Page 18 of Alpha's Exiled Mate
A noblewoman who didn’t read? That was unheard of. At the court banquet, Viossi had bragged about mastering five languages and devouring literature. Even though I was standing far away and not present in their midst, I could still detect the pride in her words.
A wild thought struck me—what if she can’t read?
No, that was absurd.
Later that day, my father summoned me to the council chamber. The old king’s health was failing, his frame frail, but his grip on power remained ironclad, especially over themilitary. It made my position precarious—balancing Jackson’s covert threats while treading carefully around my father’s fragile pride.
“The border situation is dire,” my father’s weakened but commanding voice echoed in the hall. “Jackson reports a growing number of rogue werewolves massing, posing a threat to our lands.”
I knew it was likely a pretext, a way for Jackson to tighten his control over the border forces. Challenging my father directly, though, would be unwise.
“I’ve sent Orin with an elite unit to investigate,” I said calmly. “If there’s a real threat, we’ll address it swiftly. I also recommend bolstering the capital’s defenses to prevent any opportunists from stirring chaos.”
My father’s sharp gaze met mine. “Are you suggesting Jackson has ulterior motives?”
“I’m considering all possibilities, as my duty requires,” I replied carefully.
He studied me for a moment, then nodded slightly. “Your instincts are sound. Jackson isn’t as loyal as he seems. I’ve known for years he harbors ambitions, but as my brother’s son, we must handle him delicately for now.” He paused, then added, “You’re doing well.”
The faint curve of his lips and the rare warmth in his voice caught me off guard. My father had always treated me with cold detachment, as if I were merely a tool for the crown, molded by his relentless expectations. “It’s what an heir must endure,” he’d say. So, when he offered this fleeting approval, I felt a strange unease, like ants crawling under my skin. I didn’t know how to respond.
An awkward silence settled over the chamber.
My father shifted topics abruptly. “How is your new wife? Is she healthy?”
The question startled me. He never inquired about my personal life unless it served a purpose.
“She’s in good health,” I said curtly. “It’s too early to know if she’ll conceive.”
His brow creased with displeasure. “Time is short, Perock.”
The warmth vanished, replaced by his usual stern mask.
“I’ll handle it,” I said, suppressing the irritation in my voice. No matter what I did, it was never enough.
“Good,” he said, nodding. “Ensure she receives the best care. If needed, have the court healer prescribe tonics to aid conception.”
I left the council chamber, my mind a tangle of frustration and unresolved questions. Instead of returning to my study, I wandered the palace corridors, trying to clear my head.
My steps slowed as I realized I’d stopped outside the corridor leading to her quarters.
Through the door, I could almost sense her presence, as if some invisible thread connected us. The feeling was ridiculous, and I turned to leave—only to nearly collide with an elderly maid emerging from her room.
“Your Highness!” she gasped, bowing hastily, her eyes wide with nervousness.
“What’s the princess doing?” I asked, my voice lower than intended.
The maid hesitated. “She’s… in the kitchen, Your Highness.”
I raised an eyebrow. “The kitchen?”
“She’s been concerned about your meals,” the maid added quickly, her voice trembling.
The image of that spilled soup flashed in my mind—the simple, fragrant dish, laced with honey and herbs. Sweet, but…
Too much like a trap.
Viossi Thornfield, in a kitchen?