She didn’t reply. Her shoulders remained square, chin held high, but her fingers curled tightly into her skirt. The tremor was so slight it might’ve gone unnoticed, except he’d seen it before—in soldiers trying not to faint from blood loss, in his own hands after the letter arrived declaring his father’s execution.
“Are you well?” he asked.
She didn’t answer. Her glazed eyes were fixed on the field, on the men cheering as the tug-of-war reached its crescendo. Both teams strained, sweat dripping down their faces and necks. She didn’t blink as the villagers stomped their feet in a quickening rhythm, roaring their approval.
Her head tilted, just slightly, but her face had gone pale, eyes glassy and unfocused, staring at the bursting sack yet no longer watching the game. Her breath caught once, then again. And right when the fabric tore into shreds, her knees gave out.
He moved, catching her before she hit the ground.
“JingYi—!”
The world surged around him. Cheers broke into gasps. Heat bled through his sleeves. She shivered hard in his arms. Her scent blew open—honey and clean herbs turned hot with fever—a wild, moon-sick sweetness that caught in his throat. Alpha heads snapped up throughout the clearing.
His own spruce-and-iron scent flared, a hard shield he threw over her as he shouted for space and dropped his cloak across her shoulders. Still, it came in waves, unbound and tidal, dragging at his own pulse until he had to set his jaw against the urge to bare his teeth.
“Darion!” he barked, already pulling her closer. “Clear the path!”
His entire focus narrowed to the woman in his arms, crumpled and trembling, her head pressed to his chest, her fingers curled around the fabric of his sleeve.
He carried her down the hill—away from the altar, the table, the torn sack spilling bounty onto the ground.
CHAPTER 33
JINGYI
Jingyi had thought she could last through the ceremony.
The climb had been gruelling—steeper than it looked, each step sending a bolt of agony through her joints. But she had kept her head high and made it without stumbling. Without making a fool of herself. Without disappointing anyone.
The ceremony had been beautiful.
And Alexander . . .
She hadn’t meant to steal glances, but her gaze kept finding him anyway.
He stood at the edge of the altar platform, half-turned toward the villagers, his expression solemn. His ceremonial cloak—black outer folds, crimson beneath, lined with cream fur at the collar—caught the light with every breeze. Across his chest, a fitted leather plate bore the Wulfbane sigil, sharp and gleaming beneath the fading sky.
And he looked?—
Handsome in a way that disarmed her, because he rarely allowed himself to be. The remnants of daylight kissed his flaxen hair into silver. There was a cleanness to his jaw, to the line of his brow, that made her chest tighten. This afternoon, therewas no armour for battle, but the way he wore himself—still and watchful—felt like protection of another kind.
He looked content. Proud. Maybe even happy.
It made her ache.
Because for a flickering moment, she thought of what happened between them earlier, his intense expression when he said those words that still thrummed through her.
‘I send them because the thought of something happening to you . . . makes me feel like I can’t breathe.’
He hadn’t meant to say them, but he had, and they’d landed in a place that felt so fragile she wanted to cup her hands together to protect the spark from going out.
And then the game began.
She had expected camaraderie. Perhaps some shouting, a bit of spectacle, laughter as the men fought over the ceremonial sack. She hadn’t expected the weight of the rope, the sounds, the strain as the fibres stretched and creaked.
And most of all, she hadn’t expected the memories to flood in.
She should’ve looked away. Should’ve turned her eyes to the trees, or the children stealing bits of apple tart from the feasting table. But her gaze stayed fixed on the giant, bloated sack. When the signal sounded and the men began to pull, the sack jerked and lurched, resisting. Two teams strained against it, muscles bulging, heels digging into the ground. They shouted and cheered the struggle.
