CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
KNOX
The clang of steel against steel echoes through the castle corridors as I make my way toward the family meeting, the sound of ongoing preparations for the binding ceremony filling every corner of our home.
Servants rush past carrying armfuls of white silk and winter roses, their faces flushed with the constant activity that's consumed the castle since our engagement announcement.
The scent of pine and cinnamon drifts from the great hall where workers have been planning the altar construction, mixing with the underlying tension that's been building all week.
The ceremony preparations are moving forward steadily, though we still have time before the winter solstice. Still, the reality of what's coming makes Liam practically purr with satisfaction every time I think about it.
"Soon," he rumbles contentedly. "Soon she'll bear our mark, and there will be no more uncertainty."
I push his voice aside, unwilling to admit how much I agree with him. A Crown Prince doesn't get giddy about his upcoming wedding like some lovesick fool, even if that's exactly what I've become.
The sitting room door is already open when I arrive, voices drifting out into the hallway.
I step inside to find the usual suspects gathered—Mom elegant in deep blue silk, Dad nursing his evening brandy, Iris curled against Astor's massive frame on the burgundy sofa.
But it's Aubrey who draws my attention immediately, and what I see makes my chest tighten with concern.
She looks terrible.
Dark circles shadow her eyes like bruises, her skin pale and drawn in a way that speaks of sleepless nights and exhaustion.
Even her posture seems different—hunched slightly, as if she's carrying a weight I can't see.
When was the last time we spent real time together?
Between ceremony preparations and royal duties, it's been days since we had a proper conversation.
When did she start looking so fragile?
"Knox!" Mom's voice pulls me from my worried examination. "Perfect timing. We were just discussing the ceremony timeline and some final details."
I settle into the leather armchair across from Aubrey, trying to catch her eye. When she finally looks at me, there's something distant in her gaze that makes my stomach clench with unease.
"How are you feeling about everything?" I ask, keeping my voice gentle.
She forces a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Fine. Just tired from all the preparations."
Liar. The word surfaces immediately, though I can't say why I'm so certain. Something about the careful way she holds herself, the practiced nature of that smile—it all feels rehearsed.
"You look like you haven't slept in days," I press, and her shoulders tense slightly.
"Pre-ceremony nerves," she says with a dismissive wave. "Completely normal."
Before I can respond, Iris speaks up from her position against Astor's chest. "Knox, you need to take better care of your mate." Her green eyes flash with sisterly disapproval. "She's been having nightmares almost every night. I can hear her crying out from down the hall."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Nightmares? Aubrey's been suffering alone while I've been buried in meetings and protocol discussions?
"Why didn't you tell me?" I turn to Aubrey, concern and hurt warring in my chest.
She shifts uncomfortably, those exhausted eyes avoiding mine. "I didn't want to bother you. You've had enough on your plate with ceremony preparations and your royal duties."
The careful distance in her voice feels like rejection, like she's already decided I'm not someone she can depend on. The sting of it makes my jaw clench.
"She's our mate," Liam growls. "Her problems are our problems. Her pain is our pain."
But apparently, Aubrey doesn't see it that way.
"Besides," she continues with forced lightness, "it's probably just pre-ceremony jitters. Once we get through the binding, everything will settle down."
There's something in the way she says it—like the ceremony is an ordeal to endure rather than a celebration—that sends ice through my veins. But before I can analyze the feeling, Iris is speaking again.
"Actually, that gives me an idea," she says, sitting up straighter with sudden enthusiasm. "Why don't you move into Knox's room? Being close to your mate might help ease those nightmares."
The suggestion hangs in the air like a challenge. My pulse quickens at the thought—Aubrey in my bed, her scent surrounding me, the warm weight of her body against mine through the night. The mate bond practically sings at the idea.
But Aubrey's reaction destroys any fantasy before it can fully form.
"No." The word comes out sharp and immediate, cutting through the room like a blade. "That's not necessary."
The rejection hits harder than it should. We've been intimate—more than once, actually. I've seen her fall apart in my arms, felt her body respond to mine with an intensity that left us both breathless. So why does the idea of simply sleeping beside me seem to horrify her?
"Aubrey," I start, but she's already shaking her head.
"I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine managing on my own," she says, her tone final. "The nightmares will pass."
The careful politeness in her voice feels like acid in my chest. She's speaking to me like I'm a stranger, not the man she's agreed to marry. Not her mate.
Fine managing on my own. The words echo in my mind, each one a small cut. Is that how she sees our relationship? A series of obligations she has to manage alone?
"Of course," I say, my voice coming out colder than I intend. "I wouldn't want to impose."
Something flickers across her features—guilt, maybe, or regret—but it's gone too quickly for me to be sure.
The rest of the meeting blurs together in a haze of frustrated disappointment.
Plans for ceremony logistics, discussions of guest arrangements, protocols I barely register through the fog of rejection clouding my thoughts.
All I can focus on is the careful distance Aubrey maintains, the way she avoids my gaze, the invisible walls she's rebuilt between us.
When Mom finally dismisses us with reminders about upcoming fittings and rehearsals, I'm the first one out the door. The corridor feels too small suddenly, the weight of expectation and disappointment crushing down on my shoulders like a physical burden.
She doesn't want me there. The thought burns through my chest like poison. Even when she's suffering, even when she needs comfort, she'd rather handle it alone than let me help.
My feet carry me toward the training grounds without conscious decision. I need to hit something. Need to channel this frustrated energy before it eats me alive from the inside.