“How little we know of people who are supposed to be our family,” he said.
She looked at him, dark eyes shining with understanding and shared pain. A draft from the door lifted a lock of hair across her cheek. She didn’t move to brush it aside, and Alexander’s gaze caught on it—on the urge to tuck it back, to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips.
“No matter why ShunLi did it, he still pulled me out of something vile. And I had nothing to give him in thanks. The most precious thing I had was a single peach, plucked from an old tree in the garden.”
She laughed, finally tucking that lock behind her ear. “I’d been waiting days for it to ripen, but I left it on his porch instead. Pitiful, really. His banquet table at mealtimes stretched the length of the hall, heavy with delicacies. What was one peach to a crown prince?”
Alexander’s throat tightened. To her, it had been nothing more than a meagre offering, an embarrassment beside all the finery of her brother’s world. But he saw it for what it was: the gift of a girl who had nothing, offering the only thing she’d saved for herself. A lowly peach meant to be her great joy, surrendered without expectation.
And it struck him again how much she had endured without comfort—the rape attempt, the theft accusation, the cruel breaking of her leg left untreated. The brand. The whippings. All those wounds, each inflicted by the people who were meant to raise her, protect her, cherish her. And through it all, she gave up the peach, because she believed in a single act of thanks.
It hollowed him.
What kind of world asks that of a child? What kind of man would he be to demand anything more from her now?
As she considered her next move, Alexander stared at the scattered tiles. JingYi’s tile clicked as she claimed one of his. For a moment, there was only silence.
Her fingers hovered, then she asked, softly, “Did you change your mind about sending the annulment request because you felt . . . sorry for me?”
The question was a blow to his gut. He hated it—hated the answer that sat behind his teeth. But lying, when she deserved truth, would be so much worse.
“Yes,” he said finally, voice low. “I pitied you.”
She was so still he thought she hadn’t heard him. He forced himself to continue before the silence could harden.
“Not because you were weak. I pitied what they’d do to you if I sent you back. I’d already suspected it.” His jaw clenched. “Now I know it beyond doubt. They would’ve broken you until there was nothing left to save.”
The words tasted like grit in his mouth. He couldn’t look at her, not at first. Instead, he stared at the scattered tiles, at the polished pieces that felt suddenly obscene in their neatness.
When at last he dared meet her eyes, he let the rest fall unguarded, “So yes, I pitied you. But I also admired you. And I feared for you. And I—” He cut himself off, the final words lodged like a pebble in his throat.
Across from him, her hand closed over the captured tile. Neither victory nor defeat. Just a move neither of them could take back.
He hadn’t meant to say so much.
He hadn’t meant to say so little.
But for better or for worse, the words were out now. And still, he’d stopped short of the one that mattered most.
The five days passed in a kind of quiet suspension. They didn’t speak of the game again, nor of what had been said—or almost said—between them. But something had changed. She no longer stiffened when he drew near, nor did she look away. He, in turn, found the silence between them less like a wall and more a space where they simply . . . shared. They sat face to face at meals. Took fresh air on the deck. Played once more, without wagers this time.
On the seventh day, Niewberg’s harbour came into view beneath a pale morning sky. Alexander gripped the rail as the hull slid into the berth, eyes sweeping the pier. Two figures waited at the quay’s end: Conrad, straight-backed and sharp despite the sea mist; Tedric, easy against a piling, loose-limbed and sure.
The gangplank thudded down. Alexander offered his hand to JingYi, steadying her as she descended. Her fingers were light in his, the warmth of that contact lingering after they stepped onto the pier.
“Conrad, Tedric,” she greeted warmly as they approached. Relief softened her face in a way Alexander hadn’t seen in a whole week.
“It’s good to see you safe, Princess,” Conrad said, with his usual smile in place, though his eyes catalogued every sign that she was whole. “Blackwood-Veyrde was a desolate place without our lady.”
Tedric’s bow was elegant enough for a ballroom. “Highness, you’re certainly a sight for sore eyes.”
Her answering smile eased Alexander’s shoulders until Tedric straightened and stepped forward, his expression turning sober.
“My lord.” His voice lowered. “The court is in uproar. Princess Adelise vanished yesterday during her morning ride. The king’s men already scoured the route she favoured, the surrounding fields, the woods. There’s no sign of her.”
Alexander stilled. The din of the pier faded into a distant hum beneath the sudden rush of his own pulse. The thought slammed into him: a noble-born Omega, taken. Was this yet another move on the mysterious board linking Omegas to purple limyerite?
Had Kaelen been right? Someone was hunting Omegas systematically.
