Chapter 17
JINGYI
Any calm scattered like leaves in the wind. A dull ache throbbed where his grip had tightened on her wrist in the temple, a bracelet of impending bruise. He had loosened it when he noticed, his eyes flashing with what looked like remorse, yet he hadn’t touched her since they sat down.
The hall glowed with candlelight. Tapestries stirred in the hearth’s warmth, platters gleaming with roasted game and sugared fruit. She wanted none of it. Her senses narrowed to the man beside her, to the distance gaping between them.
From his questions earlier, she understood: he had known nothing. Not of her birthmark, nor her permanent leg injury. A painting, he’d said. She couldn’t recall sitting for one. If there was indeed such a portrait, it must’ve been drawn from memory—or fantasy.
Whichever it was, one truth was undeniable: Her father had deceived him.
And now, Lord Wulfbane believed she had, too.
Her fists curled in her lap. The blemish on her cheek seemed to burn hotter under the weight of the stares.
A whisper flitted past from a nearby table: “Did you see . . .?”
Another came from a table at the front, barely audible. “A shame. Such a shame.”
She lifted her chin and shaped her mouth into a smile.
A platter appeared before her: slices of beef fragrant with rosemary and thyme, golden potatoes, crusty bread soaked in drippings. Alexander’s voice followed, low and rough.
“Eat. It would be strange if the bride refused her own feast.”
The command stung, sharper than the knife in her hand. She obeyed without looking at him, each bite tasteless. Pretence—nothing more. He was wearing his mask, and she was expected to do the same.
“Is the fare not to your liking, Sister?” Yrenna asked from her left. The poor girl had to spend the whole night facing the marked side of her face. “Shall I fetch something else?”
JingYi turned to her and managed a polite smile. “No. The food is delicious. The kitchen has outdone themselves.”
Yrenna returned her smile and, bless her, kept a stream of light chatter—comments on the dancers, the flowers on the tables, the wine.
Alexander sat rigidly at her other side, eyes fixed on Lord Reave sitting beside him.
The two spoke in low tones of harvest yields, court whispers, and the king’s fickle mood.
Not once did he glance her way. Not once did his hand reach for hers.
Then, Lord Reave rose. A hush rolled through the hall. Goblets stilled, the minstrels faltered. Even the dancers froze mid-turn.
JingYi’s stomach tightened. What would be said of this marriage—sealed by a vow not even an hour ago, yet already faltering? She risked a glance at Alexander. His profile was carved in stone, unreadable. She saw the weight pressing as heavily on him as it did on her.
Then Lord Reave smiled, warm and broad and sincere.
“My boy, Alexander,” he began, his voice carrying easily across the room, “I still remember the first day I met you—a scrawny lad of three summers, gripping a wooden sword that nearly outweighed you.” Laughter rippled through the room.
“And now, look at you. A man grown. Married. And seated at the head of this hall.”
The older man turned slightly, brown eyes crinkling. “And now you have a wife to stand beside you. To love and cherish. It is a rare thing in this world to find such a companion. But when you do, treat her well, and she will be your greatest treasure.”
He lifted his goblet toward JingYi, and for the first time that night, she felt seen not as a blemish to be hidden, but as a bride worthy of celebration.
“To Princess JingYi,” Lord Reave said. “May your marriage be blessed with joy, with peace, and with a love that endures.”
He drank, and the hall followed. Applause filled the space. For a moment, the air lifted. Even Alexander’s expression thawed as he rose to clasp his old mentor’s arm.
Jing Yi lowered her gaze, blinking hard against the sudden pressure behind her eyes. She lifted her fork again. Lord Reave’s words had been kind—far kinder than she expected. Doubt still lingered, but there was comfort in knowing someone believed in them, even if she could not.
More toasts followed, warm and generous. Some jested about heirs, sending laughter bubbling across the room. Jing Yi blushed and smiled through it, cheeks aching by the end. Still, she didn’t dare look at Alexander.
The banquet continued—a weave of music, wine, and laughter. At one of the lower tables, Conrad Reave sat with his brothers, his wound discreetly bandaged beneath his coat. His gaze met hers, offering a reassuring smile. One twin nodded, the other raised his goblet.
Jing Yi looked down at her plate once more, but the lump in her throat eased. She had friends in the hall.
The next toast did not come from a friend.
A collective intake of breath, the minstrels trailing off, told her who had risen before Lord Bertrand Fortier’s smooth voice confirmed it.
“If I may express my congratulations to our newlyweds.”
Silence reigned, and her stomach clenched around the few bites she’d managed to swallow.
“Few know what it means to carry the burden you’ve carried, my lord,” Lord Fortier said. “Fewer still could shoulder it with such discipline. To rebuild a legacy from ruin is no small thing.”
The pause was a gulf. In it, she heard everything: the rustle of fabric as guests shifted, that word ‘ruin,’ the memory of a thousand sidelong glances in a different palace. Her birthmark burned as if freshly branded.
Then, with a glance toward JingYi, his tone shifted.
“We should be thankful that strength lies not only in the body,” Bertrand continued, his tone impossibly gentle, “but in character. We hope that will be enough when the image doesn’t quite match the portrait one was given.”
He raised his goblet, voice rich as silk. “To House Wulfbane—a house that endures storm after storm. May it weather this one as well.”
The following applause was a series of blows to her sternum.
She sat perfectly still—spine a rod of iron, hands frozen in her lap—locked in the prison of her own composure.
She could not look at Lord Fortier. She dared not look at her plate, lest her stillness be read as distress.
Her gaze fixed on a scratch in the table’s wood grain, a tiny flaw she could anchor to.
Alexander’s goblet scraped against the wood as he set it down. The sound was shockingly loud. His voice, when it came, was cool and flat, a blade of ice cutting through the thick air.
“I thank you for your concern, Lord Fortier, but my House requires no such weighing.”
Bertrand inclined his head, a perfect picture of genteel manners.
The moment passed. Forced laughter resumed, but the insult had seeped into the stones, into the fabric of her gown, into the new ring on her finger. It clung to the back of her neck, cold as sweat.
And she could feel her husband beside her—like a storm banked just behind a mountain ridge, held back only by the weight of rocks. Still. Silent, but never truly calm.
He had pushed back against Bertrand. Some might’ve said he’d defended her. Not with warmth or tenderness, but with the same steely certainty he used when wielding his axe.
That should’ve reassured her, but it didn’t, because she knew his anger wasn’t aimed at Bertrand alone. He’d been made a fool. And she, whether or not she deserved it, had become the face of that humiliation.
Her fingers curled around her goblet, though she did not drink. Her mouth was dry. Her thoughts turned inward. She knew better than to speak now. She’d rather let the night end in silence than risk lighting the fire she already saw smouldering beneath his restraint.
Hours later, after the last toast was raised and the final fruit wine poured, she barely remembered leaving the hall, only the cold stone beneath her feet as she crossed the corridor.
Yrenna’s voice was gentle at her side. “This way, Sister. We’ll return you to your chamber to undress, then escort you to his.”
Guests lingered behind in the great hall with wine and laughter, their voices muffled by the heavy doors. Ahead, the bedchamber waited, the fire already lit, Aliz and another maid standing inside.
The maids began unfastening her robes. Jing Yi’s hand went to her waist where her suppressant pouch usually rested and remembered: She had left it behind—a choice. Now, with her fingers pressing against empty fabric, she was certain it had been the wrong one.
“Let us begin,” Yrenna said. “If you’re ready.”
JingYi nodded. Her voice had gone somewhere unreachable hours ago.
The maids worked in silence, unfastening her bridal robes.
Layer after layer slipped away—brocade, satin, silk—folded like relics.
Each piece felt less like fabric and more like armour peeled from her skin.
She clutched the linen nightgown close when it was draped over her shoulders.
If they noticed the marks on her body, they were merciful enough not to speak of them.
Yrenna fastened the ribbon at the neckline. “It suits you.”
Jing Yi only nodded, her throat too tight for thanks.
A heavy quilted robe was laid on top—cream wool edged in sage, warm from the fire. She drew it close as if it might hold her upright.
“Come,” Yrenna said softly. “We’ll take you to his chambers now.”
They walked the hall in silence. Jing Yi kept her gaze lowered, each step heavier than the last, her attire whispering in the hush.
At last, they reached the door carved with the crest of House Wulfbane.
Yrenna pushed it open. Firelight spilled out—a steady blaze in the hearth, three candles guttering low on the mantle.
The maids slipped inside to smooth the linens and draw the curtains before bowing away.
Jing Yi lingered on the threshold. The room was handsome, masculine.
The scent of spruce, smoke, and iron was unmistakably his.
Thick rugs softened the floor, and a large carved bed loomed against the far wall.
Someone had tried to soften the space—fresh upholstery, a painted screen—but it remained, undeniably, his.
The far corner drew her gaze.
There, a space had been crafted with almost reverent care. Layer upon layer of thick furs formed a plush resting place, softened further by embroidered cushions and draped gauze. Above it, a canopy arched like the sky itself, its sheer curtains shimmering in the firelight.
An Omega’s Nest.
Slowly, JingYi crossed the room. As she knelt at its edge, her gaze lifted—then stilled. Dozens of delicate wooden birds, each carved in flight, hung from the canopy on thin white ribbons. Ravens. Their black lacquered wings glinted darkly in the light, as if caught mid-soar, forever rising.
A pang caught behind her ribs—something painfully warm. No one had ever done something like this for her. No one had ever thought about what she might find beautiful, or comforting.
Then the warmth cooled, freezing solid in her chest.
He had made this before. Before he saw her face. Before he knew.
“Do you like it?” Yrenna’s voice came from behind. “My brother arranged it just for you—” Her words faltered as she stepped closer. “You can change the furs, of course. Or the birds, if they don’t please you.”
JingYi turned with a practiced smile. “It’s beautiful. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”
Relief softened Yrenna’s expression. She hovered a moment longer. “Would you like someone to stay with you while you wait?”
“I’d prefer to wait alone, if that’s acceptable.”
She nodded. “If you need anything—anything at all—pull the cord by the bed. Someone will come.”
JingYi inclined her head.
Moving to the door, Yrenna paused at the threshold. “He will come when he is ready,” she said, her tone careful but not unkind. “Try to rest.”
JingYi swallowed against a dry throat. “Thank you,” she whispered.
With a final smile, Yrenna withdrew, closing the door behind her with a soft, definitive click.
JingYi remained where she was, staring at the Nest. It glowed in the firelight—lavish and soft. The sheer canopy cast gentle shadows that danced with the flicker of the flames. Little ravens overhead spun slowly on their ribbons.
And still, she didn’t move toward it. Couldn’t.
The Nest was beautiful—so beautiful it almost hurt to look at, but it had been built for the bride from the portrait. The one with a flawless face and steady gait, the one who walked without shame or hesitation.
Not for the woman with a marred cheek and a limp that wouldn’t fade.
Stepping inside would be trespassing into someone else’s life.
She sank into the chair beside the hearth, away from the Nest but unable to look away. Curling her legs beneath her, she pulled her robe tighter and stared into the fire as the shadows lengthened.
And waited.