He ran a hand through his midnight hair, exhaling heavily. "Gods, Salviana... if only you knew how much I wanted you. If only you knew how much I love you."
His thoughts replayed her smile, her flushed cheeks as she knelt between his legs, the way she had whispered "My fire prince" like it was both a prayer and a promise.
He closed his eyes, almost cursing at himself.
But he couldn’t risk it.
Not yet.
Alaric finally turned from the mirror, fastening his belt, his long coat falling behind him as he moved to the door.
He had wasted enough ti.
His wife was sowhere in the castle—probably with the maids, probably laughing, probably pretending her heart wasn’t just a little bruised because of him.
And that thought alone made his chest tighten.
"Where is my wife?" he muttered to himself as he stepped into the corridor, his boots echoing against the marble floors. "I need to find her... before I lose her trust for good."
For a man feared as a demon, Alaric Velthorne looked, in that mont, like nothing more than a man who loved too deeply—and feared himself too much.
anwhile in the Garden...
The late morning sun spilled golden light across the blooming garden, glinting off dew-kissed petals as Salviana sat on the stone bench with Florence. They had been laughing softly just monts ago, their tea untouched as they gossiped and shared stories, two won clinging to a rare pocket of peace in Wyfkeep.
Florence’s laughter still lingered in the air when a familiar voice cut through the serenity.
"My Florence."
Both won turned, and there he was—Prince Lucas, the fifth prince of Wyfkeep, tall and commanding even in his simple court attire. His dark blond hair caught the sunlight, his sharp features softened only when his eyes landed on his wife.
"Lucas!" Florence’s face lit up as if the sun had been reborn in her chest. She stood imdiately, tea forgotten, her rounded belly making her movent careful yet eager.
She went to him, bright and happy, slipping her hands into his as if she had been waiting for this mont all morning. But Lucas’s brow furrowed the second he looked closely at her face.
"You’ve been crying again," he said softly, his voice laced with worry rather than accusation.
Florence’s smile wavered, and she tried to shake her head, but he tilted her chin gently, studying her red eyes.
"My love, calm down," Lucas said, his tone steady, the kind of voice that could quiet storms. His thumb brushed away a lingering tear she hadn’t realized was there. "You promised you’d rest and stay happy for the baby. No more crying, alright? Not when I’m here."
Florence blinked rapidly, her lips trembling before she finally gave him a watery smile. "Alright... I promise."
Lucas sighed in relief, bending to press a tender kiss to her forehead before guiding her carefully by the arm.
"Co. Let’s go. You need to rest more."
Florence glanced back at Salviana briefly, still smiling through her emotions. "We’ll talk again soon, Salviana. Don’t disappear on for another fifty days, alright?"
Salviana smiled and nodded. "I won’t. Go on. He’s right. You need to rest."
And with that, Florence let Lucas lead her away, his hand protective on the small of her back, his movents careful with her every step. She looked happy. Safe. Loved.
Salviana sat back on the bench slowly, her fingers brushing the hem of her gown, the sound of their voices fading as they left the garden.
Sothing tugged deep in her chest.
She wanted that too. The warmth. The worry. The easy way Lucas had kissed Florence as if it was the most natural thing in the world to love her out loud.
Salviana exhaled, her gaze drifting over the flowers she and Alaric had once planted together.
Would she ever have that with him?
She loved him. She believed he loved her too—but his love ca with walls. With restraint. With fear he refused to let go of.
Her fingers tightened around her gown.
No, she wouldn’t let it stay that way.
She wanted him to trust himself. To trust her.
To love her the way she loved him—unafraid.
And gods help her, she was going to make sure of it.
Here, Alaric hadn’t thought his wife will be in their chambers, in the garden.
The corridors of Wyfkeep were alive with hushed whispers as Alaric walked through them, his stride unhurried yet commanding. Maids froze mid-step, bowing deeply, their faces flushed with nervous awe. Knights straightened sharply, fists over their chests in salute as his boots clicked against the marble floor.
Even in his simplest tunic of black and silver, he looked every bit the prince he was born to be—majestic, unshaken, untouchable. The soft daylight spilling through the high windows caught on the fine lines of his sharp jaw, the glint in his dark eyes, the inky fall of his hair brushing the edges of his collar. He was royalty carved in perfection—terrible and beautiful all at once.
But inside, Alaric was far from unshaken.
As he passed the final archway leading to the gardens, he felt a strange pull in his chest, as if sothing—soone—was calling him there. He stepped out, the warm breeze of Wyfkeep brushing against him, carrying with it the soft rustle of flowers and distant birdsong.
And then he saw her.
Salviana.
She stood among the blooming flowers, her back turned to him, her gown catching the light like soft fire against the lush green. She looked almost too alone, but gods... she was srizing.
Her head tilted slightly as if deep in thought, the sunlight sliding over her delicate profile. Her hair—normally falling in soft, free waves down her back—was pinned up, strands curled loosely at her neck.
And what a neck it was.
Alaric’s throat tightened. Slender. Smooth. The kind of neck that made his fangs ache, his chest tighten, his control stretch thin.
Why is her hair up? he thought, almost dazed. She always wears it down. She should know what that will do to ...
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