Her humility stung. They’d taught her to degrade herself, yet her skill only showed him everythinghelacked.
“You’re better at this than I am,” he admitted.
She glanced at him sidelong. “At what?”
“At being what they need.” The words sounded cowardly, but they were the truth.
She didn’t speak for a moment. Then, softly: “You’re not failing them, my lord. Not if you still care.”
His eyes trained on the path. “Daan is thirteen. He’s badly ill in a cottage a stone’s throw from my hall, and I didn’t know until today.”
“You’re here now. That counts.”
“Not enough.”
Not when he had spent years trying to claw House Wulfbane back from ruin, only to find rot under his watch. Not when a foreign bride—unwanted, unasked for—had seen what he hadn’t.
He should’ve seen it.
He should’ve seenher.
Duskwane waited at the lane’s end, black coat glistening with dew, ears flicking as they approached. Alexander untied the reins, the stallion snorting as if sensing the tension. His hands steadied her waist as he lifted her into the saddle. He mounted behind her, adjusting their balance with one brief touch on her waist while she sat straight, careful not to lean into him.
They rode in silence, the path narrowing where the forest pressed close. Some of the mist returned, dampening the air, carrying the decaying musk of fallen leaves. Alexander let Duskwane pick the pace, his thoughts still knotted around the boy.
Then he heard a growl—an unmistakable sound—and felt the vibration against his arms.
Her stomach.
JingYi stiffened, hands gripping the saddle as if she might silence the noise by sheer will. Her head dipped, just slightly.
“I—” she began, low. “Forgive me?—”
“You’ve hardly eaten since you came to Tremore,” he said, cutting her apology short.
She’d barely touched her plate during each mealtime. Modest portions, always moving food around more than consuming it. A restless protectiveness stirred in him, sharp as the bite of the morning air. No one should go hungry. Not in his keep. Not under his name.
They could hurry back to the castle, where the kitchen could feed her. Or he could do it himself, here, and steal another private moment with her.
He pulled Duskwane off the trail and guided the horse toward a clearing. “We’ll stop here.”
Before she could protest, he swung down, steadying her by the waist as he helped her dismount. Without another word, he gathered fallen branches, striking flint until a fire kindled in the hollow of a ring of stones. The moment the first flames caught, he slipped into the trees.
He moved quickly, sure-footed over familiar ground. It didn’t take long before a rabbit crossed his path. With a snap of his wrist, his knife made a clean kill. By the time he returned, he had more than that: a pouch of chestnuts knocked from the base of a tree, a couple of turnips unearthed from damp soil. Autumn’s gifts, enough for a meal.
He saw she hadn’t been idle either. A small bundle of blackthorn berries rested in her palms, gathered from a bramble patch near the path.
She held them out. “These should be sweet this time of year.”
He took them with a nod.
Together, they worked without speaking. He skinned the animal, setting aside the pelt. She rinsed the roots in a nearbystream. Chestnuts went into the embers, scored and split. The rabbit, spitted and set across the fire, began to hiss and drip. Its smoky and rich scent filled the clearing with warmth that felt like reprieve.
He carved the meat and offered her a tender leg. She hesitated only a moment before taking it. Under his watch, she ate—not like a lady preserving an image, but like someone famished. He couldn’t look away. Firelight traced the dark sheen of her hair, the curve of her cheek. A soft sound escaped her, something close to a sigh, and though it wasn’t meant for him, his chest pulled taut.
She paused once and caught him staring. A faint line drew between her brows. He cleared his throat and turned his knife on the next slice of meat.
A companionable silence settled between them. He found himself noting the way she held the meat, the careful efficiency of her movements. He felt a low thrum in his chest—warm, unexpected. It wasn’t the sharp possessiveness of an Alpha, but something quieter.
