“Is that so? I quite like that, actually.”
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. Still fire. But softer now. Unsteady in a way she likely hated.
And all he could think was:Let me see that again.
Let meearnthat again.
The music fell into its final notes, sweet and slow. But neither of them moved to let go. Alaric held her gaze, heartbeat thunderous behind his smile. He wondered if she felt it too.
The polite applause of the crowd faded to a blur in his ears; his focus was hers alone. Alaric extended his arm, fingertips grazing her wrist before enclosing her hand in his. She didn’t withdraw—only offered a faint smile, her attention shifting aside as though she wasn’t ready to meet his stare. Her face hardened immediately.
He traced the direction of her focus. Across the ballroom, her father stood among the highest lords, his expression radiant with triumph.
Alaric’s jaw ticked.
If that were his daughter, he thought, he’d be looming behind her like a shadow, daring the husband to so much as breathe the wrong way. Instead, Rhaedor looked like he might burst into song at any moment.
Meanwhile, Evelyne, the one who mattered, was likely mentally rehearsing traditional postures for optimal conception and probably been drinking herbal tinctures for fertility all month while her father toasted prosperity.
And Alaric hated it.
Chapter 61
The walk back to her chambers after the feast felt endless, but Evelyne didn’t stumble. Her spine remained straight, her chin lifted, but inside, the spiral had already begun.
Not now.
Not tonight.
By the time she reached the doors to her chambers, her vision had begun to fray at the edges. She didn’t remember the guards opening them. Didn’t recall stepping inside. She didn’t even register when Isildeth laid out the nightgown or drew the curtains.
The celebration had stretched for hours, a parade of relief dressed up as joy. Toasts echoed through the ballroom like ritual.Orvath bless the King, they had shouted, voices raised as if victory could be sealed with wine alone. Evelyne held on to one thing through it all: her father’s face. He looked satisfied. Certain. As if the alliance was all he ever needed. A signature for the Archives.
Alaric had tried to distract her. He was kind and that was the problem. Kindness had a way of seeing straight through you.
Isildeth prepared her for the night while something inside her kept clawing for air. One motion into the next, from breath to breath, from task to task.
Last time, the quiet had turned to screaming.
Now she was screaming inside her head.
And yet, no one had died. The altar stayed clean. The wine flowed. The nobles smiled. She should’ve felt relief. But she didn’t. Because blood was honest. Death didn’t pretend. And this was the kind of quiet that came before something worse.
Her hands went cold first—like someone pulled all the blood straight out of them. Then the ringing in her ears. Then the bright-white flash of memory she never wanted to see again.
Isildeth knelt beside her, fastening the last clasp of her stockings with careful fingers. “You did well,” she said quietly, her tone the same one she used when Evelyne was a child and came home from a long day of lessons. “You got through it.”
Evelyne’s breath hitched, caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. She tried again, but the words cracked before they reached her mouth.
“I caused you—” She hiccuped, shoulders trembling, “—trouble. After everything… you should have been… promoted, not dragged back here to dress me like—”
“Easy,” Isildeth murmured, her hand tightening gently on Evelyne’s arm. “Breathe.”
Evelyne tried. She really did. But the air stayed thin. Her corset was gone, yet the pressure remained, coiled around her ribs like invisible steel.
“I’m so sorry,” Evelyne whispered, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Her voice broke on the word. “For all of this—”
“Don’t.” Isildeth sat next to her. “I’m not angry.”
