It would ruin her.That thought stilled him.
He tried to justify it. She deserved someone who truly wanted her, who would cherish her. House Wulfbane couldn’t weather another scandal. Dutymustcome first.
He melted the wax. His hand paused at the tilt. The wax beaded and hovered. A molten drop hissed against the mahogany desk, hardening into an uneven blotch.
Alexander stared at it.
The parchment lay before him, the letter already written, the ink curling across the page—a betrayal already. His seal was the only thing missing. One press of his sigil on the soft wax, and it would be done.
Clean. Lawful. Irrevocable.
His heart pounded, his hand shook. He told himself it was fatigue, but the truth was heavier.
Honour seemed a cruel price to pay if it cost JingYi her own. Her father’s wrath would be merciless. Her court would shred what was left of her to ribbons.
The same way his court had shredded him.
With slow, deliberate moves, he folded the parchment. Once. Twice. Then, opening his desk drawer, he placed it inside and shut it with a soft, resolute click.
He leaned back and stared at the unlit hearth until the sun rose on a new day.
CHAPTER 19
JINGYI
Athin blade of morning light cut through the windowpane and found her eyelids. She stirred, awareness returning in a cascade of discomfort: the parched bitterness of her mouth; the stiff protest of her neck; the deep, familiar ache along her spine from a night spent curled in a chair. For one dizzying heartbeat, she didn’t know where she was, only that she was cold and sore.
Then, the memory descended, and her eyes flew open. She pushed herself upright, the movement too sharp, sending a jolt of pain through her stiffened joints. She ignored it, gaze flying to the bed.
Empty. Furs undisturbed. The pillows plump and untouched. The Nest in the corner, with its silent, soaring ravens, also lay pristine.
Her husband had not returned.
A confusing tide of feelings washed over her. She should’ve felt relief. She’d dreaded the wedding night—the awkwardness, the surrender. But the cold, empty bed didn’t feel like an escape anymore, but a verdict. By midday, perhaps sooner, Parandor would hum with whispers: Lord Wulfbane and his bride hadn’t shared a bed.
She left the chair and returned to her own borrowed chamber to wash and dress. Her fingers trembled as she fastened a simple gown, the laces slipping against her skin. Yet another memory surfaced, and her hands paused at her hips.
Shame burned up her neck. She remembered the nightgown slipping from her shoulder, the ties slithering through her numb fingers, her own voice whispering that she understood what was required. She had stood there, trembling, offering herself to her husband. And he—calm, unreadable—had stopped her with a single word.
He hadn’t looked at her with hatred, not even anger. What she’d seen in his eyes had been worse.
Disappointment. Revulsion.
She wanted to cover her face with her hands, but what good would it do?
The portrait had lied to him. Her father had sanctioned it, just as he’d sanctioned giving her away instead of LinXin. Her sister had been too precious to give away to a disgraced lord, yet the bride price had been too valuable to lose. She almost laughed. Almost wept. How perfectly cunning, perfectly cruel: to destroy not just one life, but two.
Yet, perfectly predictable.
A soft knock at the door startled her. She cleared her throat. “Come in.”
The door eased open. Aliz slipped inside with a tray in her hands.
“Good morning, Princess,” she said, dipping into a curtsy, her voice warm. “We thought you might be hungry. The kitchen sent breakfast and tea, still hot.”
JingYi’s shoulders eased. “Thank you, Aliz,” she murmured, grateful not just for the food but for the kindness in her tone.
Aliz set the tray by the hearth, steam curling into the air. She lingered for a moment, glancing up—hesitant, but with a sparkof sincerity. “It was a long day yesterday. I hope you were able to rest a little.”
