When I woke up groggy once more, the chamber’s familiar haze wrapped around me like a stifling shroud—afternoon light now faded to a soft, bruised amber slanting through the heavy indigo drapes embroidered with silver griffins, their wings catching faint glimmers like forgotten stars.
The air hung thick with layered scents: sharp tang of cooling healing salves—willow bark bitter as regret, mint cutting clean through fever-sweat—and the distant, muffled clamour of palace life seeping through the thick oak door.
I took a deep breath, recalling Elaine’s weird behaviour.
The servants’ hurried footsteps pattering on marble halls, a guard captain’s barked orders echoing faint, the perpetual hum of an empire that never truly slept.
My one good eye focused slow and reluctant, iris contracting against the dim glow, while the swollen black orb remained a throbbing void of sealed agony, crusted shut with healing scabs.
The vision in the other had sharpened just a fraction, herbs finally warring back the relentless blur, though colours bled hazy at the edges like watercolour left in rain.
Elaine sat on the sturdy high-backed chair dragged insistently beside my bed once more, her broad warrior frame slouched but unyielding as carved granite, blonde braid loosened in messy strands from endless vigil hours.
The stray golds framing her sharp, angular face like a frayed halo. Ice-blue eyes—piercing as glacial shards—lifted quick to meet mine, holding steady with an intensity that prickled my skin.
She hadn’t gone.
Why?
The question gnawed deep and suspicious in my chest, a barbed hook twisting slow—alphas schemed like they breathed, weaving honeyed traps from birth, and trust was a fool’s shattered luxury I’d learned too well.
There had to be a reason, some cunning thread: softening me up with feigned care, lulling my guard low before she struck with verbal claws or worse, broke me down raw like all those cold, mechanical nights where duty pinned me beneath her.
Her scent wafted subtle, once a rare comfort, now laced with suspicion’s acid.
"Do you want something, Alexander?" she asked gentle, voice that low gravel-soft rumble, leaning forward with elbows braced on her knees, armoured pauldrons creaking faint like old leather under strain.
"No," I replied curt and clipped, propping myself up slow on bandaged elbows—linen wraps stiff and itching—wincing sharp as cracked ribs ground faint protest, each shift sending fire lancing through my petite frame like hot irons probing bone.
"Is there some discomfort in your body? The ribs? Your eye?" Her gaze flicked methodical over my form, tracing the bulky bandages swaddling my chest, the swollen bruising purpling my jawline, concern etching deeper lines into her sharp features—high cheekbones tightening, full lips parting slight in worry.
"No, there is not," I lied through grit teeth, though every breath scraped raw.
"Alexander, you don’t need to hide your pain from me."
"But would you stop hovering like some overzealous nursemaid?" I snapped tired and frayed, shoving the heavy silk covers aside with trembling, bandaged hands—fingers clumsy, nails split from arena grit.
The loose healing tunic clung awkward on my petite frame, linen whispering against olive skin slick with fresh sweat, hem brushing mid-thigh and exposing lean legs marred by yellowing bruises.
I swung my legs over the bed’s edge deliberate and slow, bare feet meeting the cool, unforgiving flagstones—steady enough, pride a fierce blaze demanding I prove my fire hadn’t guttered out entirely.
She surged half-upright in an instant, large calloused hands outstretched to steady me, warrior instincts overriding. "Your Highness—careful, the floor’s cold—"
I shook my head sharp and vehement, silver hair whipping damp strands across my bruised forehead, sticking to sweat-damp skin.
"Don’t. I can stand."
It wasn’t much distance—just a few steps to reclaim some shred of autonomy—but every shift pulled at cracked ribs like threads unravelling slow, knees wobbling faint under my slight weight.
"Your Highness, do you need anything? Water? More salve?" she pressed relentless, hovering still like an inescapable shadow, her towering height making the room feel smaller, her presence a weight I couldn’t shrug.
"Yes," I said flat and unyielding, good eye narrowing sceptical at the spark of eager light flickering sudden in those ice-blue depths—like a predator scenting weakness turned to opportunity.
"What? Tell me—anything," Elaine leaned closer instinctive, blonde braid slipping forward over her armoured shoulder, voice threading with fragile hope, scarred knuckles whitening on her knees.
"I need you to decide what to call me." I fixed her with a steady, piercing stare despite the throbbing ache pulsing behind my eyes, petite shoulders squaring frail but defiant under the loose tunic’s folds.
"I don’t understand," she blinked confused genuine, warrior brows furrowing deep, head tilting like a hound puzzling a scent.
"Sometimes you call me Alexander—plain, like a man with fire in his veins. Other times ’Your Highness,’ all stiff and royal, dripping with that courtly distance you wield like a blade. What are you even thinking? Pick one and stick to it—no more games."
My voice cracked raw at the edges, throat scraping fire, but I held firm, turning deliberate toward the bathroom door arched graceful in polished ebony veined with silver.
I took two shaky steps, flagstones biting cold into my soles, before her calloused hand caught my elbow gentle—too gentle, sparking old panic like flint on steel, memories of pinned wrists flooding unbidden. "Wait—Alexander, slow—"
"What?" I yelled sharp and furious, wrenching free with a hiss of pain, chest heaving fire-hot as I glared up at her towering frame, silver hair wild, good eye blazing. "Let go."
"I will call you whatever name you want," she promised quick and fervent, hands raising placating high, ice-blue eyes wide with raw regret, broad shoulders slumping. "Alexander. Always Alexander from now on. No more titles, no more walls. I swear it."
"Yes? Good." I exhaled shaky and ragged, waving her off with a bandaged hand, stitches pulling taut. "But can I go now? Or do you plan to shadow my every piss?"
"Where are you going?" she asked insistent still, body blocking half the path instinctive, like a guard dog at the threshold.
"To the bathroom—and I need to pee!" Heat flooded my bruised cheeks vivid crimson, humiliation biting deeper than any arena bruise, the raw vulnerability of it stripping my pride bare.
"Sorry..." she muttered low and abashed, stepping back swift as if burned, blonde head ducking shamefaced, braid swaying as she averted her gaze—first time I’d seen her yield so quick.
I shook my head muttering curses under breath and shuffled into the bathroom—marble-veined basin gleaming under a silver ewer steaming fresh from unseen servants, air misty with herbal steam.
Peeing took awkward effort, weak stream splashing unsteady with bandaged hands fumbling the tunic hem up, relief washing cool and shuddering through the lower ache, though dribbles escaped to dampen the linen.
I washed quick at the basin, splashing cool water over my face—icy shock against fevered skin—avoiding the ornate mirror’s cruel promise of my ruined reflection—swollen eye, busted lips, silver hair matted wild.
Stepping back into the chamber barefoot, tunic hem clinging damp mid-thigh, Elaine’s gaze locked on me—odd, intense, ice-blue eyes flicking down my legs deliberate then snapping up guilty, her cheeks tinting faint pink.
"What happened?" I demanded wary and edged, crossing arms tight over my chest, fabric pulling at bandaged ribs, tunic hem brushing teasing mid-thigh on my lean legs.
"Well... your pants are..." she trailed hesitant and fumbling, gesturing vague at my thighs, voice dropping low, eyes darting away then back.
"Wet? Are you mocking me now?" I bristled instant, good eye flashing hot, heat rising defensive flood—spilled water from the hasty wash, nothing more, but her stare felt stripping, invasive, peeling me vulnerable all over again.
"No, no, no!" Elaine waved frantic both hands, face flushing deeper scarlet under her tan, blonde strands escaping her braid to frame her flustered face. "I know how difficult it is for you to... move right now."
"So?"
"With the bandages binding you tight, the weakness dragging every step, the pain sapping your strength. I wasn’t mocking—gods, Alexander, never that."
"It’s just water from the basin," I cut in flat and steel-hard, voice unyielding despite the exhaustion weighing my bones. "And you—please just keep your mouth shut about it. No commentary."
She nodded mute and chastened, full lips pressing thin in defeat, broad shoulders slumping heavy as silence fell thick and awkward between us like a drawn curtain. Then, softer after a beat, almost tentative.
"Alexander... do you want to eat something? Or perhaps drink some soup? The kitchens sent up venison broth just now—warm, rich, easy on that raw throat of yours, with soft bread chunks floating and fresh herbs to settle the stomach."
I hesitated long, stomach twisting vicious empty hunger against pride’s unyielding wall—body craving fuel, mind screaming trap—then nodded reluctant, silver hair falling forward to veil my conflicted gaze. "Soup. Fine."
She fetched the silver tray swift from the carved sideboard near the hearth—steaming porcelain bowl etched with star-lilies, fragrant broth bubbling gentle, crusty bread chunks bobbing amid swirling green herbs, steam curling aromatic savoury into the air.
I sank back onto the bed’s edge with a faint groan, petite frame swallowed near whole by the massive mattress’s plush give, reaching out with bandaged fingers for the horn spoon—joints stiff, grip weak.
Just as my hand extended trembling, she scooped it up first in her larger grasp, dipping full and lifting the laden spoon toward my busted lips—eyes soft, hopeful, almost pleading. "Here—let me—"
I gave her a blank, incredulous stare, good eye widening slow in disbelief, brows furrowing despite the swelling. "What are you doing?"
"Feeding you?" she said simple and earnest, spoon hovering steady inches from my mouth, broth dripping one fat pearl onto the sheets, her larger hand unwavering as if this were natural, right—alpha caring for weakened omega.
"I don’t need to be fed by you," I said coldly as winter steel, snatching the spoon from her grip with a brief fumble—hot broth sloshing wild, splashing my bandaged wrist—but firm resolve.
The first sip burned soothing down my raw, scraped throat, rich venison savoury unfolding warm on my tongue, herbs cutting the salt, easing the jagged edges of pain with each swallow.
I drank steady alone, methodical, ignoring her crestfallen gaze dropping to her lap, blonde head bowing slight in quiet rejection.
Each swallow was a small, hard-won victory over her hovering care, reclaiming scraps of self from her reluctant tenderness.
Alphas always schemed eternal, yes—but soup was just soup, warm and real. For now, in this fragile truce, it sustained.