Not just his presence in front of me, not his body blocking part of the view, but his bond as it reacted to her. The air around him tightened, his shoulders locking as if his muscles had gone to stone. His breath hitched once, sharp and controlled, and it came through the bond like a jolt.
Blindsided.
Malric didn’t get blindsided.
He was the alpha who walked into battle already knowing where the arrows would fall. He planned for betrayal, sickness, and ambush. He expected pain. He didn’t expect beauty standing against a stone wall and turning his instincts inside out.
I watched the way his hand tightened on his sword hilt, the way his posture went rigid with restraint, and something inside me cracked.
Because if Malric wanted her—if the tower had brought us here for that reason, if the scent match that had tugged at me was even stronger for him—then where was I in this equation?
A third body. A spare. Or worse, a discarded alpha with power he couldn’t always control, standing behind the male who had always been the center of every room and every fight, the one men followed without question. Malric could have an omega. He could break his curse. He could have an heir.
He could have everything the Seelie Queen had promised him: remain in Unseelie lands, have his ancestral lands, and he would no longer need me.
The thought landed like cold water poured over a flame. My throat tightened, and for a moment I couldn’t tell if the pressure in my chest was the tower’s magic or my panic trying to rise.
I forced a breath through my nose, slow and controlled, the way I did when storms built too fast. The air tasted sweet with her scent, making control harder, making my magic strain like a tethered beast.
Malric recovered first.
It happened in a single shift, like a door closing. His shoulders remained tense, but his gaze sharpened, focusing on threat and purpose rather than the pull in his blood. He took one measured step forward, then another, keeping his sword angled down but ready.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
His voice cut through the chamber cleanly, no softness, no room for uncertainty. It was the voice he used on prisoners, on spies, on men who might hold secrets that could kill us.
The woman flinched as if struck.
Her breath came faster, her back pressing harder against the stone. The fear in her eyes sharpened, and the tower hummed faintly beneath my boots, responding.
Malric’s gaze flicked over the room, cataloging it the same way he had cataloged the clearing below. I did too, because I needed something to ground myself besides her scent and his reaction.
It was a bedchamber—but not the sort fashioned for courtly display.
No gilded screens. No velvet-draped canopy. No glittering vanity crowded with jewels.
Yet it was not barren.
The bed stood against the far wall beneath the tallest window, carved of pale oak rather than ornate mahogany, its craftsmanship simple but careful. The mattress was thick, layered deep with feather and wool, and dressed in soft linen the color of fresh cream. Not stiff ceremonial sheets—the fabric hadbeen washed so many times it held a gentle drape, edges faintly worn where hands had gripped them in sleep.
Pillows crowded the headboard. Too many for mere function. Some square, some narrow, one clearly older than the rest, its embroidery faded from years of touch. A heavy quilt lay folded at the foot—hand-stitched in delicate patterns, threadwork fine enough to mark noble hands, though repaired in places with more practical mending.
Softness. Everywhere softness.
A thick rug covered most of the stone floor, woven in muted blues and dusk-rose tones, the fibers dense beneath my boots. Another fur—silvered and brushed until it gleamed—had been placed beside the bed, precisely where bare feet would first touch down in the morning.
There was a wardrobe near the inner wall, doors slightly ajar. Within hung gowns of fine but modest make—silks and brushed cottons in pale shades, nothing ostentatious, everything chosen for comfort rather than spectacle. A shawl had been draped over the wardrobe’s edge, as if claimed often. As if she reached for it without thinking.
Near the window stood a small writing desk, polished smooth by use. A ceramic pitcher and matching cup rested there, along with a shallow dish that once might have held fruit or sugared almonds but now sat empty. Beside them lay a stack of books, their spines cracked, pages softened from rereading. One had been left open and face-down, carefully placed so as not to damage the binding.
No mirrors dominated the walls. Only a small, polished silver disk hung discreetly near the wardrobe—practical, not indulgent.
No perfume cluttered the air. No trays of jewels. No excess.
But there were touches. Quiet ones.
A knitted throw draped over the back of a cushioned chair. A small collection of pressed flowers tucked into the corner of the window frame. Curtains lined thickly enough to block drafts, their inner layer brushed soft like the underside of a dove’s wing.
