His lips twitched. “He embellishes. The king was engaged with several opponents and didn’t see one coming at him from behind. I killed the coward before His Majesty had to bother.”
The way her lashes lifted—just a flick—told him she thought he was being modest. He wasn’t. Still, that single act, whatever its scale, had altered the course of his life. The young King Ferdinand had remembered.
From there, things shifted. Victory brought prestige, and prestige brought gold. Investments, leadership, favours. Gradually, he regained the respect they’d lost—at least in public. Whispers still came, but tucked behind fists and fans. Spoken only where they couldn’t be answered.
Still, he hadn’t forgotten the sting of those early years. Nor had Yrenna.
“My sister is of age now, and has been for some years,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I’ve prepared her dowry, everything needed for a respectable match. And still, no offers came.”
Across from him, JingYi lowered her goblet. Her voice was soft, unassuming. “You’ve worked hard to restore your family’s name. Since your father’s fall, you’ve never stopped.”
Then, her eyes found his. “And a wife who is marked and lame does not further your cause.”
The impersonal precision of her words—marked and lame—was an arrow to the heart. She had distilled his sprawling anger, his wounded pride, his political calculations into two stark, ugly truths. He hadn’t expected her to say it. Yet, he couldn’t deny it either.
She understood, more than he anticipated anyone ever could.
Her tone was level, her gaze steady, but in the firelight, he saw the slight tremor in her hand. The dignity was a shield, and it was costing her.
The sight of it shamed him. He wanted to argue, to deflect, to list the reasons his caution was justified. But the words died in his throat. To defend himself would be to attack the truth she’d just laid bare, made a mockery of her courageous candour.
So he answered with equal frankness. “I can’t afford to make choices from sentiment.” The justification sounded hollow even to his own ears. “I need a wife who strengthens my standing. One who can help me finish what I’ve started. I can’t risk a marriage that invites scorn.”
He told himself it was honesty, not cruelty. Yet, when silence stretched between them, he felt so small and cowardly, he couldn’t meet her eyes.
The rustle of fabric broke the stillness. He looked up. JingYi had risen, fingers clumsy at the ties of her nightgown. The linen slipped from her shoulder, firelight catching the pale slope of skin, the collarbone protruding sharply. Her hands trembled, but still, she tugged at the next knot.
“I know what it means,” she quavered, “if we do not consummate.”
For a heartbeat, all he could do was watch her determination, her fear. To her, this was survival: To remain in his house, she must bare herself.
The sight struck him harder than any battlefield blow. Even so, something primal stirred in him then—low, unwelcome, undeniable. Her Omega scent was subtle but present, sweet beneath the smoke and wine, brushing against instincts he’d fought to master all his life.
Nature told him to claim. Another fiercer part urged him to shield.
By the time he rose to his feet, the conflict roared through him. He caught her arms before the linen could fall further. Her pulse thudded fast under his grip. Close. Warm. The pull of her, the unmistakable tether of Omega to Alpha, coiled like smoke in his lungs.
He shook his head. “No,” he said, his voice firm, though he forced the sharpness from it.
Her lashes trembled. Confusion passed, then a flicker of shame, swift and cutting. Slowly, her hands dropped to her sides.
He released her and stepped back, putting distance he didn’t trust himself to keep otherwise.
“Rest, Princess,” he said, quieter now. “That is all I ask of you tonight.”
Her eyes held a maelstrom of emotions. He wanted to ease her, assure her, but what words could he give her when he felt like he was standing on shifting sands?
So he turned, left her in the glow of the hearth, already knowing she would take his refusal as another rejection.
Guilt pressed in, but he pushed it away. Emotions had no place in decisions of this magnitude. He had always been pragmatic, steadfast on his long road to redemption. He couldn’t afford to falter now.
She didn’t stop him.
The corridor beyond his chamber was cool and silent. His footsteps echoed softly as he made his way to his study, where no servants had bothered to light a flame. No one thought he would spend his wedding night in his study, alone. But the darkness greeted him like an old friend, and he embraced it.
He crossed to his desk and lowered himself into the leather chair. The familiar creak grounded him, as did the scent of ink and old parchment that always lingered here.
He reached for a clean sheet of paper. Uncapped his inkwell. Dipped the quill. Each line dragged like a blade across skin. This annulment request would shatter everything—sever the tenuous thread tying JingYi to Tremore and undo the union.
