Chapter 43
ALEXANDER
All around him, candlelight flickered and string music swelled. Courtiers drifted like silk moths in soft, glittering orbits. Gold-threaded sleeves brushed past. Laughter chimed. The air smelled of rosewater and waxed floors—charming, but none of it could ease Alexander enough to enjoy the evening.
He’d survived battlefield standoffs with less strain than this ballroom.
He stood alone beneath an arch of gilded glass, stiff in borrowed finery that pulled across his shoulders. A tray of wine passed by, but he didn’t reach for it. His gaze was fixed on the entrance. She would enter from there, he knew. He’d been studying the layout like a soldier memorizing terrain.
Kaelen sidled up beside him and drawled, “Cousin, you look fit to throttle someone. Have a drink. Loosen your teeth a little, for Solthar’s sake.”
Alexander didn’t move. “I didn’t come here to partake in merriment.”
“No,” Kaelen said mildly, “you barrelled into my in-laws’ city to reclaim a wife you, by all appearances, tried to legally erase from your life with a few strokes of a pen.”
A retort was at the tip of his tongue, but another voice cut in, sharp enough to draw blood. “Tell me the truth. Did you think to set her aside because of her birthmark? And her gait?”
The words struck like a hammer to the ribs. Alexander stiffened, but the answer clogged his throat.
Alarik’s golden gaze pinned him. “I’ve known you to be an honourable Alpha,” he said. “But this”—he shook his head, jaw tight—“this isn’t it.”
Shame lanced through him. There was no defence. No noble lie he could conjure that wouldn’t rot in his mouth. Yes, he wrote it. And then . . . he’d started to see her. The real her.
“Perhaps Tremore breeds different Alphas,” came a low voice from behind. Alexander’s teeth clenched as Captain Marzius stepped forward.
“In Asadia, we don’t mistake a flawless face or perfect stride for true beauty. We know better than to let vanity blind us to strength.”
Alexander’s hands curled into fists. Half fury, half something darker, because the man—damn him—was right.
The worst part was the confidence in Marzius’s stance.
The unshakable assurance of a man who’d been doing what Alexander ached to do: protecting her.
The captain hadn’t just judged Alexander from afar.
He’d walked at JingYi’s side, matching her pace.
That knowledge was a burr under Alexander’s skin, a truth he couldn’t dismiss with Alpha posturing.
Marzius wasn’t finished yet. “And if our Omega stumbles, we carry her. We don’t cast her aside because she slows our steps.”
Alexander turned to Kaelen. “Why is he here?”
Kaelen’s smile was all jagged pleasantry. “Because it pleases me to have him here. And because I enjoy witnessing a Wulfbane Alpha being called to account.”
Alarik leaned in, golden eyes unblinking.
“We heard your story in the square. The theft explains how it reached the king, but the letter still exists, and the king has seen it.” His voice dropped.
“When an Alpha initiates annulment, the Omega is freed the moment she formally accepts. Legally unbound. Another Alpha may claim her.”
Kaelen leaned lazily against a marble column. “Which means,” he said, swirling the wine in his goblet before raising his eyes to Alexander, “at any moment, cousin . . . she could belong to someone else.”
The thought of it—another Alpha beside her, touching her—was a fist around his lungs.
“She’s my wife.” His voice scraped out of him. “She belongs with me.”
Kaelen raised an elegant brow. “Does she?” He placed his goblet on the ledge and leaned forward, voice silk-smooth and lethal.
“Let me explain. Our wife is fond of your wife. We are extremely fond of our wife. We’d do anything for her, including employing someone she’d come to consider as a friend. ”
Kaelen leaned back and smirked. “A gifted healer is worth their weight in gold, Wulfbane. We can offer Princess JingYi something you cannot.”
Alexander narrowed his eyes. “What’s that?”
Kaelen’s smile deepened. “Financial independence. A highly desirable thing, for an Omega fleeing an Alpha’s mistake.
” He nodded toward Alarik. “We intend to offer her a permanent role in the Asadian royal household.
A generous stipend. Lifetime pension. She would serve as healer to the Tazahrina herself, under our direct protection.
Alexander’s blood turned to ice—then to fire. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles white.
“She’d want for nothing,” Kaelen continued, clearly relishing this moment. “And if she wished for companionship, well . . .” His sly gaze slid to the captain. “We’ve no shortage of honourable Alphas who already know how to treasure her.” He picked up his glass and lifted it in a lazy salute.
Alexander’s pulse thundered. He wanted to roar, to strike something, to lay claim with teeth and tongue and oath—but he had failed her.
And now, she could walk away—legally, publicly, completely.
The noise dimmed. Music faltered, and the ballroom fell into a hush. Heads turned, bodies pivoting to face the entrance.
“Here she comes,” Kaelen warned.
But it was Reiyana, regal in her usual sapphire blue, who appeared at the doors. The court folded around her like petals drawn to the sun, eager to flatter, to praise. Alexander’s gaze cut past them, searching.
No JingYi.
He’d hoped the two Omegas would arrive together. How foolish. Even now, his wife excelled at avoiding him.
He turned away from the crowd and slipped through one of the open arches to the outdoor terrace.
Cool night air kissed his skin, smelling like citrus blossoms, salt, and stone.
The stars above Aethonia glimmered fainter than those over Blackwood-Veyrde, but the moon hung low and full, casting silver across the garden’s edge.
He braced both hands on the balustrade, dragging in a breath. It filled his lungs, but not the hollowness inside him.
Then—movement. At the far end of the terrace, half-lost to shadows where ivy curled around a white marble pillar, a figure stood alone.
At first, she didn’t turn, seemingly absorbed in the view—formal gardens unfolding into shadowed cliffs below.
Then she turned, and the moonlight found her.
It caught the strands of raven hair framing her face, stirred by the breeze.
Her gown rustled softly as she shifted her weight, almost as if testing the shape of her full skirt.
And then—lightly, unexpectedly—she twirled.
It wasn’t graceful, not a practiced court spin. But the unguardedness in that move, its child-like innocence, sent a pang through his chest. It was as though he’d stumbled upon a moment not meant to be witnessed. A glimpse of wonder in a world that had offered her so little.
He took a step forward. The sound of his boot on the marble stilled her. She looked up, and his breath vanished.
It was JingYi, and not JingYi. A version of her he’d never been so privileged to see.
She wasn’t made beautiful by the gown—no, the gown only revealed it.
It revealed how finely she carried herself, how her features—soft, strong, unpainted—held a kind of quiet defiance.
The birthmark on her cheek, no longer something to hide, caught the silver light like lacquered plum blossom. Stark. Unapologetic.
Magnificent.
“JingYi,” he said.
She flinched, just barely, but it was enough to stop him. Her back came up against the balustrade, as if bracing herself.
“You should go back inside,” she said. “The ballroom suits you better than the shadows.”
He almost laughed. “I’ve never wanted to be anywhere less than in that ballroom.”
“Those people are your people, whose approval you crave.”
“I’ve been known to want the wrong things.”
Her eyes flicked toward him, wary. “What are you saying?”
Cautiously, he took another step forward. “I need you to understand why I wrote that letter.”
“I understand why you wrote the letter. That isn’t the problem.” Her voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t soften either. “If you’re going to apologize, don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”
She stepped past him, slow, her effort to hide her uneven gait evident in every move. He didn’t stop her, until something inside him snapped taut.
“I was a fool,” he said, pivoting to face her back. “I lifted your veil and saw a woman I didn’t expect. And I panicked. I thought it would reflect on me—on my name, my House. I thought the court would laugh.”
She stopped. Stillness gripped her. For a moment, he couldn’t even tell if she was breathing.
Then, she said, “You were right.”
He closed his eyes. Three little words, yet they hurt more than any other condemnation she could’ve uttered.
“The court would laugh.” Her voice was gentler now, but wearied. “There will always be laughter. Always stares. I’ve lived long enough to know: no matter how I walk or dress, hold a fan or wear a mask, someone will find a reason to be cruel.”
She turned toward the gardens and tipped her chin to the sky as if daring the stars not to look away. “But I had hoped . . .” He caught the quiver of her chin. “I had hoped you wouldn’t be one of them.”
Heat climbed his neck. His jaw locked until his teeth ached and he tasted iron, hands curling uselessly at his sides. He wanted to step in, to put himself between her and every stare, to drown the world in his defiance and dare it to flinch.
Rage would’ve been easier—a shout, a blow he could take and be done with. This quiet hurt left nowhere to put his hands, and nowhere to hide from what he’d done. Her soft, steady calm was worse than any scream. She didn’t want his apologies, and he understood why.
What did sorry mean when he’d carved the wound with cowardice?
Standing here, he saw it: The true betrayal hadn’t been the annulment. It had been his reason. His small, craven reason. Fearing the snickering of some damn courtiers. Another layer of stain on his name. He’d cared more about how the world would see him standing beside her than to stand by her.