Page 17 of Alpha's Exiled Mate
“No one,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from my hold. “I thought… you might be hungry.”
Her gaze dropped, long lashes casting soft shadows on her cheeks. “I know you don’t want me near you, but…” Her voice faded to a murmur. “I just wanted to help.”
I stared at her, searching for deception. Decades in the palace had sharpened my senses to lies and hidden agendas, but her eyes held only a disarming sincerity. It was unsettling. The proud, haughty Viossi Thornfield, daughter of a noble house, caring about my meals? Risking her safety to bring soup to a man rumored to devour his wives? At our first meeting, she’d trembled like a leaf in a storm. Now, she dared to meet my gaze.
My hand fell away, and I stepped back, studying her anew. She didn’t wail or cower at my roughness. Instead, she knelt, gathering the broken shards of the bowl with practiced ease, as if cleaning up messes was second nature.
How could a spoiled noble lady show no hesitation in picking up broken pieces from the floor? She seemed to take this action for granted.
“No need,” I ordered. “The servants will handle it. Go back to your quarters.”
She paused, looking up at me, her eyes flickering with hesitation but also a stubborn resolve. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I’ll make sure to ask permission next time.”
Next time? She thought there’d be a next time?
“There won’t be a next time,” I said coldly. “My study is off-limits. If you want to fulfill your role, wait for the full moon.”
Her body stiffened, the light in her eyes dimming like a snuffed candle. For a moment, I thought she might argue, but she only nodded, murmuring, “Yes, Your Highness,” before turning to leave. The red marks of my fingers lingered on her throat, stark against her pale skin.
My wolf whined, a low, anguished sound, heavy with guilt.
Wait. Guilt? She was a tool, a vessel to break my curse. Why should I feel anything for her?
I glanced at the mess on the floor—the shattered bowl, the soup’s faint aroma of herbs and honey. It was a simple dish, carefully prepared, not the lavish fare of a noble’s kitchen. Her hands, I noticed, bore faint calluses, unlike the soft, delicate hands expected of a high-born lady.
Another inconsistency.
Was this woman truly Viossi Thornfield?
I summoned a guard, my voice sharp. “Clean this up. And tell me—who let her into my study? Who told her where I was?”
The young guard trembled. “Your Highness, she… she said she was your wife. She asked where you were, looking worried. We thought—”
“From now on, tighten security around my study,” I snapped. “No one enters without my permission—especially my new wife. And I want a report on her every move.”
Why was I so wary of her? Why did I care? This wasn’t like me. I shook my head, trying to refocus on the reports, to banish the memory of her tear-filled eyes, the faint floral scent clinging to her, the trembling touch of her fingers against my wrist.
It was harder than I expected.
Over the next few days, no matter how deeply I buried myself in work, her image haunted me. Those defiant, tear-streaked eyes when I’d pinned her to the wall. Her solitary figure retreating down the corridor. The glimpse of her wandering the gardens, her movements soft and deliberate, like she belonged among the flowers. It was maddening. I was the heir, the future king. My focus should be on fortifying the borders, countering Jackson’s schemes, easing my father’s burdens—not on a woman I was meant to see only once a month.
Yet, the more I tried to push her from my mind, the sharper her presence became. This wasn’t normal. My previous wives, even Sophia, had never lingered in my thoughts like this. I could compartmentalize them, keep them at a distance.
Why was this woman different?
By the third day, I couldn’t stand the distraction any longer. I needed answers. I summoned Sam, my most trusted captain, and ordered a detailed report on my new wife.
“Your Highness,” Sam said, bowing, “the princess spends most of her time in her quarters.”
“How does she interact with the maids?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral, as if my interest was purely practical.
Sam hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “She’s… remarkably kind, Your Highness. She once helped an elderly maid make a bed when the woman couldn’t bend due to back pain. The maids say they’ve never met a noblewoman so approachable.”
My brow furrowed. That didn’t sound like the arrogant Viossi I’d met at court, the one who’d boasted of her accomplishments with a smug smile.
“Any particular habits or skills?” I pressed.
“She spends a lot of time in the east garden,” Sam replied. “Every morning, she walks there, and the gardeners have seen her tending to medicinal herbs with her own hands. Oddly, though, she shows no interest in books. The maids bring her poetry and novels, but she only accepts them politely and never reads them.”