Page 20 of Alpha's Exiled Mate
For someone facing death, intimacy only meant pain, and I finally understood why he was so cold.
The prince was cursed at birth to die before thirty.
The brutal deadline echoed in my mind, tightening my throat like an invisible noose. How could anyone hold onto sanity with their life so cruelly measured? Did he wake each morning tallying his remaining days? Did he lie awake in the dead of night, trembling under the weight of his fate, alone?
Now that I knew, I couldn’t turn away. I had to help him break this curse—not just because I was forced into this marriage, not just because he was my fated mate, but because no one should bear such an unjust burden. When I thought of his icy stare, I saw only a soul forced to seal itself off, too afraid to hope.
“Susie,” I said, my voice rough with emotion, “when is Prince Perock’s birthday?”
Her face froze, as if I’d touched a forbidden wound. “His Highness doesn’t celebrate his birthday. After the queen died in childbirth, the king banned any festivities tied to that day.”
Her words cut deep, a slow, aching slice through my heart. I fought the tears welling in my eyes. A child blamed for his own existence, robbed of the joy of celebrating life, forced to carry a curse alone. I pictured a young Perock, hiding in shadows while other children laughed and sang, weighed down by his mother’s death and a terrifying fate. Beneath his cold mask, was there still a wounded boy, never allowed to heal?
“What day is it?” I pressed, my voice quaking with grief for him.
Susie hesitated, studying me as if gauging my intent. “Next Wednesday. But, Your Highness, I wouldn’t bring it up. His Highness’s very sensitive about it.”
Next Wednesday—the night of our monthly meeting.
My fingers tightened around the teacup, a daring plan forming. I might not break the curse yet, but I could show him his life was worth celebrating. His birthday, cursed or not,deserved to be a new beginning, not a reminder of tragedy. My wolf whined softly within, sharing my pain for our mate.
“Thank you, Susie,” I said quietly.
Susie gave me a small, encouraging nod before slipping out of the room, the door closing softly behind her.
The silence of the room pressed against me, heavy and unyielding, broken only by the distant creak of the palace settling in the night. My mind churned with what I’d just learned—Perock’s curse, his stolen childhood, the ticking clock that shadowed his every step. The weight of it settled into my bones, a mix of grief and fierce determination.
The sorceress’ spell was a constant reminder of my stolen identity, a chain I couldn’t break. Yet, beneath this borrowed face, my heart was still mine, and it ached for Perock. My wolf stirred, her soft whine echoing my longing, urging me to act, to fight for our fated mate.
The next morning, I rose at dawn and headed to the kitchen.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” the head chef called out, his round face lighting up with a cheerful smile as he offered a respectful bow. His apron was dusted with flour, and his hands were busy kneading dough on the counter. “Still eager to learn more about cooking soup today?”
I shook my head, taking a deep breath to steady myself. “No, not soup today. I’d like to make something special,” I said, my voice calm despite the nervous flutter in my chest. “For… Prince Perock.”
The chef’s eyes sparkled with a knowing glint, and a small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, Your Highness,” he replied warmly, setting aside his dough andwiping his hands on a nearby towel. “What did you have in mind?”
Over the next few days, I threw myself into a secret project for Perock’s upcoming birthday. I confided in the kitchen staffs, asking them to teach me how to bake a honey cake—a sweet treat they told me Perock had adored as a child. The staffs couldn’t hide their astonishment at seeing a princess in the kitchen, elbow-deep in flour and sticky honey, but I was determined. I rolled up my sleeves, tied on an apron, and insisted on learning every step, no matter how messy or challenging.
The head chef became my patient mentor, guiding me through the process with a steady hand and a kind word. He showed me how to measure out the honey and flour with precision, how to mix the batter until it was just right, and how to time the oven so the cake wouldn’t burn. I listened intently to every instruction, scribbling notes on a scrap of parchment to ensure I wouldn’t forget a single detail.
My first attempt was an absolute disaster—hard as a rock and dry as sawdust, more like a brick than a cake. I couldn’t help but laugh at the pitiful result, though the chef assured me it was a rite of passage for any beginner. The second try was a slight improvement, but the cake was still too dense, lacking the airy lightness I was aiming for. Frustration gnawed at me, but I refused to give up.
And by the third attempt, after hours of trial and error, the chef carefully lifted a golden, fluffy honey cake from the oven. The warm, sweet scent of honey and vanilla filled the kitchen, wrapping around us like a comforting hug. We exchanged a hopeful smile, and I felt a surge of pride.
“He’ll love it, Your Highness,” the chef said, his voice brimming with encouragement as he patted my shoulder lightly. “It’s made with care and love, and that’s what counts.”
I really hope so.
My fingers nervously tracing the edge of the counter as I pictured Perock’s reaction. I wanted this to be perfect for him, a small gesture to show how much he meant to me. With the cake cooling on the rack, I couldn’t help but wonder if it would bring a smile to his face—or if I’d just made a fool of myself trying.
But I wanted him to know his birth wasn’t a mistake, that it was a day worth celebrating.
That night, after the long hours spent in the kitchen, I finally leave. As I approached my chambers, I paused for a moment at the tall window overlooking the palace gardens. The silver moonlight spilled over the landscape. A sudden impulse stirred within me, a need for fresh air and a quiet moment to gather my thoughts.
I slipped into the palace gardens, the air cool and fragrant with blooming roses. Kneeling beneath an ancient oak, I clasped my hands and closed my eyes, lifting my face to the moonlight.
“Moon Goddess, please let me bear his child,” I whispered, my voice barely louder than a breath. “Let me save his life. I don’t ask for his love, only to free him from this cruel curse.”