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CHAPTER ELEVEN

U lric slammed the door behind the last of the healers, the wood shuddering in its frame. The pain in his arm was a dull, throbbing roar, but the fury in his mind cut deeper, sharper. Someone had tried to kill his wife. Someone had tried to kill him.

He paced the length of his chambers, each step heavy with restrained violence. His Beast snarled and clawed, demanding action, demanding blood.

“Cowards,” he growled, his voice filling the empty room. A king should face his enemies head-on, not be stabbed in the back by shadows.

His gaze fell on a finely carved wooden box sitting on a side table.

Jessamin had gifted it to him during their first week of marriage, a delicate thing of southern craftsmanship meant to hold important documents or small treasures.

He had never used it. Now it seemed to mock him with its presence, its southern origins.

The memory of her face in the great hall flashed before him—the relief in her eyes when she saw him walking through the doors, the quiet strength in her posture as she stood waiting. She had looked every inch a queen. His queen.

But is she?

Lasseran was cunning, patient. The poison that had nearly taken her life before—had that been real, or an elaborate ruse to place her above suspicion? The missing silk, the messages to the south, the perfect timing of it all… Suspicion coiled through his stomach like a serpent.

No . He pressed his palm against his wounded arm, welcoming the sharp flare of pain.

It cleared his head, pushed back the paranoia.

He wouldn’t let Lasseran poison his mind like this.

No doubt that was exactly what the bastard wanted.

But Jessamin had shown no sign of deceit.

She’d been nothing but genuine and earnest since her arrival, winning over his people with her kindness and grace.

And that look in her eyes when she’d seen him…

that was not the look of a conspirator, but a wife worried about her husband.

With a snarl, he dismissed his suspicions as unworthy.

Three heavy knocks on the door before Wulf entered without waiting for a response. His eyes went immediately to Ulric’s wounded arm.

“I suppose it would be disrespectful to say I told you so?”

“Yes,” he snapped. Wulf had come to him in the armory after Jessamin had left, but already raw from that encounter, he’d dismissed his advice and ordered him to leave.

“I knew it was a risk,” he added when Wulf remained silent. “But I had to try.”

“Did you learn what you wished to learn?”

“It was the act of a professional—well planned and executed.” And almost fatal.

Wulf’s face darkened. “And the traitor?”

“Still hidden, damn them.”

“Have you considered the possibility of an accomplice? A… source of information, at least.”

His gut twisted at the thought. “Of course I have. I am a fool, but not that big a fool.” He sank into a chair, exhaustion tugging at him

“You need to let the healers look at you.”

“No,” he growled. “We both know I will heal.”

“They will help you heal faster?—”

“No.”

He put all the authority of his position into his refusal and Wulf stopped arguing.

“Is there anything that I can do?” his friend asked instead, sighing when he shook his head. “Then I need to return to my village for a few days. Egon and Lyric are having a bonding ceremony and I wish to be present. And I have been without my mate for too long.”

As have I. But that was his own fault, and he waved his hand.

“Then you should go.”

“Very well, but I will return afterwards.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“No, but perhaps by then you won’t be like a bear with a sore head.” Wulf suddenly grinned and he felt his own lips twitch in response. “And get that damn arm looked at.”

As if in response to his words, the inner door to his chambers opened and Jessamin entered.

She carried a basin of steaming water in her hands, clean linens draped over her arm, and a satchel of herbs at her hip.

Her face was calm and determined, though he could smell the faint trace of anxiety beneath her composed exterior.

She closed the door behind her with a gentle push of her hip and moved towards him.

“I don’t need a nursemaid,” he growled, the words harsher than he intended, a defensive reflex against the sudden vulnerability her presence evoked, but she didn’t flinch.

Her blue eyes met his, a calm fire burning in their depths. “A good thing, then, that I am your wife instead.”

Wulf barked a laugh, but before he could snarl at him, the other male bowed deeply to Jessamin and nodded to him.

“I see I leave you in capable hands. I will return as soon as I am able.”

Wulf was gone before he could respond, and he turned to Jessamin. She was already at his side, her chin lifted in quiet defiance. The scent of her—wildflowers and sunlight—cut through the haze of pain and anger, and he found himself unable to send her away.

There was a strength in her that he hadn’t truly appreciated before. It had been there in her composure in the Great Hall, and it was there now. She wasn’t seeking approval or performing a duty. She was claiming her place at his side.

The fight drained out of him, replaced by a weary, dangerous anticipation. The pain in his arm flared again, but it was secondary to the turmoil in his chest.

She knelt before him, setting the basin on the floor before adding healing herbs from her satchel. Steam rose between them, filling the air with the pungent scent of the herbs.

He stared down at her golden head, a strange tightness in his throat. He was letting her see him wounded and vulnerable—a risk greater than any rockslide. On the mountain, he had been a king, a warrior. Here, he was just a male being tended by his female.

It terrified him more than he cared to admit.