
Risking her safety to bring soup to a man rumored to devour his wives?
At our first meeting, she’d trembled like a leaf in a storm. Now, she dared to meet my gaze.
My hand fell away, and I stepped back, studying her anew. She didn’t wail or cower at my roughness. Instead, she knelt, gathering the broken shards of the bowl with practiced ease, as if cleaning up messes was second nature.
How could a spoiled noble lady show no hesitation in picking up broken pieces from the floor? She seemed to take this action for granted.
“No need,” I ordered. “The servants will handle it. Go back to your quarters.”
She paused, looking up at me, her eyes flickering with hesitation but also a stubborn resolve. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I’ll make sure to ask permission next time.”
Next time? She thought there’d be a next time?
“There won’t be a next time,” I said coldly. “My study is off-limits. If you want to fulfill your role, wait for the full moon.”
Her body stiffened, the light in her eyes dimming like a snuffed candle. For a moment, I thought she might argue, but she only nodded, murmuring, “Yes, Your Highness,” before turning to leave. The red marks of my fingers lingered on her throat, stark against her pale skin.
My wolf whined, a low, anguished sound, heavy with guilt.
Wait. Guilt? She was a tool, a vessel to break my curse. Why should I feel anything for her?
I glanced at the mess on the floor—the shattered bowl, the soup’s faint aroma of herbs and honey. It was a simple dish, carefully prepared, not the lavish fare of a noble’s kitchen. Her hands, I noticed, bore faint calluses, unlike the soft, delicate hands expected of a high-born lady.
Another inconsistency.
Was this woman truly Viossi Thornfield?
I summoned a guard, my voice sharp. “Clean this up. And tell me—who let her into my study? Who told her where I was?”
The young guard trembled. “Your Highness, she… she said she was your wife. She asked where you were, looking worried. We thought—”
“From now on, tighten security around my study,” I snapped. “No one enters without my permission—especially my new wife. And I want a report on her every move.”
Why was I so wary of her? Why did I care? This wasn’t like me. I shook my head, trying to refocus on the reports, to banish the memory of her tear-filled eyes, the faint floral scent clinging to her, the trembling touch of her fingers against my wrist.
It was harder than I expected.
Over the next few days, no matter how deeply I buried myself in work, her image haunted me.
Those defiant, tear-streaked eyes when I’d pinned her to the wall.
Her solitary figure retreating down the corridor.
The glimpse of her wandering the gardens, her movements soft and deliberate, like she belonged among the flowers.
It was maddening. I was the heir, the future king.
My focus should be on fortifying the borders, countering Jackson’s schemes, easing my father’s burdens—not on a woman I was meant to see only once a month.
Yet, the more I tried to push her from my mind, the sharper her presence became. This wasn’t normal. My previous wives, even Sophia, had never lingered in my thoughts like this. I could compartmentalize them, keep them at a distance.
Why was this woman different?
By the third day, I couldn’t stand the distraction any longer. I needed answers. I summoned Sam, my most trusted captain, and ordered a detailed report on my new wife.
“Your Highness,” Sam said, bowing, “the princess spends most of her time in her quarters.”
“How does she interact with the maids?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral, as if my interest was purely practical.
Sam hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “She’s… remarkably kind, Your Highness. She once helped an elderly maid make a bed when the woman couldn’t bend due to back pain. The maids say they’ve never met a noblewoman so approachable.”
My brow furrowed. That didn’t sound like the arrogant Viossi I’d met at court, the one who’d boasted of her accomplishments with a smug smile.
“Any particular habits or skills?” I pressed.
“She spends a lot of time in the east garden,” Sam replied.
“Every morning, she walks there, and the gardeners have seen her tending to medicinal herbs with her own hands. Oddly, though, she shows no interest in books. The maids bring her poetry and novels, but she only accepts them politely and never reads them.”
A noblewoman who didn’t read? That was unheard of. At the court banquet, Viossi had bragged about mastering five languages and devouring literature. Even though I was standing far away and not present in their midst, I could still detect the pride in her words.
A wild thought struck me—what if she can’t read?
No, that was absurd.
Later that day, my father summoned me to the council chamber.
The old king’s health was failing, his frame frail, but his grip on power remained ironclad, especially over the military.
It made my position precarious—balancing Jackson’s covert threats while treading carefully around my father’s fragile pride.
“The border situation is dire,” my father’s weakened but commanding voice echoed in the hall. “Jackson reports a growing number of rogue werewolves massing, posing a threat to our lands.”
I knew it was likely a pretext, a way for Jackson to tighten his control over the border forces. Challenging my father directly, though, would be unwise.
“I’ve sent Orin with an elite unit to investigate,” I said calmly. “If there’s a real threat, we’ll address it swiftly. I also recommend bolstering the capital’s defenses to prevent any opportunists from stirring chaos.”
My father’s sharp gaze met mine. “Are you suggesting Jackson has ulterior motives?”
“I’m considering all possibilities, as my duty requires,” I replied carefully.
He studied me for a moment, then nodded slightly. “Your instincts are sound. Jackson isn’t as loyal as he seems. I’ve known for years he harbors ambitions, but as my brother’s son, we must handle him delicately for now.” He paused, then added, “You’re doing well.”
The faint curve of his lips and the rare warmth in his voice caught me off guard.
My father had always treated me with cold detachment, as if I were merely a tool for the crown, molded by his relentless expectations.
“It’s what an heir must endure,” he’d say.
So, when he offered this fleeting approval, I felt a strange unease, like ants crawling under my skin. I didn’t know how to respond.
An awkward silence settled over the chamber.
My father shifted topics abruptly. “How is your new wife? Is she healthy?”
The question startled me. He never inquired about my personal life unless it served a purpose.
“She’s in good health,” I said curtly. “It’s too early to know if she’ll conceive.”
His brow creased with displeasure. “Time is short, Perock.”
The warmth vanished, replaced by his usual stern mask.
“I’ll handle it,” I said, suppressing the irritation in my voice. No matter what I did, it was never enough.
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Ensure she receives the best care. If needed, have the court healer prescribe tonics to aid conception.”
I left the council chamber, my mind a tangle of frustration and unresolved questions. Instead of returning to my study, I wandered the palace corridors, trying to clear my head.
My steps slowed as I realized I’d stopped outside the corridor leading to her quarters.
Through the door, I could almost sense her presence, as if some invisible thread connected us. The feeling was ridiculous, and I turned to leave—only to nearly collide with an elderly maid emerging from her room.
“Your Highness!” she gasped, bowing hastily, her eyes wide with nervousness.
“What’s the princess doing?” I asked, my voice lower than intended.
The maid hesitated. “She’s… in the kitchen, Your Highness.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The kitchen?”
“She’s been concerned about your meals,” the maid added quickly, her voice trembling.
The image of that spilled soup flashed in my mind—the simple, fragrant dish, laced with honey and herbs. Sweet, but…
Too much like a trap.
Viossi Thornfield, in a kitchen?
I realized from the maid’s frightened expression that I was laughing, but it was far from a smile—it was a mocking, cold sneer.
One thing was certain.
This woman was definitely not Viossi Thornfield.