Chapter 37 #2
The door creaked open. The shopkeeper returned with a cup and a small dish of preserved citrus slices.
Jingyi helped the princess upright, steadying her with one arm before offering the drink.
Her lips were dry, her pulse slack. She needed more than moisture—she needed balance.
Salt, in small measure, would anchor the rising energy, calm the womb, and help the body hold what it had lost. Too much would harden the pulse and lead to dizziness.
In X?en-Sarai, she might’ve asked for salted plum water or broth steeped with rice and mineral salts. Here, the preserved lemon should do.
After the princess drank and sucked on a few citrus slices, JingYi said, “You’ll feel better soon, but rest is no longer optional, Your Highness.”
The woman studied her now, her blue eyes curious but kind. “Did you come for the festivities?”
“No,” JingYi said, rising, hiding her wince when her right hip spasmed. “I’m just passing through.”
“You have a gift for healing. And you’ve saved me. What’s your name?”
She hesitated. “It is JingYi, Your Highness.”
To her surprise, the princess beamed. “Néi shi X?en-rén, anh? Shà gan ruān xǐn jiàn nì,” she said warmly, fluently, in a voice threaded with sunlight.
The familiar syllables washed over her like a warm tide. She hadn’t heard her mother tongue spoken with kindness since she’d left Wu Mā and Fēng. For a heartbeat, it wasn’t a princess sitting before her, but a piece of her childhood world.
She blinked, her smile softening from politeness into something genuine and wistful.
“The princess speaks X?enguā beautifully.” She touched her chest and dipped into a small curtsy. “Yes, I am X?en. It is an honour to meet you, too, Your Highness.”
The prince reached for his wife’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “X?en people hold a special place in my wife’s heart. They showed her kindness when she needed it most.”
At that, the couple shared a look—warm, private, the kind forged by battles survived and loyalties earned, the kind that held the hush of something sacred.
Then, the door burst open.
“Reiya!”
A man swept in with the wind—not as tall as the first but just as striking, sun-kissed in every way.
His unbuttoned navy riding coat flared behind him, and his pale gold hair was tousled from the sea breeze.
He moved with confidence, as though the room had been built solely so that he could occupy it.
JingYi flinched, instinct drawing her closer to the shadowed shelves. The air changed with him. Warmth. Charisma. An Alpha’s presence—undeniable, magnetic. Not threatening yet, but it singed, like standing too close to sunlight.
“Kaelen,” the princess said, both fond and exasperated. “You haven’t made a scene outside, have you?”
He crossed the room in three long strides, unbothered by the space, and took the princess’s hand with a flourish, pressing kisses to her knuckles.
“You vanished from the spot where I asked you to wait,” he said, voice low but edged with panic. His gaze dipped to her belly. “Then the vendors said you’d collapsed. What exactly did you expect me to do?”
“Remain calm,” came the drier voice. The dark-haired prince, pouring more water into the princess’s cup, didn’t glance up. “If it had been a true emergency, panic wouldn’t help. And since it wasn’t, you’ve only succeeded in looking foolish.”
The blond prince shot him a glance. “Ah, but I am foolish. Especially where she’s concerned.”
The princess gave a small laugh, brushing her fingers over his. Her affection for him was obvious, but what caught JingYi off guard was the glances she shared with both men.
“Honestly,” Reiyana said with a sigh, “between the two of you, I hoped at least one would choose sanity over dramatics.”
“Dramatics? Me?” The golden prince placed a hand to his chest. “Never. You married me for my composure under pressure, and perhaps a few other virtues you’ve yet to admit aloud.”
The princess rolled her eyes, though laughter slipped past her lips regardless.
The three of them stood close, shoulder to shoulder, orbiting each other with ease.
When one Alpha reached to steady the princess with a hand at the small of her back, the other didn’t bristle.
When one kissed her temple, the other smiled, soft and unguarded, as if her comfort was the only concern, no matter whose hand offered it.
JingYi watched, unsure what she was witnessing. It certainly wasn’t a love triangle. There was no tension, no resentment. Only familiarity. Shared love.
The dark-haired prince straightened, turning to her, but addressing the other man.
“Brother,” he said, “meet the healer who helped our wife. Healer, meet the princess’s other husband.”
JingYi blinked. Brother? Other husband?
She opened her mouth. Closed it again. An astonished, unsteady curtsy was all she could manage.
Her thoughts scattered. In X?en, such a thing would be unthinkable.
She would be facing exile or execution. The idea of two Alphas sharing an Omega—of doing so with tenderness, without rivalry—was so foreign it barely made sense.
Yet the proof lay before her.
And it didn’t feel wrong.
It felt . . . wholesome. Unusual, yes, but the strangeness didn’t alter the beauty of it. Besides, why shouldn’t the princess have two husbands, when her father had thirty-six wives?
She bowed to the princes. “Would Your Highnesses like me to show you how to ease the princess’s discomfort, should her symptoms return?”
They both nodded, attentive as she demonstrated, showing the crucial points to relieve pressure, the strokes to improve circulation and support the strain on the princess’s lower spine.
When the lesson concluded, she stepped back and folded her hands. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll excuse myself.”
Before they could stop her, she bowed and slipped through the doorway. The latch clicked shut, and only then did she let her breath shudder free. Tension unspooled from her spine. A quiet satisfaction and a cold relief settled.
She had helped.
But beneath it, a deeper ache. Being in their presence was akin to watching a shattered mirror’s reflection. She’d seen the shape of tenderness—a gentle kiss, protective hands, the illusion of home—and recognized it as something she would only ever know in pieces.
It wasn’t quite jealousy. She could never begrudge the princess such happiness.
But it was grief, nonetheless. Because she knew, with the certainty of a long-shattered bone that still ached in the cold: that kind of love was not for her.
It never made room for the limp in her step or the dark mark the world saw first on her face.
She continued toward the soup stall, her hunger returning. The aroma from before was now a physical taunt.
Then, she halted.
Two seagulls were tearing at her abandoned loaf. A third dipped its beak into her bowl, swallowing a chunk of fish whole. Her meal—gone. A wave of dizzying loss washed over her, so sharp it bordered on nausea. She hadn’t realized how deeply her body had been clinging to the promise of that food.
She sighed and went anyway, kneeling to gather the sodden scraps—not to eat, but because leaving a mess felt ungrateful. Before she could slip away, the vendor spotted her.
“Seagulls are a menace around here,” the woman said, her voice softening as she took in JingYi’s sagging posture. “Sit. I’ll bring another.”
JingYi’s eyes stung. She managed a nod, her throat too constricted for words. When fresh soup and a warm heel of bread were set in front of her, she wrapped both hands around the bowl and met the woman’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she croaked. “I won’t forget your kindness.”
The woman patted her arm. “You were tending to the princess, weren’t you? Nymaris remembers those who help our own.”
She tucked into the meal. The broth was hot and fragrant, rich with the sweetness of shellfish and herbs.
She tore off a piece of bread, dipped it, and let the soaked crust melt on her tongue.
Warm, soft, just salty enough to brighten the rest. For a few heartbeats, she let herself be still. To eat. To breathe.
She’d almost finished her meal when a shadow crossed the table.
“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” said a familiar voice—light, smooth, edged with charm.
She made a move to rise, but the golden-haired prince held up his hand. He looked at the empty seat across from her.
“May I?”
She nodded, and he sat.
“You vanished rather quickly,” he said, “for someone who performed a great service to a princess.”
JingYi dropped her head. “I don’t like drawing attention.”
He smiled, as if that answer pleased him. “Understandable, but allow me one indulgence before I leave you in peace—where are you heading?”
Her gaze dropped to her bowl. The temptation to lie rose, but she didn’t want to start that path with someone who had spoken so frankly to her.
After a breath, she answered, “Bashkor.”
His brow lifted. “What for?”
“Employment.”
“As a healer?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Something thoughtful flickered across his face. His fingers drummed on the table before he leaned forward. “I know a faster route than the one you’re on,” he said. “One where you will be handsomely compensated and well taken care of.”
JingYi’s spine stiffened. In her experience, men who spoke of ‘care’ in the same breath as payment weren’t offering true sanctuary. Her fingers tightened around her spoon.
“I beg Your Highness to speak plainly. I don’t understand.”
He leaned back and smiled. “The princess wondered if you might consider coming with us to the palace.”
Her brow shot up. “The palace?”