"Alaric, listen to ," she said, her voice dropping into a tone of absolute, unshakable clarity.
"You cannot compare the ’then’ with the ’now.’ You were a boy lost in a storm of power you didn’t understand, surrounded by people who wanted you to be a weapon. Look at how much you have grown. Look at the man who protects Jean, who honors Embrez, who holds as if I am made of glass."
She leaned in until their foreheads pressed together, her erald eyes burning into his. "You were sleeping then. Anything could have happened in that room—betrayal, shadows, a thousand things you were too young to see. But this? This union is a conscious one. You are awake now. You are in control. And if the darkness tries to rise, I am right here to guide you through it. I am your fire, rember? I will light the way back to yourself."
Alaric let out a jagged, broken sound—half-laugh, half-sob. "You are so certain," he whispered, his shoulders finally beginning to slump under the weight of his exhaustion. "You’re a fool to love a graveyard, Salviana. I’m just a collection of headstones and bad mories. I’m the beast in the stories, and you... you’re the sun that doesn’t realize it’s going to get swallowed."
He continued to murmur, a low, rhythmic stream of self-loathing that grew slower and heavier with every breath. He spoke of the cold in his veins and the nas of the dead, his voice losing its edge as the sheer toll of the day—the journey, the return, the tattoo, and the confession—finally broke through his defenses.
Gradually, the words trailed off into silence.
Salviana didn’t move. She shifted until she was cradling his head against her chest, her fingers weaving through his dark hair in a slow, soothing rhythm. She felt the mont his body finally surrendered; the tension bled out of his muscles, his breathing leveled into the deep, heavy cadence of sleep.
The powerful, terrifying Third Prince of Wyfn-Garde lay defeated not by an enemy’s blade, but by the simple, quiet rcy of a woman’s arms.
Salviana looked down at his sleeping face, the sharp lines of his features finally softened in repose. He looked peaceful, almost young, but the na Anne-Marie still hung in the air like a lingering scent. She kissed the crown of his head, her eyes fixed on the dying embers in the hearth.
He was hers to protect now. And as the winter moonlight began to creep across the floor, she knew that the real battle for Alaric’s soul had only just begun.
The heavy, tallic scent of iron was the first thing to pierce the veil of Alaric’s exhaustion. It was thick and sweet, pulling him upward from the depths of a dreamless sleep. His body acted on instinct—a predator sensing a kill—and his lips parted to catch the warm, rhythmic drips before they could hit the sheets.
He rose from the pillows like a ghost, his hand reaching out to steady the source. His eyes remained closed, his mind still clouded by the lingering shadows of his confession the night before, and he drank. The blood was unlike any he had ever tasted—it didn’t just carry life; it carried heat. It tasted of sunlight and ancient, unyielding fire.
Then, the fog snapped.
The realization of whose skin he was touching, whose pulse was thrumming against his tongue, hit him like a physical blow. Alaric’s eyes flew open, wide with a sudden, paralyzing dread.
There, in the soft gray light of the early morning, sat Salviana. She was perched on the edge of the bed, her expression calm and serene, her palm sliced open and offered to him like a sacred cup.
"Salviana!" He recoiled, sitting up so abruptly the bedfra groaned. The hunger was still a dull ache in his gut, but it was drowned out by the sheer horror of what he’d just done. "What are you doing? What have you done?"
His voice was a raw, jagged wail that echoed off the cold stone walls. He stared at her hand, the red liquid staining her porcelain skin, and felt the monster inside him howl in sha.
Salviana didn’t flinch. Instead, she leaned forward, her red hair cascading over her shoulders like a curtain of embers. A soft, weary smile played on her lips—a look of such absolute devotion that Alaric felt his heart, usually a cold and guarded thing, lt into sothing soft and unrecognizable.
"Feeding my drained husband," she whispered, her voice like a caress.
Alaric reached out, his movents frantic as he grabbed her wrist, pulling her hand toward his face—not to drink, but to inspect the damage. He began to lick the remaining tracks of blood from her palm with desperate, reverent strokes, his tongue acting as a bandage to seal the wound.
"My love, I am fine," he insisted, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and frustration. "You do not have to do this for . I would have been fine... I only needed rest." He looked up at her, his dark eyes searching hers, haunted by the mory of the night before. "We have the wedding celebration in two days. You cannot be walking into a ballroom with wounds all over your body because of . Why? Why would you do this?"
Salviana chuckled, a low, lodic sound that seed to chase away the last of the shadows in the room. She reached out with her free hand and cupped his cheek, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw.
"Fire prince," she said softly, her erald eyes glowing with a faint, ethereal shimr. "You forget who I am. We both know that I heal faster than any mortal woman. By the ti the sun is high, there won’t even be a scar."
She leaned in, pressing her forehead against his, her warmth seeping into his chilled skin. "You gave your truth last night, Alaric. You gave your darkest mory. This? This is just a little bit of life. A fair trade, don’t you think?"
Alaric closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. He had spent his whole life being feared for what he took, but in the quiet of their bedroom, he was finally learning what it felt like to be given to.
The air in the room was still thick with the scent of iron and embers, a lingering testant to the vulnerability they had shared. Alaric remained close, his forehead resting against hers, his breath a warm ghost against her skin.
"I love you," he whispered. The words were low, raw, and carried the weight of a man who had finally set down a heavy burden. It wasn’t the polished declaration of a prince; it was the confession of a soul that had been cold for centuries, finally finding a hearth.
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