Page 18 of Claimed By the Alien Prince
ZEVRAN
I never meant for this to happen.
When I first brought her belongings, it felt like a strategic move—something to keep Carys compliant, to distract her from the weight of captivity. But now, I roam the markets of Verus with a different purpose, my heart drumming an unfamiliar rhythm in my chest.
As I weave through stalls, vibrant colors and fragrant scents assault my senses. Vendors shout their wares, and the laughter of children echoes through the canopy above. Each sound feels alive, yet my thoughts drift elsewhere. I scan for anything that might spark joy in her eyes.
There! A trinket carved from a sacred branch—the same one she reached for that day. Its intricate designs remind me of her curiosity and boldness. I can almost picture her face lighting up as she examines it, fingers tracing the grooves with wonder.
I purchase it without hesitation, slipping it into my pocket alongside another item: a cloak woven in the exact shade of her eyes—a hue that rivals the deepest emeralds of Verus.
It seems absurdly simple to me now, yet I can't help but imagine how it would drape over her shoulders, framing her against the backdrop of this alien world.
Eating with her becomes more than just a duty; it transforms into something I crave.
The first time we share a meal together, she looks at me as if trying to read some hidden agenda behind my intent.
But when she takes a bite of roasted root vegetables and her mouth curves into surprise at the flavor explosion, my heart skips.
“What is this?” she asks, eyes wide with delight.
“Food,” I reply, trying to mask my amusement at how na?ve that sounds. “Delicious food.”
She laughs—a sound like music in this strange place—and in that moment, I want nothing more than to hear it again and again. To sit across from her not as prince and captive but simply as two souls navigating an uncharted connection.
"Of course it's food, Zevran," she says with the roll of her eyes. "What kind? What species—where did it come from?"
As our conversations flow freely between bites, I find solace in sharing thoughts without war or blood clouding the air around us. For those fleeting hours each day, we escape our roles and forge something new—a bond shrouded in possibility rather than obligation.
But beneath it all lies an undercurrent of tension; fate has its grip on us both.
I sit in the council chamber, surrounded by faces I know too well. The air hangs heavy with the weight of their words—discussions about trade, territory, and human transgressions that echo like a dull drumbeat in my mind.
The table stretches before me, ornate and carved from the sacred trees of Verus.
Yet it all feels far away. My thoughts drift to Carys, her silhouette framed by the window last night, hair dancing in the breeze as if the world outside called to her.
She stood there, eyes closed, trusting the moment as I watched from a distance.
I can’t help but picture her expression—a mix of serenity and defiance—as if she belongs here. A flutter of something tightens in my chest.
She does belong here , that possessive voice hisses in my mind. She belongs to you.
A noble at the far end clears his throat, snapping me back to reality. His voice drags across my consciousness like a dull blade. “Your Highness?”
I nod absently but don’t absorb his words. My thoughts spiral back to Carys—her laughter ringing in my ears, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking hard about something. It feels absurdly intimate.
Aran’tha’s gaze catches mine across the room, her brow furrowed in that familiar way when she senses I’m lost in thought. As soon as the meeting adjourns, she strides toward me, determination etched into her features.
“Zevran,” she says sharply, halting before me. “The court is losing patience.”
I straighten my posture instinctively. “What do you mean?”
“You must choose—claim her or get rid of her.” Her tone leaves no room for misinterpretation. "This has gone on long enough."
The words hit me like an arrow piercing flesh; sharp and unyielding. I swallow hard, trying to find my voice among the rising tide of uncertainty.
“I can’t?—”
“Can’t or won’t?” She narrows her eyes at me.
The council's discussions linger at the edge of my thoughts—a cacophony that becomes background noise against Aran’tha’s piercing stare.
“It’s not that simple,” I mutter finally.
“Isn’t it? You know what this bond means.” Her voice softens slightly, yet there’s an urgency beneath it. “You have a responsibility—to your people and to yourself.”
The pressure mounts within me; giving up Carys feels impossible. But claiming her? It twists my gut with fear of how fragile this connection remains—the delicate web we’ve spun together over meals and laughter hidden from prying eyes.
“And what if I make the wrong choice?” I snap, almost pleading with her to understand.
She crosses her arms tightly across her chest, frustration radiating off her like heat from a flame. “Then you’re not worthy of either position: prince or mate.”
My hands curl into fists on the table's edge as I wrestle with anger and fear—emotions I’d rather keep buried under layers of control and decorum.
“Why does it matter so much?” I finally ask through gritted teeth.
“Because if you cast her aside without considering what you might lose…” She shakes her head slowly as if weighing each word carefully against fate itself. “You risk becoming just like those nobles who cannot see beyond their own selfishness.”
My breath catches in my throat at that—because what would that make me? Just another figure trapped by duty and expectation?
“Do you want that?” she presses further when silence envelops us like a thick fog.
“No,” I admit reluctantly, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks—a rare vulnerability uncharacteristic of Kiphians during discussions of state affairs.
As I look into Aran’tha’s determined gaze searching for answers within me, clarity starts to emerge through chaos—the thought of Carys leaving or being hurt claws at my insides like a wild beast desperate for freedom.
And yet choosing means embracing everything about this bond—its power and its danger intertwined.
But breathing without lungs? It feels unbearable just thinking about it.
“I need time,” I say finally as we stand amidst shadows cast by flickering lightstones overhead—both a statement and a plea cloaked in uncertainty hanging between us like unresolved tension ready to snap.
“Time may not be on your side,” she warns gently before stepping back into the fray of court politics while I remain tethered between two worlds: one with duty pressing heavily upon my shoulders…and another that pulls at my heart with an intensity that leaves no escape route visible ahead.