Chapter 11
ALEXANDER
The princess was light in his arms—slight and fine-boned, scarcely heavier than a strung hunting bow.
Duskwane tossed his head at the new weight, but the stallion bore it without protest. Two riders were never ideal, especially for a lengthy journey, but Alexander would give the stallion extra rest tonight.
The princess, at least, was no heavy burden.
Not to the horse. And, increasingly, not to him.
“Do you ride, Princess?” he asked after a moment.
“No, my lord. I’ve never had the chance.”
“Your father keeps horses at the palace, does he not?”
“Many. He is fond of Asadian horses. But most are kept at the hunting grounds on the southern plains, where he holds his annual hunts.”
He patted his stallion’s strong neck. “Duskwane was a gift from my distant cousin in Asadia. He’s fierce, even as a colt, but steady once trained. A good mount for war.”
He raked his brain for something amusing to say, something to coax a smile from her. “Or for carrying princesses,” he managed at last.
It sounded absurd the moment he said it. Yet before he could regret it fully, he felt a subtle tremor through her frame—the shake of silent laughter.
“If you wish,” he pressed on, encouraged, “I’ll teach you to ride once we’re in Parandor. The forests of Blackwood-Veyrde are threaded with old trails—winding through pine and over stone bridges, away from the world. They would suit a gentle mare, and a patient rider, perfectly.”
He paused, the protector in him surfacing. “Though you must promise not to stray from the path. The woods are vast, and it’s easier to become lost in them than you might think.”
She didn’t answer for a moment, as though weighing the offer. “I’d like you to teach me,” she said softly.
Tension eased from his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted her to accept—not as a lord securing compliance, but as a man hoping for a shared future.
An image flashed: a sun-dappled forest trail, her laughter on the breeze, the two of them riding side by side.
Maybe a hound following, a pair of rabbits in its jaw.
The vision was so simple and domestic it startled him.
They rode in silence, hooves beating against packed earth.
The scent of pine and woodsmoke rode the breeze, but beneath it, Alexander’s senses strained.
He could smell the soap she used in the lake, and the sharper aroma of herbs she must be keeping somewhere in her clothing.
But her natural scent—her Omega—remained out of reach.
He could only presume she employed some method of Heat suppressant. He had heard of such things. Still, understanding its purpose did nothing to calm his blood. He clenched his jaw and looked away.
He’d known desire before. Lust came easily to an Alpha, but this was different.
This was instinct’s whisper, ancient and undeniable, stirring a yearning to know his Omega.
It took a conscious effort to keep his breathing even, to not pull her against him and press his face into the curve of her neck and seek the natural fragrance she so carefully guarded.
He found himself leaning forward, just enough to catch more of her warmth. She sat with such careful stillness, her frame a taut string. He wondered what it would take for her to relax. To trust him enough to lean back. To rest.
He cleared his throat. “Do you tire, Princess? We can slow the pace if need be.”
“I’m fine, my lord,” she murmured. “I’ve walked farther on worse roads.”
She said it without self-pity, as if hardship were a familiar companion. When the breeze tugged her veil against his jaw, she steadied it quickly and glanced up. “I don’t want . . . to make the journey harder for you.”
“On the contrary,” he said, “you make it easier.”
In that moment, he knew his words were more than courtesy.
He’d never spent much time imagining the perfect woman.
He didn’t favour thin or thick, dark or fair, only someone who could help him restore his House.
Now the abstract idea of that partner suddenly had a face, and it was the one glancing up at him now, half-veiled and wary.
He frowned as he caught sight of the sharp bone protruding from her wrist, and remembered the feel of the jutting ribs beneath her cloak when he’d encircled her waist to help her mount.
Women came in all shapes, he knew, but her slenderness didn’t seem natural.
It was the sort of thin that spoke of years without enough food, warmth, or care.
The realization gnawed at him, the urge to do something making him shift restlessly. He wanted to see her eat well, sleep deeply, walk in sunlight without shadows beneath her eyes. To see her thrive, not merely endure.
She looked up just then, catching his shift. “Am I taking up too much space, my lord?”
He almost laughed. “Hardly. You weigh less than my cloak. We’ll have to put some meat on your bones before winter. Blackwood-Veyrde’s cold enough to bite through bone. You’ll need more padding.”
She lowered her head, silent for a moment.
“I hope you’ll not begrudge me some furs, my lord. I’ve heard your land produces such luxuries.”
“Sables, minks, foxes—take your pick,” he said. “I’ll see you wrapped from throat to toe in the finest pelts we have.”
He nearly added something more—something wicked about keeping her warm himself—but held back. There’d be time for teasing, for whispered promises and shared heat, once she felt safe enough to welcome them.
For now, it was enough that she agreed to ride with him.
The breeze stirred her veil again, brushing it against his chin. Light as gossamer, yet it remained a barrier between them. Alexander respected the tradition, but it gnawed at him nonetheless, this strange intimacy without a full face.
“The veil,” he said at last. “I assume it is a X?en custom.”
He felt her tense, the muscles in her back drawing tight against him.
“It is,” she replied. “Women of the court must wear veils whenever they leave the palace. Stricter still for brides. The groom may not glimpse the bride’s face before the wedding.”
The mention of that night made her fidget, a movement that carried unease. For Alexander, it stirred a deep ache.
He forced his thoughts elsewhere before embarrassment overtook him.
Still, his mind conjured images of them together—how she would fit beneath him on their wedding night.
Would he crush her with his size? Terrify her with his hunger?
Solthar help him, he hoped not. He wanted her to meet him not with fear, but with mutual passion.
As an Alpha and Omega, they were said to be nature’s perfect match—bound by instinct, ruled by scent and pull. In theory, their bodies would know how to fit together. But Alexander hoped for more than instinct.
He hoped one day she’d see him as more than an Alpha claiming her, and he’d see her as more than an Omega surrendered.
It surprised him, this hope, because it had never mattered before. He’d expected duty and tolerance—maybe fondness, if they were fortunate. Not this yearning for something gentler. For laughter shared between meals. For a future built not on obligation, but on tenderness.
He drew a steadying breath.
“I mean no disrespect,” he said after a pause. “I only asked because I wished to understand. If it is your custom, I would not shame it.”
At that, she relaxed slightly. “Thank you, my lord. That . . . means much to me.”
He nodded, though she couldn’t see it. “Still,” he added with a slight smile, “it does make it harder to know if you’re smiling when I tease you.”
A soft exhale escaped her, almost amusement. She didn’t answer, but he thought he felt some of the tension lift from her shoulders.
He wondered what else he could do to put her at ease. For the first time in his life, Alexander Wulfbane wished he were half as skilled in wooing a woman as he was in swordplay.
“Who taught you to speak our tongue?” he asked.
Praise might help. Yrenna always warmed to compliments, even if it was just about a new hairstyle or a particularly good plum tart. “You speak it beautifully.”
She ducked her head. “My lord is too generous. Once the betrothal was arranged, my father provided a language tutor. I had a month to learn rudimentary Tremesi and practiced further on the voyage.” She paused. “With your permission, I would like to keep studying at Parandor.”
His lips twitched. “You need no permission, but you have it anyway, along with my admiration.”
He wasn’t a bookish man himself. He preferred sword drills to sonnets, a good hunt over a library shelf.
But he appreciated a sharp mind and the thirst for knowledge.
Perhaps he could commission a proper library for her—a real one, filled with leather-bound tomes and rare texts from across the Nine Kingdoms. He could already imagine her sitting near the hearth in the women’s solar, a blanket draped over her knees, fingers moving between pages as she read in peace.
Maybe that, too, would earn him a little of her trust.
“You speak Tremesi better than most emissaries I know. It’s not a small feat.”
If anything, her head dipped lower. “The emperor said I have a penchant for books, but not much else.”
His fingers clenched around the reins. He wanted to say something to undo those words, to offer her the praise her father had withheld. Even his own father, despite his sins, had doted on Yrenna. Proud of every little thing she did as a small child.
But the moment passed. When she didn’t speak again, he didn’t press her.
It astonished him how the same woman who’d taken command last night sat before him now, silent and unsure. If he hadn’t seen her eyes—those dark, lucid eyes flashing with guarded brilliance—he might’ve thought a forest spirit had taken her place.
On their way to the lake, she’d confessed her leg ached. Her openness, too, pleased him, though the injury worried him. She might limp on their wedding day, but even if she did, he’d walk her up the temple steps himself.
Hell, he’d carry her if it came to that.
A dance during the feast afterward might be out of the question, though it hardly mattered. He’d sit beside her through it and hold her hand if she let him. When she recovered, they could throw another fete just for the joy of it.
The thought made him nearly groan aloud.
Fete? Dancing? Hand-holding?
By Solthar’s grace, when was the last time he’d even invited his neighbours to his hall? They’d all turned their backs on his family after his father’s disgrace, ignored his late mother’s letters, refused to visit. Treated House Wulfbane like a leper in court.
And now here he was—planning a celebration, imagining how fine his bride would look beside him, how their union might silence every cruel whisper.
She was quiet for a long time. He was about to say something, anything, to break the silence when her voice came softly.
“My lord,” she murmured. “May I ask a question?”
“Anything.”
She hesitated, just long enough that he sensed her weighing the words. “Do you think . . . I will be welcomed in Parandor?”
He wasn’t expecting that. For all her grace and composure, a thread of uncertainty wove through her voice now. Tentative, almost afraid.
Leaning down, he whispered in her ear, “You are my bride. My household will honour that. Anyone who fails to treat you with respect will answer to me.”
Her fingers flexed slightly against the saddle, but she said nothing.
“Parandor is not a palace,” he continued. “It is not filled with gold or polished marble. It is a fortress of dark wood and older ways, but what we lack in grandeur, we make up for in loyalty.”
She turned her head just enough that he could see a sliver of her profile through the veil—just the curve of her right cheek, the outline of her lips.
“I don’t need gold or grandeur,” she said. “Only a place to breathe.”
It was a simple confession, but it struck him with the force of a revelation.
A place to breathe. The words implied a lifetime of air that was thin, rationed, or laced with poison.
What kind of a gilded cage had she lived in, that breathing was a luxury she longed for?
His chest squeezed with a fierce, protective urge to tear down any wall that had ever stifled her.
“You’ll breathe,” he said, the vow thickening his voice. “You’ll be safe. If there are things you miss from home—herbs, books, familiar comforts—say the word. I’ll see to it myself.”
The following silence wasn’t strained this time. It settled between them with the hush of leaves above their heads. It felt less like absence and more understanding.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said.
He wanted to say: ‘Call me Alexander.’
But not yet. Let her offer that name when she chose to, when trust came more naturally between them.
Ahead, the road curved toward open fields. Alexander straightened again, but not before letting his hand fall lightly to her waist—brief, grounding, warm.
She didn’t pull away. He smiled then, not out of lordly duty, but with a private, dawning pleasure.
For the first time, he wondered if fate had not been kind to him after all.