Chapter 72
JINGYI
JingYi was crying and laughing at once, joy cutting so bright it smarted. Her forehead pressed to his, breath trembling. She’d been weeping behind the screen since he began speaking—sobs she couldn’t let him see.
Now, she didn’t care who saw.
She said, “I chose myself once. Now, I choose again.” She looked into his eyes, thumb brushing his cheek. “This time, I choose us.”
He kissed her forehead, a lingering warmth.
He held her hands, steadied her when they both rose, as if she was fragile when—foolish Alpha—he was the one shaking.
For a heartbeat he stared, as if scarcely daring to trust this moment.
Then, a sound broke out of him—half-laugh, half-sob—and he caught her at the waist, lifting her high, joy spilling out of him like light through a cracked wall.
From her perch in his arms, JingYi saw ShunLi and LinXin exchanging a look—her brother wearing the faintest smile, her sister’s eyes suspiciously bright. Nobles and peasants alike gaped. Nothing like this had ever happened in the Imperial Palace, after all.
Her voice rang clear, steady as a bell. “I choose my husband.”
The hall rippled with murmurs. ShunLi inclined his head once, the final weight of his sanction. To a guard, the emperor said, “Escort the High Princess and her husband to Magnolia Palace.”
A servant hurried forward, bowing low as he picked up the carved box containing the limyerite crown. JingYi had silently gasped when she glimpsed the jewel. The wreath was exquisite, but not even its beauty could compare to Alexander’s words.
They began to walk, but the familiar, weary throb in her leg, a phantom pain summoned by the day’s tension, stopped her.
The walk to Magnolia Palace was long. Before, she would’ve gritted her teeth and limped every step, clinging to a sense of usefulness that had been armour.
Now, she saw a different kind of strength.
She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear. “Carry me. I wish to be in my palace with you. Now.”
Understanding flashed in his eyes. “As my wife commands.”
Just before he scooped her up, she pressed a hand to his chest. “I might have put on a little weight since we parted.”
He arched a brow. “Is that a challenge? We can circle the palace complex several times if you need proof my strength hasn’t diminished.”
She laughed and let him lift her. They passed through rows of stunned onlookers, the guards straining not to stare.
Officials and servants froze, eyes widening before they snapped into deep, flustered bows.
JingYi saw it all from her perch. She was a spectacle, being carried like a treasure through the halls of her former prison, and she did not care.
And then—by the lacquered doors—she glimpsed Haorán leaning against the wall, hiding what she thought was an amused smile behind his knuckles. Alexander nodded at him as they strode past.
It was not a short walk to Magnolia Palace, but Alexander carried her easily. The gates swung open at their approach. When the great doors thudded shut behind them, the silence in her residence was a living thing—warm, soft, scented with her favourite incense and the day’s fresh flowers.
JingYi turned to her maids. “Draw a bath. For both of us.”
The women bowed, knowing smiles tugging at their lips, and slipped away.
Alexander didn’t put her down until they entered the receiving room, though he hesitated, as if he needed to hold her, to feel the solid reality of her after the terrifying precipice they’d just walked away from.
On her feet, she watched him. His eyes observed the small details of her life he hadn’t seen since their parting—the scrolls and unfinished letters on her desk, the pressed flowers drying near the window, the cushion where she sat to read.
“It is a beautiful home, Wife,” he said, his voice a low rumble that fit perfectly in her space. He turned to look at her, his expression earnest. “I am happy you are treated the way you deserve.”
The title—wife—spoken not as a formality but as a wondrous fact, sent a thrill through her. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly shy.
“The emperor insisted.” She paused, then added softly, “Though it’s too large for just one person.”
His blue eyes held hers, understanding shining in their depths. He took a step closer, then another, until he stood before her. “Then it is good I am here to help you fill it.”
Laughter escaped her, but she already tilted her head upward. “And how do you propose we do that?”
A smile touched his lips. “We could start with this.” He bent, and their lips met again in a gentle kiss—not desperate or not hungry, but tender and wondering, as if rediscovering the shape of each other.
Yīng appeared at the edge of the room, eyes respectfully lowered. “Your Highness, the bath is ready.”
JingYi nodded. The woman bowed and withdrew, pulling the screen doors closed.
JingYi took Alexander’s hand and led him into the bath chamber where paper lanterns cast a golden glow over the wooden tub.
A low table held brushes, oils, and soft cloths.
Steam rose in gentle curls. Yīng had scattered flower petals on the water—tuberoses, jasmine, and ylang-ylang, a blend for a newlywed’s bath.
Alexander stood at the threshold, taking it in before his eyes found hers. She opened her hand, inviting him. He came to her.
Her fingers found the ties of her robes. She loosened each one slowly, watching his eyes follow her movements. Silk slipped from one shoulder, then the other. Each garment pooled at her feet until she stood bare before him. For the first time, she felt no urge to hide.
Alexander’s breath stopped. His pupils blew wide, hands curling at his sides as if he needed to grip something but dared not reach without permission. She had seen him vulnerable before, but this—this was breathtaking.
“JingYi.” Her name was a reverent whisper, his voice cracking on the second syllable. “You are—” He shook his head, words failing him.
She stepped into his space and pressed her palm to his chest.
Undressing him was its own worship. Layer by layer, she revealed the broad shoulders she’d clung to in darkness, the powerful chest she’d traced in memory.
Each new inch of skin made her breath come faster.
When he stood bare before her, steam winding around them, she let her gaze travel the length of him. Appreciatively. Possessively.
He was beautiful. Her healer’s eye saw what courtiers would miss: a body used, pushed, broken, rebuilt.
Strong in the way powerful things meant to endure.
As her palms traced the evidence of his survival, she understood: this body had crossed oceans for her.
Had bled for her. Had refused to stop until it found her.
It was not just strong; it was also hers.
Her fingers found the healing gash along his ribs and traced the puckered wound on his thigh. Evidence of what he’d endured to reach her.
“Alexander . . .”
He caught her wrist and pressed his lips to her palm. “Worth it,” he said simply. “Each one.”
She pulled him into the water. The heat enveloped them, drawing sighs from their lips.
He settled against the curved wood, and she nestled between his legs, back to his chest, water lapping at their shoulders.
His arms came around her—one hand over her heart, the other tangled with her fingers on her stomach.
His lips found her shoulder. A gentle press. Then another, along the curve of her neck. She tilted her head, giving him more access, and felt his smile against her skin.
“I had the healer’s cottage repaired in the village,” he said suddenly, voice rumbling through his chest. The words came rushed, as if he’d been holding them in. “The villagers collected the thatch. Darion and I did the work the week before I left.”
She looked up. The boyish uncertainty in his gaze was utterly endearing.
“It is ready. For when you . . . if you still wish to . . .”
Her heart squeezed. He’d been building for her. While she’d left him, while she’d been navigating her own healing, he’d been mending a roof for a future she’d dreamed of.
She turned in his arms to face him, water sloshing gently. “Alexander. You didn’t even know I’d return.”
He shrugged, a slight blush creeping up his neck. “The villagers asked after you. Every day. Conrad wouldn’t stop rushing me to board the ship.” He finally met her eyes, and the vulnerability there stole her breath. “Parandor isn’t the same without you.”
They paused to share a smile that was both shy and intimately knowing.
“Yrenna has adopted a stray hound,” he offered, another piece of his life laid gently at her feet. “A massive, shaggy beast with one ear. She named him—”
She took his hand and squeezed. “Havoc,” she said. At his look of surprise, she smiled. “I know.”
“I see you two have been corresponding.” His fingers gently traced the line of her wrist, a constant, grounding point of contact.
JingYi laughed. “I cannot wait to meet him.”
“And I,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “cannot wait to take you home.”
His hand slid from her hip upward—languid, questioning. When she didn’t stop him, his palm brushed the underside of her breast. They both inhaled sharply. Her eyes fluttered closed. The water softened everything, each touch gliding, each sensation amplified.
“You’re trembling,” he whispered.
She nodded. “It feels . . .” Heat scalded her cheeks. “It feels good.”
How strange, to speak pleasure aloud. To let someone know he was affecting her. But she trusted him. Trusted he wouldn’t use this against her.
“Don’t stop,” she breathed.
His hand cupped her breast fully, thumb circling the peak. She gasped—a small, helpless sound that undid something in him. His other hand cradled her face, and he kissed her. A claiming and a surrender at once.
The water lapped around them as she pressed closer, skin sliding against skin. His palms travelled her back, her hips, her thighs, mapping her by touch. When his fingers found the place between her legs, she broke the kiss with a moan, her forehead falling to his shoulder.
“Alexander—”
“I know,” he murmured against her ear, his touch gentle but sure. “We have time. But I’ve waited months to touch you like this.”
His body told the story his words didn’t: the hard length of him pressed against her hip, the tremor in his hands, the ragged edge of his breath. He wanted her. Knowing that—feeling that—sent a pulse of heat through her that had nothing to do with the bathwater.
“Come,” she said against his lips. “Let me wash your hair. Then I want you to put that crown on me.”
He laughed—a real, disbelieving laugh—and pressed his forehead to hers.
“I love you,” he said. In her language. “I’ve missed you so.”
She pulled back. “You learned X?enguā,” she whispered, looking up. “For me.”
His eyes darted away. He looked almost bashful, a faint flush colouring his neck. An intriguing shade for an Alpha.
“A clumsy attempt. A Talharen family in the merchant district helped me. I was a poor student who couldn’t do their efforts justice.”
He admitted it quietly, as if confessing a trivial thing, but to her, it was everything. She’d arrived on his shores armed with knowledge of his world, a bride determined to carve a place for herself through sheer usefulness. She had never dared hope for a reciprocal effort.
“You are perfect,” she said, her voice thickening.
And then, she kissed him.
Moments later, they emerged reluctantly, trading warm water for soft robes. Her maids had laid out fresh garments and discreetly retreated—a silky nightgown for her, loose pants and a robe for him.
Alexander stood by the lacquered table where the box waited.
His hand rested on its surface, not yet opening it.
When she came to stand beside him, he lifted the lid.
In the intimacy of her palace, the limyerite seemed less like stone and more like captured twilight, the raven feathers etched with impossible delicacy.
His eyes, a summer sky after a storm, held hers.
“This crystal is from the heart of my land.” His fingers traced the edge of one gleaming feather until he found the captured crack deep within the pristine crystal—a flaw that fractured light into a minuscule, dazzling prism.
“The artist offered to hide it, or cut it out.”
His other hand came up, thumb brushing her cheek. He lingered on her dark mark, then swept down, his palm coming to rest on her hip where it often ached to compensate for her leg. He held her there, connected at her flaw and her strength.
“I told him the flaw is what makes it singular. Proof of its journey, a story written in its heart. It catches the light in a way perfection never could. It is what makes it breathtakingly beautiful.”
A sob broke from her. She had already claimed the limp and the mark. They were not faults to be forgiven but celebrated. The limp taught her balance; the mark taught her courage. Together, they made her.
And he saw them as she did now: proof of her survival.
With a reverence that made her throat tight, he lifted the wreath.
She felt its cool weight when he crowned her.
His touch was gentle as he cupped her tear-damp cheek, thumb brushing away a tear.
She leaned into his palm, eyes fluttering closed, imprinting the sensation.
When she opened them, the world had fallen away.
There was only him, and the awe in his blue eyes.
“Alexander,” she whispered.
It was all the invitation he needed.