Alaric’s heart swelled at the confession, his arms tightening around her protectively. "I did too," he admitted in a low rumble. Then, softer, almost to himself, he added, "I almost went mad without you."
Her breathing slowed, deep and even, and he realized she had drifted into sleep. Alaric smiled faintly, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face as he gazed down at her peaceful expression.
Though his body still thrumd with unt need, he didn’t mind. Sleep was impossible for him now, but he welcod the chance to simply be with her, to morize the feel of her in his arms and the way her fiery spirit had lted into serene vulnerability.
In this mont, she was his to cherish, and he vowed to never take that for granted. As the firelight flickered across her features, Alaric let himself savor the sight of his charming, fiery wife—the woman who had beco his everything.
~~~{────────
Sa Night.
Fourth Prince Chambers,
Wyfkeep Castle. Wyfellon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
The sound of rain pelted the windows of Irene and Jaron’s bedchamber, a relentless rhythm that matched the pounding in Irene’s chest.
The storm outside was wild, thrashing against the castle walls, but the tempest within her heart was far fiercer.
Jaron stood by the fireplace, the flickering flas casting long shadows over his muscular form.
His armor had been removed, leaving him in a simple tunic and breeches, but he still carried the weight of the battlefield in his stiff posture and distant eyes.
He hadn’t so much as glanced at her since returning.
Irene, perched on the edge of their grand four-poster bed, watched him with a mix of longing and frustration.
She had waited for this mont, for the chance to celebrate his survival, to hold him, to feel his warmth.
Yet here he was, cold and detached, as though the rain outside had seeped into his soul.
"You won’t even look at ," she finally said, her voice soft but trembling with unspoken hurt.
Jaron sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Irene, not tonight. I’m tired."
"Tired?" she repeated, rising to her feet. "You didn’t die out there, Jaron. Shouldn’t that be reason enough to—"
"I don’t want to talk about it," he snapped, cutting her off.
The words struck her like a blow. Irene crossed her arms over her chest, her fingers gripping the fabric of her gown as though it would keep her together. "I’m your wife," she whispered. "Why do you always treat as if I’m so stranger?"
Jaron turned toward the bed but avoided her gaze, his expression unreadable. "Because I’m not the man you want to be, Irene," he said flatly. "And I won’t pretend to be, not even for you."
Her chest tightened. She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. "You don’t have to pretend. I don’t need so perfect version of you, Jaron. I just need you. Can’t you see that?"
He shook his head and climbed into bed, his back to her. "I just want to sleep. Please."
The word stung more than she expected it to, and she stood there, staring at his broad shoulders as he pulled the blanket over himself.
The rain continued its relentless assault on the windows, the wind howling like a beast denied its prey.
Irene sank back onto the bed, her hands trembling in her lap. She wanted to scream at him, to shake him, to demand that he see her—not just as his wife, but as a person who loved him despite his flaws, despite his coldness.
But all that escaped her lips was a bitter laugh.
"You’re a stubborn, hateful mole, Jaron," she muttered, her voice breaking.
He didn’t respond. Whether he heard her or not, she couldn’t tell.
For a long ti, she sat there in the silence of the room, broken only by the storm outside. Finally, she climbed under the blankets, careful not to touch him.
Her back pressed against the cold wall, she stared into the darkness, tears spilling silently down her cheeks.
She wanted to celebrate his life, but all she felt was the misery of his indifference.
~~~{────────
The Sa Night.
Second Prince’s Chambers,
Wyfkeep Castle. Wyfellon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
The night was young, the rain a gentle patter against the windows of Spencer and Beatrice’s chambers.
Unlike the tumult outside, their bedroom was alight with warmth and laughter, their love filling every corner like a fire that refused to be extinguished.
Beatrice reclined against a pile of soft pillows, her hair tousled and wild, her cheeks flushed from both wine and delight.
Spencer lay beside her, his head resting on her bare stomach, one hand lazily tracing circles on her hip.
A half-empty tray of dessert sat forgotten on the nightstand, the remnants of a decadent feast they had shared in bed.
"You’re insatiable," Beatrice teased, her voice light and breathless as she playfully tugged on his dark hair.
Spencer grinned up at her, his green eyes sparkling with mischief. "And whose fault is that, hmm? You looked at like you wanted to devour whole during dinner."
Her laugh was lodic, filling the room as she ran her fingers through his hair. "Maybe I did. Can you bla ? You’re impossible to resist."
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to her belly before shifting upward, caging her beneath him. "Flattery will get you everywhere, my love," he murmured, brushing his lips over hers.
Their kiss deepened, his body fitting against hers like a puzzle piece, the heat between them igniting once more.
Beatrice sighed against his mouth, her hands sliding over his broad shoulders, pulling him closer.
"You’re supposed to be resting," she whispered between kisses, though her tone held no conviction.
"I’ll rest when I’m dead," he replied, his voice husky. "Tonight, I want nothing more than to remind you just how much I love you."
And he did—again and again.
Their lovemaking was fierce and playful, full of laughter and whispered endearnts. Beatrice clawed at his back, leaving marks that would linger as proof of their passion.
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