Page 84 of The Alpha King’s Hidden Mute Mate

She raised an eyebrow—an expression that screamed "keep talking."

"At first, yeah, I came to restore my voice by inviting Vela," I admitted, raising my hands in surrender. "But when I found out Vela was you... that you were alive... nothing else mattered. Whether I could howl or not didn't matter. I stayed because of you."

"Because of me?"

I held her gaze.

"I owe you an explanation," I said. "I've regretted every single second of the last five years. Because every morning I wake up, the first thing I see is the look in your eyes when you let go. Because I—"

I stopped. Took a breath.

"Because I need you to know—I never stopped loving you."

Silence.

Her expression didn't change. No emotion, no softening, not even a flicker. She just sat there like a statue, looking at me with those terrifyingly calm eyes.

Then she laughed.

Not warm laughter. A mocking laugh—the kind you give a clown telling a bad joke.

"You love me?" She repeated the words like tasting something strange. "That's the funniest joke I've ever heard."

The words hit like a hammer to my chest.

"I—"

"You know how I spent the last five years?" Her voice finally shifted—not with anger, but with weary exhaustion, like she'd told this story too many times. "I crawled out of that river with nothing. No money, no home. I sang in filthy dive bars until my throat bled, just to earn one meal."

I felt my eyes burning.

"And you," she looked at me with that heartbreaking calm, "you were in your palace, enjoying everything with Leah."

"I wasn't." My voice came out barely audible. "I banished her the day I learned the truth. I—"

"So what?" She interrupted. "You banished her—does that erase what you did to me? You believed her lies, not me. You made me publicly apologize to her. You sent me to my death. Can all of that be erased with 'I'm sorry'?"

I had no answer.

She was right. Those things happened. The damage was real. An apology couldn't undo any of it.

I looked down at the floor patterns, feeling my knees go weak.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "I know it's not enough. I know nothing I do can make up for it. But I still have to say it—I'm sorry."

She didn't respond.

Ten seconds of silence. Each one felt like a century.

Then she spoke, her voice back to that eerie calm. "I can help you."

My head snapped up.

"But I have conditions."

"What?" The word came out desperate, almost pathetic.

She leaned back against the couch, hands folded on her knees, composed as a negotiator at a business table.