Chapter 23 #2
She laughed, the sound rich and unguarded, and for a fleeting moment, Alarik forgot the cool night air, the shifting sands, the distance still stretched between them.
He’d seen her poised and careful, measured and sharp. But this—this laughter, this warmth—was something different.
The woman before him wasn’t just the Omega princess of Aethonia. She wasn’t a title or a duty or a carefully arranged match. She was flesh and spirit, will and uncertainty, someone who carried her own ghosts yet still found the light in a single flower.
And the way she tucked the stargazer into her shawl, cradling it like a precious thing—as if it were a gift worth keeping—unravelled the tight knot inside his chest.
“Thank you,” she murmured, softer now. “It’s been a while since anyone’s given me something with so much meaning.”
For a moment, the night seemed to close in around them, the distant firelight flickering like stars against the dark. When Reiya exhaled, shifting as if remembering herself, the quiet spell slipped.
“It’s getting late,” she said, turning back toward the camp. “We should retire. Another gruelling day ahead.”
He nodded. “We’ll walk you back. ”
Before he could move, Kaelen cut in. “You go ahead with her.” He waved a hand, already striding toward their horses. “I’ll bring our mounts closer to the wagon.”
He watched as Kaelen disappeared into the dark without a backward glance. A familiar pang surfaced, and it nearly had him calling his brother back.
Kaelen always did this. Always orchestrated moments where he had to stand on his own without the shield of someone else’s effortless charm.
She followed Kaelen’s retreat with a flick of her gaze, the corners of her lips curving in quiet amusement. “Your brother never fails to leave a lasting impression.”
He exhaled through his nose, offering a small, stiff smile. “He has a flair for dramatics.”
They fell into step, their footsteps whispering against the cool earth. Silence stretched between them, humming with a quiet tension that made him acutely aware of her presence.
Her scent wrapped around him—jasmine and honey, just as he remembered, now laced with hints of almond and orange blossom.
It stirred something old, familiar, a quiet pull deep in his bones.
A need to protect. To cherish. To be trusted.
He’d felt it before. A different time, a different woman. Someone who’d once woven laughter into his days, slipped past his guard with soft touches and softer words.
But warmth faded. And loyalty—he’d learned—was fleeting. She’d drifted from him like smoke, lost to a brighter flame.
That memory, once razor-sharp, had dulled over time. Yet, even now, traces of it lingered—a quiet ache he’d long stopped trying to define.
“You don’t say much, do you?” Reiya’s voice broke the silence, teasing but not unkind. She glanced at him, blue eyes pale in the moonlight. “Especially when you’re not with Kaelen.”
Her directness nudged at something tender in him. His insides balked at it, and the urge to redirect the conversation clawed at him.
“I’ve never been one for unnecessary words,” he said carefully. “I prefer to listen. To understand. ”
“That’s a rare quality. Most people feel the need to fill silence. To be heard.”
His gaze flicked toward her. “Silence isn’t always empty. Sometimes, it’s where the most important things are said.”
Her lips curved slightly. “Like now?”
Alarik watched her from the corner of his eye, catching the faint playfulness in her tone.
He gave a slight nod. “Perhaps.”
She didn’t seem to expect him to play along—the flicker of surprise in her eyes was too quick to hide. She shifted her weight as if to walk ahead, but her footing faltered. A loose stone rolled underfoot.
Before thought could catch up, Alarik reached out, one hand closing around her arm. Her scent crashed over him—heady and rich, like the first bloom after a storm. It rooted him to the spot, her warmth seeping into his skin where their bodies touched.
She looked up, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. And just like that, the night changed.
The world stilled—the warmth of her against him, the quiet rise and fall of her breasts, the way her gaze locked onto his. His fingers softened at her elbow, but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t .
The way she looked at him—eyes wide, pupils blown—told him she felt it too.
The pull. The tension. The unspoken question hanging between them.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The fire crackled somewhere behind them, too far away to matter.
When she finally stepped back, his fingers slipped free, the absence of her warmth leaving an ache in his chest he hadn’t been prepared for.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Alarik forced himself to take a step back too, tamping down the part of him that wanted to reach for her again.
“My pleasure,” he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.
They walked in silence, but his pulse was still unsteady, and the air had shifted. The weight of everything left unsaid, light as it was, settled between them .
His gaze flickered toward her neck. The bruise stood out in the moonlight, dark and angry against her pale skin. His jaw tightened. The thought of anyone putting their hands on her sent something fierce coursing through him, something he barely had the name for.
She must’ve felt his eyes on her because she slowed, hesitating.
“Alarik . . . I wanted to apologize.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Earlier, when I stepped back—it wasn’t about you. It was . . .” She exhaled, words catching in her throat. Her fingertips ghosted over the bruise. “My body remembered things I’d rather it didn’t.”
Her gaze lowered, voice quieter still. “It’s not that I found your touch distasteful. Forgive me.”
Her words sent a rush of something dark and sharp through him—a visceral need to protect, to erase the pain woven into her voice, to burn away whatever ghosts made her retreat. His hands curled into fists.
He wanted to tell her there was nothing to forgive, that the weight of what had been done to her was not hers to bear alone.
Instead, he swallowed, measured his words.
“You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing .” He kept his voice steady, but the edge still seeped in. “I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through.” He hesitated, then exhaled. “I should’ve thought it through. I should’ve known my touch might startle you. That’s on me, not you.”
His jaw tightened—not with anger, but with quiet resolve to tread carefully. To be someone she would never have to flinch away from.
“But thank you,” he added, voice lower now. “For telling me.”
She exhaled softly, and even though she did not speak, the tension between them eased.
They walked on, silence stretching—but now, it carried a different weight. It no longer pressed down, no longer held the sharp edge of hesitation. Instead, it felt measured, expectant. The kind of silence that lingered when words were no longer necessary.
The heaviness in Alarik’s chest was replaced by something quieter, something solid.
As they neared the Xians’ fire, he loathed to let the moment end. The night had cooled, but Reiya’s presence left behind a trace of warmth, minute yet insistent.
They stopped a short distance from the wagon, firelight flickering against the curve of her face.
“I’ll say goodnight, Yara,” he said.
She looked up, her expression unreadable. Something flickered in her eyes—something lingering just beneath the surface, just out of reach.
“Good night, Lark.”
The words hung between them, softer than they should’ve been, like an unfinished thought.
He stayed a moment too long, watching as she slipped into the shadows behind the wagon. The hush of the camp settled around him, night falling into its slow rhythm.
Only when she was gone did he turn away, his steps measured, the quiet crunch of gravel beneath his boots the only sound.