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Since I’ve managed to say nothing, Noemi clears her throat and drops her gaze to the floor once more, voice softening. “I asked them to keep the food in the kitchens, to keep it warm. Since I’m sure you were busy with important business. I’ll ring for them now to bring it back.”

“Noemi…” I am an Alpha king. I do not owe her an explanation.

You do not owe her an explanation.

It’s my father’s voice in my ear.

“Noemi.” Other courtships might be like this, but ours won’t be. I turn and walk to her, sitting in one of the chairs nearer to her, rather than across the table. I scrubbed in the shower this morning, but I know I still smell like Mylah, with the way Noemi’s delicate nose wrinkles at my nearness. “I’m sorry.”

Her head snaps up, eyes finding mine, widening.

Has anyone ever apologized to her before?

Reaching out, I place my hand near to her on the table, stare at the empty, shining porcelain of her plate. “I am sorry. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

My heart pounds so loudly I can barely hear my own voice over the sound of it. The adrenaline of making a choice like this. Noemi was hand-selected by my father. A politically advantageous pairing.

It doesn’t matter that we’re not in love.

It was never mattered. Noemi is as perfectly aware as I am that this is not about our romantic or physical attraction. It’s business.

Yet. I can’t do it. It is hurtful to her, in some way, that I would be with another omega. Mylah is still sleeping upstairs. Waiting for me.

And I will go back to her.

Swallowing, I go on. “It was never my intention to hurt you, but you should know that I am bon—”

The door opens, interrupting me. The servants are surprised to find me beside Noemi, rather than at the other end of the table, but they adjust quickly, bringing our food to us and leaving.

Noemi’s jaw shifts, and she stares down at her plate. I can see it on her face—she knows that the scent on me is from my fated mate. She knows that I’m about to end this false courtship.

“Thank you,” Noemi blurts, before I can finish what I was saying. She pushes back from the table, the chair scraping against the ground, so loud and ungraceful. Not like Noemi at all. “For making time for me. Augustus, I know you are a busy man.” She tucks her shimmering copper hair behind her ears. “The king—that you are here at all, just to dine with me…it gives me faith in our courtship. Sir. But I—I must go.”

The “sir” stings. We’ve never been so formal.

“Noemi—”

But she has already turned and started to walk quickly from the dining room, her fine slippers scuffing against the marble floor. And right now, I don’t have it in me to compel her back. To force her to sit through my rejection.

She will be back for the next of our “courtship” activities. And I will tell her then that it’s over. That I can’t go through with the marriage. Maybe then, with some time to think about it, it won’t hit her quite so hard.

Chapter 25 - Mylah

I’ve never been much of an athlete.

But from reading memoirs and fiction, I understand the kind of soreness that athletes experience when they train hard. Waking up with stiff, aching limbs. In a science book, I once read that training muscles is all about introducing micro-tears, tiny stressors on the muscle. Being sore indicates that your body is going to fill that space, which makes you stronger.

For the first time in my life, I wake up with soreness like that.

Tender, painful, but worth it. A sign of something good.

In Augustus’s bed, I sit up, the sheets falling down and exposing my naked chest. The room is just as it was before, as it has been for the past three days together. Now, sunlight filters in through the curtains, which are still shut but sheer enough that light can come through.

Outside the windows, I can hear the whistling wind. Though I can’t see it through the curtains, I can imagine the snow drifting sideways, piling up higher and higher. At this time of year, the farmhouse was always getting snowed in, at least until my father could go out and clear a path.

The weather in this building is different than at home. Here, I feel truly separate from the wind and snow and cold. At home, it was like holding up a blanket to the blizzard—I could still feel it through the cracks in the wood, in the foundation.

Augustus’s room is practically muted from the storm, the stone walls thick enough to muffle everything outside.