Days had blurred into a tentative rhythm since the arena’s bloodied sands, my injuries healing slow but stubborn—cracked ribs knitting fragile under fresh linen wraps, the swollen black eye cracking open to bruised hazel slits, busted lips scabbing pink, vision clearing hazy but serviceable through herbal drips.
I could walk properly now without the world tilting like a storm-tossed deck, steps steady on cool flagstones despite the lingering ache gnawing my petite frame. Elaine had been... taking care of me.
Almost behaving good, her hands gentle where once they’d pinned cruel—fetching trays, adjusting pillows, even brushing sweat-damp silver strands from my forehead in the fever nights.
Her eyes softened watching me, blonde braid swaying as she moved like a shadow turned guardian.
But confusion churned constant in my gut—alphas didn’t change without schemes, and trust was a blade I’d sheathed long ago. What game now? Lull me soft, then strike?
I sat propped on the bed that afternoon, silk covers pooled up to my thighs, loose healing tunic gaping loose on my skin, bandages peeking at collar and hem.
Sunlight slanted golden through arched windows, gilding the chamber’s tapestries of star-lily fields and coiled griffins.
Elaine knelt close by the bed’s edge, her broad frame folded uncharacteristically humble, calloused fingers deftly gathering my wild silver hair—shoulder-length waves tangled from restless sleep—twisting it gentle into a neat bun, securing with a bone pin carved lotus-shaped.
"Why are you so attentive to me like this?" I asked blunt, good eye narrowing sceptical as her thumbs brushed my nape feather-light, sending unwanted shivers down my spine.
Her scent enveloped close, warmer now without the cold rut-edge.
"You’re my wife," she replied simple, voice that low gravel rumble softened at edges, ice-blue eyes lifting to hold mine steady, blonde braid slipping forward over her armoured shoulder like a golden rope.
I snorted soft, disbelieving, silver lashes hooding my gaze as I shifted under the covers, thighs pressing together against the tunic’s short hem.
"We’re a nominal couple at best—political chains, not heart. And I know you’d just hurt me again if you got the chance, like before."
"No, I won’t," she denied firm, hands pausing mid-twist, scarred knuckles flexing faint as regret flickered across her sharp features—high cheekbones tightening, full lips parting on a held breath. "Not ever again, Alexander. I’ve sworn it to myself a hundred times over your sickbed."
I gave her a long, searching look—olive eyes piercing through her sincerity mask—then turned away to the carved bedpost, a snarling griffin glaring back. "Can you just give me something to eat? Stomach’s gnawing itself."
"Yes, of course." She rose swift, boots thudding soft on rugs, striding to the sideboard laden with silver trays from the kitchens.
She returned with a wooden platter—fresh rye bread steaming warm, sliced venison glazed honey-sweet, ripe cheese veined blue, a cluster of star-lilies for garnish, and a goblet of spiced apple cider fizzing faint.
"Thank you."
"Here—easy on the ribs, nourishing. The cooks added extra marrow for strength."
I took the platter onto my lap, petite hands steady now, tearing into the bread first—crust crunching crisp, innards soft and yeasty—then spearing venison, juices bursting rich on my tongue. She watched rapt, broad shoulders tense like a hawk eyeing prey’s first flight.
"Is it good?" Elaine asked tentative after a beat, leaning elbows on the bed’s edge, blonde strands escaping her braid to frame her anxious face.
"Yes, it’s good," I admitted around a mouthful, cheese melting creamy sharp against the meat’s savour, cider washing it cool and tart. Simple praise, but her face lit subtle relief.
Elaine sighed deep, chest falling under half-plate like shedding a stone weight. "Thank god. Should I tie your hair back again? Keep it from the food?"
I gave her a small, sidelong look—wary but not snapping—silver bun loosening already from my chewing. "Tie it in a bun. Tight this time."
"Understood." Her large hands moved reverent, gathering the silver strands again—fingers threading gentle through knots, combing with carved bone tines from her belt pouch, twisting into a high bun secure as a crown, pin sliding home with a soft click.
Her breath ghosted my ear, warm and steady, calluses grazing my scalp in feather brushes that prickled traitorous.
"Good?" she murmured close, inspecting her work with tilted head, ice-blue eyes tracing the elegant curve of my neck now bared.
"Yes," I said curt, tugging a loose strand test—firm hold. Her attentiveness itched unfamiliar, like wearing ill-fitted armour.
"I wanted to ask you something," she ventured hesitant, settling back on her heels, hands clasping scarred over one knee.
"Go on," I prompted around another bite of bread, goblet midway to lips, good eye flicking curious despite walls.
"What if your plan backfired out there? In the arena?" Her voice dropped gravel-low, jaw tightening fraction as old shadows crossed her angular face.
"You mean what if she rutted me? Jennife’s alpha pull snapping my control?" I clarified blunt, fork pausing, memories flashing—desperate kiss gambit, her fangs grazing my throat mid-duel.
"Yes..." Elaine breathed, ice-blue gaze darkening storm-sudden, broad shoulders hunching like bracing for blow.
"Well, I would have accepted my fate," I replied steady, spearing cheese casual. "Lost fair, claimed as prize. Better broken quick than chained slow."
Her face darkened full thunder—cheeks flushing mottled red under tan, lips thinning white, eyes flashing primal fury edged with something rawer, possessive. Is she angry? Jealous ghost?
"You could have let me fight in your place—as your husband, your shield. I’d have torn her throat out for daring touch what’s—"
"I want to fight my own fights," I cut in firm, setting platter aside half-eaten, petite frame straightening proud under her stare. "No hiding behind alpha bulk. My honour, my blood—not yours to spill."
"Yes... I..." she faltered, blonde head bowing brief, hands unclenching slow. "I know that now. Your fire’s no candle to snuff."
"Elaine, I can take care of myself," I pressed, voice steel despite healing frailty, silver bun gleaming in the light.
"Yes, I know," she echoed quiet, regret heavy as chains, eyes lifting pained.
"Great. Then we don’t have anything else to talk about." I waved dismissive, though tension hummed thick between us.
"But..." she started, leaning forward urgent, braid swaying.
"Can you make me change my clothes?" I interrupted sudden, cheeks heating faint—tunic sweat-damp and loose, skin itching under old bandages ready to swap. "The fresh ones on the chair. Please."
She blinked surprise, then nodded swift, fetching the folded stack—clean linen trousers loose for ease, soft blue tunic embroidered silver star-lilies at hems, fresh wraps smelling cedar-clean. "Of course. Sit steady—I’ll be gentle."
Her hands worked careful, turning away first as I shrugged off the old tunic under covers for modesty, then helping thread arms into the new sleeves—calluses grazing my skin electric but restrained.
She knelt to ease trousers up my legs, thumbs steadying ankles, eyes averted respectful as fabric whispered smooth. Bandages renewed firm but not crushing, her touch lingering a beat too long on my waist before pulling back flushed.
"Better?" she asked low, stepping away, armour glinting.
"Yes," I murmured, settling into clean comfort, confusion swirling deeper amid the unexpected care.