The suggestion sent a prickle of old anger down Alexander’s spine. That suite, with its dark memories, was the last place he wanted to inhabit.
He set his goblet down. “No.”
Yrenna sighed, flaxen brows knitting together. “You cannot avoid it forever.”
“I can, and I will.”
She set her cutlery down, eyes—that same shade of blue as his—searched his face. “It’s been twenty-two years since his death, Alexander. You are the Lord of Blackwood-Veyrde now. It’s your right, and your future bride’s, to take their rooms.”
Their rooms.The very words were a lockbox of grief. He remembered the oppressive silence that had settled there—the slow suffocation of his mother’s spirit as she grew increasingly ill, another casualty of his father’s mistakes. To take over that space would be akin to inheriting a curse.
“Father lingers in every poor decision I must now correct.” His jaw clenched, looking back at her. “I’ll not live in his shadows any more than necessary.”
Yrenna sighed, shaking her head. “Then, what? You expect the princess to nest in your room?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
She scowled. “You expect her to pick a corner and lie down in the dust? She’s not a barn cat! She’s leaving her home and loved ones to live here. You need to provide a warm, comfortable, and welcoming space for her. I hear Nests are extremely important to Omegas.”
Alexander stabbed a piece of venison with his knife and answered with as much patience as he could muster, “Iknowthey are.”
But his hands paused. A Nest was primal safety for an Omega, but his rooms looked more like a soldier’s barracks than a place of comfort. The mismatch sent a jolt of panic through him—he’d have to remakeeverything.
“There has to be something we can do,” Yrenna insisted.
Before a word could leave his lips, the great doors swept open. A hush fell over the hall, rolling from the entrance inward, as Lord Bertrand Fortier entered.
A man of the land in his prime, his bearing was one of easy, ingrained polish—the unconscious grace of someone who moved through gilded halls as readily as crossing his own fields. His cloak of fine heavy wool swayed with every stride, the luxurious fox fur at its collar catching the torchlight.
Alexander’s fingers curled around his knife.
Bertrand spread his arms, face breaking into a grin.
“Alexander.” His voice was warm, almost fatherly. The sort of warmth that beckoned even as it set Alexander’s instincts on edge, pulling him between courtesy and recoil. “I heard the news from court and came at once to offer my congratulations. A match with an imperial princess . . . How I wish your father could see you now. How proud he would’ve been.”
With a force, Alexander released the knife and stood. “Lord Fortier. Excuse us. We weren’t expecting a guest tonight.”
There had been a time when Bertrand required no invitation, when his place in Parandor’s halls was as certain as family. He’d been Teodor Wulfbane’s closest ally and friend, his partner in overseeing the Crown’s mines, a man Alexander and Yrenna once called ‘Uncle.’
But after Teodor’s fall, the old king had handed those mines—their primary source of income—into Bertrand’s keeping. Authority once theirs was now his, and Alexander was still learning how to accept that arrangement without letting it bend his spine.
“I do hope you’ll forgive the intrusion,” Bertrand continued, his indulgent tone suggesting he knew he’d be excused, if not forgiven. His gaze, then, drifted past Alexander to where Yrenna stood. “I was just telling your sister this afternoon, she grows more like your mother every day. The same grace, the same beauty. I predict days of beating away suitors with a stick in the near future.”
He chuckled at his own joke, even when it was a velvet-wrapped blade. Bertrand knew, as everyone did, that Yrenna had received no offers. Not a single suitor for the daughter of a traitor—her grace and beauty be damned.
“A shame my mother cannot hear you say so,” Alexander said.
“Please sit, my lord,” Yrenna murmured, gesturing at an empty chair beside Alexander’s. She poured wine for their uninvited guest, a picture of an accommodating hostess, but he saw the tension in her mouth as she called a maid to serve some food.
Bertrand accepted the goblet and sat, his attention finally away from Yrenna. The tension in Alexander’s chest eased.
“This marriage is a monumental task for any man, let alone one bearing the weight you do. How do you plan to prepare Parandor? It is a strong fortress, but times have certainly changed.” He gestured around the hall, the corners of his lips turned down. “I imagine a princess accustomed to imperial luxury will find Parandor’s . . .austerityquite the contrast to the gold and jade of her palace.”
At the closest trestle table, Darion set down his fork a little too hard. Alexander caught a flicker of auburn at the edge of his vision—Tedric leaning in to pull Darion back.
Calmly, Alexander said, “Parandor may not offer the luxuries of her ancient and palatial home, but it will be a lump of clay for my wife to shape as she wills.”
Bertrand inclined his head. “I have no doubt she will rise to the challenge.”
