Chapter 12
Perock
The sunlight of the day streamed through the corridor windows, casting a harsh glow on this infuriating scene—Orin, my most trusted lieutenant, gently caressing my princess’s cheek, wiping away her tears.
They stood far too close, their proximity almost intimate, a sight that stabbed at my chest like a jagged blade.
Rage burned through my veins like wildfire, my inner wolf snarling, aching to lunge forward and rip apart the man who dared to touch what was mine.
Her cheek should belong to me alone, her tears mine to wipe away, yet here I stood, forced to witness another man stepping into my place.
A raw, unfamiliar jealousy gnawed at my sanity, a searing heat that threatened to consume me. I could barely restrain myself from slamming my fist into Orin’s face right then.
Orin quickly stepped back a few paces, bowing his head in a gesture of respect. “Your Highness, I merely happened upon Her Highness while she was unwell.”
But his posture was too upright, his gaze too steady, as if silently asserting he’d done nothing wrong. And she—my princess—glanced at me briefly before turning away, striding down the corridor with purposeful steps, as if she couldn’t wait to escape my presence.
“Viossi, stop!” I called out, my voice unintentionally laced with a commanding edge.
Her steps faltered for a moment, her shoulders visibly tensing, but she didn’t turn back. She continued walking, her resolve unshaken, leaving me behind.
This defiance stung, morphing into a simmering irritation. No one had ever treated me this way. No one had dared.
“Your Highness, I have urgent intelligence to report,” Orin interjected, his tone reverting to the calm professionalism I was accustomed to.
“Speak,” I said, forcing my gaze away from the direction she’d disappeared into, compelling myself to focus on matters of state.
“Jackson has been frequently meeting with border nobles and military officers. Our spies have uncovered evidence of him secretly amassing a private force.” Orin pulled a rolled parchment from his coat.
“These details his recent activities, including clandestine meetings with several nobles who are discontent with the court.”
I took the document, scanning its contents swiftly. Jackson was indeed plotting something, and his movements were swifter than I’d anticipated. Without a doubt, last night’s rogue werewolf attack bore his signature—a warning, or perhaps a test of my defenses.
“Is there concrete proof?” I asked, my eyes narrowing as I scrutinized Orin.
Orin had been by my side since childhood, an orphan my father rescued from the slums. He was just seven then, battered and bruised from being chased for stealing bread.
It was I who begged my father to take him in, I who taught him to read and write, trained him to become a capable knight.
Over the years, he’d been my most trusted confidant.
We’d faced countless life-and-death situations together; he’d nearly died saving me once.
I had never questioned his loyalty. Until now.
Could I still trust a man who showed such inappropriate closeness to my wife?
“There’s no direct evidence yet, but we have several reliable leads,” Orin replied. “Our spies have noted unusual activity near Jackson’s estate—people coming and going under the cover of night, their movements suspicious. It’s almost certain he’s planning a rebellion.”
This wasn’t good news, though it didn’t surprise me. Jackson had always coveted the throne, especially now, with the cursed deadline of my death looming closer.
“Keep investigating. Uncover his accomplices and the specifics of his plans. Increase security around the palace, especially near the princess’s quarters.”
Orin nodded, though a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes. “Your Highness, the rogue werewolf attack might have been orchestrated by Jackson. The target seemed to be Lady Sophia, which fits his pattern—striking at those you care the most, before…”
“Sophia is not the one I care the most,” I snapped, the words slipping out before I could stop them, surprising even myself.
Orin’s expression shifted, a complex mix of emotions crossing his face before he masked it. “Understood, Your Highness. I’ll personally oversee Her Highness’s security arrangements.”
“And one more thing,” I added, my voice icy. “Remember your place, Orin. Whatever thoughts you harbor toward her, she is my wife. It’s a warn.”
A flash of shock crossed his face, followed by a dawning realization and a suppressed emotion I couldn’t quite decipher.
He didn’t argue, instead bowing deeply. “I understand, Your Highness.”
I gestured for him to leave, turning to face the view beyond the window.
As my breathing steadied, so did my mind. She had somehow seeped into my emotions without my realizing it. This state of being swayed by another was dangerous—too dangerous. I couldn’t allow it to continue.
Yet, throughout the day, her image haunted me.
The humiliation in her eyes when Sophia belittled her, the ease she showed when Orin comforted her, the cold determination when she turned away from me—these scenes replayed in my mind like a relentless loop, making it impossible to focus on the documents before me.
I resolved to speak with her directly. This tension benefited neither of us.
The next morning, I summoned a maid. “Tonight, I will dine in my wife’s chambers,” I said curtly. “Inform her to be ready.”
The maid’s eyes widened in surprise before she bowed. “As you wish, Your Highness.”
This wasn’t my usual approach—I never sought out anyone, especially not someone who so clearly distanced themselves from me. But this stalemate had to end, and as the crown prince, I couldn’t outright apologize. That would signal weakness.
That evening, I arrived at her chambers on time.
The attendants had set an elegant table with fine silverware and flickering candelabras, a faint floral scent lingering in the air.
She wore a simple evening gown, her hair pinned in a modest updo, devoid of excessive adornments, as if she deliberately avoided drawing my attention.
“Your Highness,” she greeted with a slight curtsy, her tone flat. “Please, take a seat.”
I paused, caught off guard. Your Highness?
When had she started addressing me with such formality?
I could still recall a time not long ago when she called me by my name, her voice warm and familiar.
Now, that intimacy felt like it belonged to another lifetime.
This sudden distance tightened something in my chest, as if something vital was slipping through my fingers.
I wanted to say something, but the words stuck in my throat. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe this was the distance we were meant to maintain.
I nodded and took my seat at one end of the table. The servants brought in the dishes before discreetly withdrawing, leaving just the two of us in the vast, silent room.
The silence was a tangible barrier between us. I watched her cut into her food with precise, composed movements, as if I were nothing more than a stranger sharing her table.
This coldness was more suffocating than outright defiance. I forced myself to speak. “The food is quite good.”
“Thank you,” she replied with a slight nod. “The kitchen prepared it.”
The kitchen prepared it? My hand paused mid-motion. There was a time when she’d prepare meals for me herself, her care evident in every detail.
Now everything has become “prepared by the kitchen.” The dishes in front of me suddenly seem far less appealing and delicious. I instantly lost my appetite.
Silence descended again. I lifted my wine glass, realizing I was struggling to find a way to continue this conversation—a situation utterly foreign to me. Usually, others went out of their way to please me, not the other way around.
“Did you have any plans today?” I tried again, keeping my tone casual.
She looked up, her expression neutral. “I took a walk in the garden this afternoon and read for a while later on.”
Read? My brow furrowed slightly. She didn’t even enjoy reading.
This was clearly a fabricated excuse, a flimsy attempt to brush me off. She didn’t even bother crafting a more convincing lie, as if it didn’t matter whether I believed her or not.
A wave of frustration and irritation washed over me. This little game was childish, yet she seemed to relish playing it. I was the crown prince, burdened with endless state affairs, yet here I was, acting like some inexperienced boy trying to capture a woman’s attention.
“Are you really going to keep this up?” I asked directly, my voice lower than I intended.
She set down her utensils and met my gaze. “Your Highness, I don’t understand what you mean. I’m simply behaving as you’ve always wanted.”
“As I’ve always wanted?”
“Yes,” she said calmly. “You wanted an obedient wife, a princess who wouldn’t cause you trouble, someone who knows her place as a mere instrument. I’m trying to be that kind of person.”
Her words cut through me like a blade, slicing at my pride. What stung most was that I couldn’t refute her—she was right. I had viewed her as a tool, a means to break the curse. But now, seeing her act exactly as I’d once desired, I felt an inexplicable sense of loss and anger.
I took a deep breath, struggling to rein in my emotions. “That day in the study, I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you.”
This was as close to an apology as I could manage. As crown prince, admitting fault was tantamount to weakness.
She was quiet for a moment before responding softly, “All of that is in the past, Your Highness.”
I exhaled, relieved. It seemed her stance had softened.
“I’ll come see you again tomorrow,” I added.
She shook her head. “There’s no need, Your Highness.”
Her blunt refusal caught me off guard. I realized then that this wasn’t over.
She resumed eating as if our exchange had never happened.