Page 79 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

His voice was rough and low, carrying an indescribable weariness. But his eyes—those gray-blue eyes—glowed bright under the streetlight like two rain-washed jewels, staring straight at me like nothing else in the world existed.

Problem was, he sang really badly.

I'm not being cruel. I'm serious. His pitch wavered, some high notes he couldn't reach so he forced through with falsetto, sounding like he was murdering a cat. His guitar accompaniment was even worse, chord changes slow as climbing stairs, some places with obvious pauses like he suddenly forgot the next chord.

But the lyrics—

"You were the sun I didn't deserve,

But I'm standing here, burning in your light..."

The lyrics were... good. Good enough to make my chest tight. Those words like small knives, stabbing precisely into some place inside me I thought had gone numb.

I stood there on the street at one a.m., listening to a king use his terrible guitar skills and off-key voice to sing me a love song.

People started gathering.

The city at one a.m. wasn't quiet. Nightclub lights flashed nearby, drunk pedestrians stumbled past, taxis stopped and left. But Zane's singing—despite being off-key—attracted more and more attention. People stopped to watch, pulled out phones, started whispering.

"Isn't that the king of Moonhowl Kingdom?"

"Oh my god, it really is him! What's he doing?"

"He's singing? Uh... points for courage."

"Wait, he's singing to—is that Vela?"

Camera flashes started going off. Click click click like firecrackers. I could hear people livestreaming, posting on social media, calling friends to come watch.

I felt my cheeks burning. Not because he sang well—but because this was so damn embarrassing. A king, sitting on the street, playing off-key guitar, singing me a love song, witnessed by millions. The most absurd scene of my entire life.

"Enough." I walked over, stood in front of him, and lowered my voice. "Stop."

He didn't stop. He kept singing, eyes locked on me, like he wanted to absorb my entire being into his pupils.

"I said, enough." My voice rose. "Are you drunk? Or crazy?"

He finally stopped. The guitar went silent, his fingers hovering above the strings, trembling slightly. He looked at me, lips moving like he wanted to speak.

"I'm not drunk," he said, voice rough as sandpaper on wood. "I just—I didn't know how to make you listen. I didn't know how to make you believe me. So I thought, maybe... maybe I could use the way you care about most. Music."

I felt something slam into my heart.

"You play terribly," I said, voice colder than I meant. "Sing even worse."

He flinched, then smiled bitterly. "I know. I've been learning for five years. Got calluses on my fingers. But I really don't have any musical talent."

He held out his hands. Under the streetlight, his fingertips were covered in calluses and blisters, some places showing dried blood. Marks from long hours practicing guitar.

Five years.

That timeline made my heart plummet.

I stared at those scarred fingers, a complex emotion welling up. Not touched. Not sympathetic. But—irritated. A "why are you only doing this now" kind of irritated. Five years. You spent five years learning to play one song, but couldn't spend five minutes believing me back then?

"You shouldn't be here," I said, voice returning to its earlier coldness. "Go back. Go back to your kingdom. Your people need you."

"They need a king." His voice was low and firm. "I need you."