“Alexander, I?—”
Her voice was a frayed thread of sound, but he must’ve heard the finality in it. His arms tightened around her, a visceral, gentle refusal. A plea against the tide.
“No, JingYi,” he whispered into her chest, the words a vibration against her heart. “Don’t say anything yet. Please. Just . . . not yet.”
JingYi froze. He knew. He might not know the specific words, but she knew he felt the shape forming between them. And he was desperately stacking sand against an inevitable wave.
Those unsaid words hung in the air, a ghost between their bodies. After a lifetime of silence, the one truth she needed to speak was the one he begged her to withhold. Still, she nodded, a minute movement against his hair. A promise to grant them both these last moments of ignorance, this temporary sanctuary.
For a long moment, they simply held each other. No vows. No promises. Only the warmth of one heartbeat against another in this blue-dark room. Her breath steadied, finding its calm. His fingers, too, loosened.
But they didn’t let go.
Night fell over the room, brushing everything in shadows and hush. JingYi slipped beneath the covers, muscles aching. She eased onto her side, careful not to strain her limbs.
Without looking at him, she shifted toward the edge of the bed and made room for him.
Alexander said nothing, but the mattress dipped behind her not long after, accompanied by the soft creak of weight, the familiar rhythm of his breath as he lay down beside her. For a moment, they both stilled, not touching.
Then, his arm wrapped around her, his chest a warm furnace on her back. The feel of him against her loosened the stiffness she’d carried for days. She melted into him and let herself be held.
And it was in that darkness, with his breath warm against her hair, when she found the words.
“I’m not with child,” she managed. “My flow came . . . in the cell.”
He didn’t react at first, though she felt his breath stop. She waited, her heart thudding in her chest, until his arm tightened around her, just once—a swift compression of grief—before his hold gentled again into a shelter. He said nothing; he didn’t need to. The press of his lips against the crown of her head was an acknowledgment, a shared moment of sorrow for the possibility they had lost.
They didn’t speak again. Later, she woke in the dark to him touching her shoulder, asking her name to check if she was still lucid. She answered, and he nodded. Every two turns of the clock, he checked on her.
By dawn, neither of them had moved much. They still hadn’t let go.
And when morning light spilled through the curtains—glorious and golden, softened by the copper-tinged leaves outside—it felt almost like a benediction. The kind of light that dispelled shadows and made it easier to believe in new beginnings, however temporary.
The horrors of yesterday—the cave, the blood, the court gathering—hadn’t disappeared. But they had receded for JingYi, just enough, under the hush of morning.
And she, to her surprise, felt . . . clearer. She wasn’t whole, and she was by no means healed, but she feltpresent. A little more herself. As if the night had rubbed a salve into all therawest parts of her, and now her ribcages could expand while she breathed instead of constricting around her lungs.
“I want to check on the Omegas,” JingYi said after breakfast. “And Sir Darion. Haorán. Conrad.”
Alexander’s mouth tugged to one side. “I thought you might.”
They rose together from the table. And somehow, without speaking, they both slipped into the rhythm they’d known before—two people preparing for the day ahead.
They walked in silence along the corridor, footsteps echoing off stone. Up ahead, a guard passed them in the opposite direction—medium height, light brown hair with a copper cast at the ends. His stride was smooth, graceful in a way that was too familiar.
It wasn’thim. But for a breath, JingYi’s mind went into panic.
She glanced at Alexander. He’d flinched—barely, but she caught it. He’d seen the resemblance too. The echo. JingYi looked ahead again, her chest squeezing.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, “that Tedric betrayed your trust.”
For a moment, Alexander said nothing. “I did trust him. Trusted his loyalty. His smile. That’s hard to swallow.”
They rounded the corner where the air grew warmer, proof that a hearth was ablaze somewhere, touched with the sharp scent of salves and dried herbs from the infirmary ahead.
He continued, quieter now, “He was the kind of man you wanted to believe in. Even if something in your gut whispered otherwise. And I—” He gave a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I ignored the whisper. Didn’t believe Conrad’s instinct. That’s on me.”
JingYi glanced up at him, but he didn’t meet her gaze. His eyes stayed forward, sharp as always—but the light had dimmed a little.
