Was he still in his office? Was he drenched in this rain?
Was he even eating properly? Her needle faltered for a moment, pricking her finger.
She winced and sucked on the tiny bead of blood, shaking her head at her own carelessness.
Hours passed, the rhythmic sound of rain and the soft hiss of the fire becoming a lullaby. Her eyelids grew heavy, and she stifled a yawn, leaning back against the plush cushions of the sofa.
Her embroidery hoop slipped from her fingers, landing softly on the carpet.
As sleep claimed her, her last thoughts were of him—of his warm smile, his steady presence, and the way he always smelled faintly of cedarwood and rain.
Come home, Alaric, she thought, her lips moving faintly in her dreams. Come home.
However,
Alaric returned home much later, the patter of rain masking his arrival. To anyone else, the night might have been cold and dreary, but not a single drop marred his pristine appearance.
His sharp cloak remained dry, a testament to his mastery over the elements—or perhaps just his meticulous nature. He had been consumed by work in his office, the paperwork and decisions piling higher than he realized.
The rain had tricked him into thinking it was merely early evening when it was far later.
As he stepped into their home, the soft light from the sitting room caught his attention. The maids greeted him with quiet bows, their expressions betraying a mix of concern and respect.
"Her Grace waited for you all evening," one maid whispered, her voice low and careful. "She had dinner alone and fell asleep in the sitting room while doing her embroidery."
Alaric sighed, a flicker of guilt crossing his face. "You're dismissed for the night. Rest well," he said with a wave of his hand.
The maids curtsied and departed, leaving the house in serene silence save for the gentle crackle of the dying fire and the unrelenting rain outside.
Alaric moved toward the sitting room, his gaze softening as he saw her. Salviana lay curled on the sofa, her face serene in slumber.
Her chest rose and fell gently, her parted lips releasing faint murmurs as if she dreamed.
The embroidery she had been working on lay abandoned, the needle still threaded, and the delicate fabric bunched slightly beneath her hand.
He crouched beside her, the firelight casting warm hues over her sleeping form.
For a long moment, he simply gazed at her. Her face, framed by her loose, flowing hair, was a picture of peace—a stark contrast to the chaos that often surrounded their lives.
Leaning forward, he brushed a tender kiss against her lips. Her warmth was a reminder of why he worked so hard: for her, for their future.
As he carefully removed the embroidery from her grasp and set it aside, he sighed softly to himself.
She had always been so kind, sometimes to a fault. In the early days, her excessive politeness had grated on him, a trait he mistook for insincerity.
But now he understood—her kindness wasn't a façade.
It was her strength. Yet he was relieved to see that she no longer let others trample over her generosity.
She had found a balance, and he admired her all the more for it.
Gently, Alaric slid one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her effortlessly into his arms.
She stirred, mumbling something incoherent as she shifted instinctively, her head nestling against his chest.
"Shh," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "I've got you, Fiery."
She moved again, adjusting herself to a more comfortable position as he carried her up the grand staircase.
Each step was slow and deliberate, his focus entirely on her.
Her weight in his arms was nothing to him, but the intimacy of the moment made his heart feel unusually heavy—with love, with gratitude, and with an unspoken promise to do better.
When they reached their chambers, Alaric lowered her onto the bed with great care. But as he tried to release her, her arms tightened around his neck, preventing him from pulling away.
"Salviana," he whispered, amused. "Let me go."
She groaned in protest, her voice drowsy and stubborn. "No."
He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. "You're not making this easy."
With a resigned sigh, he joined her on the bed, lying down beside her.
"Come on then," He welcomed her. He missed her too and he'd be a madman if he hated how clingy she become this days.
She immediately shifted, her arms draping over his shoulders as her head burrowed into the crook of his neck.
Her warmth was intoxicating, and he found himself smiling as her breathing evened out once more.
"My fiery wife," he whispered to himself.
He still found it crazy knowing that he has married and he enjoyed and cherished the woman and… she liked him too.
She would spent time with him and miss him.
He squeezed her tighter and sniffed her hair.
The rain outside intensified, the wind rattling the windows as if to challenge the tranquility within.
The candles burned low, their flames flickering before extinguishing one by one, plunging the room into darkness.
Alaric lay there, his face buried in her hair, the scent of her calming his restless thoughts.
She shivered slightly, and he tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer. For the first time in what felt like weeks, he felt a rare sense of peace.
How had she become so vital to him? He didn't know when it had happened, but it was undeniable.
She had carved a space for herself in his life, in his heart, and there was no reclaiming it now—not that he would ever want to.
As Salviana slept soundly in his arms, Alaric's thoughts drifted.
He would do whatever it took to keep this peace, this warmth, this love. The rain roared outside, but within their chambers, all was perfect.
And in that perfect moment, Alaric Velthorne, first vampire and third prince of Wyfkeep castle, Wyfn-Garde allowed himself to rest, knowing he was exactly where he was meant to be—with her.