~~~{──────────
Morning.
Bathroom, Salviana's Chambers.
Wyfkeep Castle, Wyfellon. Wyfn-Garde.
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His cold fingers grazed her skin, and he felt her shiver beneath his touch, her breath catching in her throat as she braced herself for more.
But just as his fingers brushed against her most intimate place, a voice broke through the haze.
"She is not worthy to be called a princess," the words echoed from outside the chamber doors, slicing through the air like a cold wind.
Alaric froze. His entire body tensed as he blinked, drawing himself out of the desire that had clouded his mind.
The scent of her arousal still lingered, intoxicating him, but the voice—those cruel words—brought him back to reality.
He clenched his jaw, anger flashing through his eyes, but he didn't let it show. Instead, he dropped his hand from her thighs, his fingers gently grazing her skin one last time before pulling away.
Salviana remained quiet, her breath coming in soft, uneven gasps. Her body was still trembling slightly, but she didn't move. She simply leaned back into him, allowing him to gather her in his arms, her heart beating in time with his.
Alaric pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder, his lips lingering against her skin as he tried to calm the storm of emotions swirling within him. He wanted to protect her, to shield her from the cruel words and the expectations of others.
But more than that, he wanted to hold her, to keep her close, to explore this connection between them that grew stronger with every passing moment
Salviana sank deeper into the warm water, her body still humming from the remnants of Alaric's touch.
She couldn't explain what had just happened between them, but there had been an anticipation, a different kind of ache that had bloomed within her the moment his hand had ventured too close.
She had wanted more—needed more—but just as quickly as he'd stirred that yearning in her, he had pulled back, leaving her with an emptiness that she couldn't quite place.
When Alaric vacated the bath, she'd watched him leave, her eyes trailing after him, uncertain of what to say. Her pulse had quickened when, just before he stepped through the door, he turned back, their eyes locking across the room.
"Call me when you're done," he said softly, his voice tinged with something unreadable, something that lingered in the space between them.
She nodded automatically, though her mind was elsewhere, distracted by the sight of his broad, muscled back and—gods—his wet, firm butt cheek.
Her throat tightened, and she gulped, the flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck when she realized she'd been openly staring. Alaric must have noticed, too, because he shook his head slightly before shutting the door behind him, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
As soon as he left, she blushed furiously, diving back into the water as if the warmth could wash away the heat in her cheeks.
Undressing completely, she bathed quickly, cleansing her skin and readying herself for the day. But her mind lingered on Alaric's words, on the way he'd asked her to call him.
Call him?
Why couldn't she just step out of the bath and meet him in the bedroom herself?
It seemed unnecessary, didn't it?
She could easily wrap herself in a towel and walk out there. But what if he's waiting for me to call him? she wondered, her hands running absentmindedly through her hair as she continued to soak.
And how would she even call him? Should she shout? No, no. I can't shout across the room like a servant summoning someone. That would be improper—especially given the strange, simmering tension between them.
But would he even hear her if she whispered?
After all, he was a vampire—surely his senses were heightened. Maybe she didn't need to raise her voice.
Salviana bit her lip, hesitating as she tested the thought. "Alaric," she whispered, barely louder than the soft lapping of the water around her.
Within seconds, there was a rush—a swift, almost imperceptible whoosh of air, and there he stood, looming in the doorway with his stone-cold expression and breathtaking handsomeness. Salviana's heart skipped a beat.
His presence filled the room, commanding as always, but there was something about the way he looked at her now, something that made her stomach tighten and her pulse quicken all over again.
Without a word, Alaric crossed the room, his cold gaze softening just a fraction as he reached for her. His hands were gentle as he helped her out of the water, his touch steady and sure.
He wrapped her in a thick, warm cloak, the fabric settling over her shoulders like a protective shield. She shivered slightly, though not from the cold—his nearness always had this effect on her.
In one swift motion, he lifted her from the bath, cradling her against his chest as though she weighed nothing at all.
She marveled at the ease with which he moved, his strength undeniable yet never oppressive. He held her as though she were something precious, something delicate.
Alaric's jaw clenched slightly as he carried her to the adjoining room, his thoughts carefully guarded behind those icy, impenetrable eyes. He had cut the massage short earlier for a reason—he had felt himself teetering dangerously on the edge of something he couldn't control.
If he had continued, if he had let his hands linger for even a moment longer, he might have done something irreversible. Something they couldn't come back from.
And she wasn't ready. He could sense it in her, in the way her body responded to him, in the way her breath hitched and her pulse quickened, but there was also hesitation.
A vulnerability. She wasn't prepared for the intensity of what he felt—what he wanted. And so, he had drawn back, even when every fiber of his being screamed at him to take more, to claim what was his.
Now, as he set her down gently on the bed, his hands still resting lightly on her shoulders, he let out a slow breath. She deserved to be cared for, protected, and cherished. He wanted her to feel safe in his arms, not overwhelmed by his desires.