CHAPTER 463: FAMILY WITH FLORENCE

"No," Salviana teased, "I mean you’ve grown radiant. And your belly—" she glanced down at the small swell, her fingers brushing it reverently, "—is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. How far along are you now?"

"Seven months," Florence said, wiping her tears with a smile. "The physicians say the baby is strong, though I swear if it kicks me any harder, I’ll march into the throne room and beg the gods to let me deliver early."

Salviana giggled, leaning against her shoulder. "You’re going to be a wonderful mother, Flo. Truly."

Florence sighed, her eyes softening as she looked at Salviana. "And you’re going to be... I don’t even know the word for it. I watched you once, Salviana—you were as kind as possible even when the court whispered about you, when they judged you for marrying Alaric. But now... you’re sitting here like you belong, and you know they can’t take more from you. like no one can take that from you."

Salviana’s expression flickered, her fingers tightening slightly around her teacup. "I don’t know if I belong here, Flo. But... I belong with him. And maybe that’s enough for now."

Florence smiled, and they sipped their tea for a while in comfortable silence before the conversation shifted—inevitably—to court life.

Florence’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes sparkling despite the tears that lingered. "You missed quite a few entertaining dinners while you were away."

Salviana raised an eyebrow. "Entertaining? Or disastrous?"

Florence laughed, covering her mouth. "Both. Queen Sansa has been hosting grand dinners every week to ’maintain appearances.’ But the nobles can barely eat without insulting each other. Last week, Lord Sakura accused Lady Kara of using love potions because her husband stopped glaring at her for once. She threw her wine at him. Red wine. On his white silk tunic."

Salviana snorted into her tea, nearly spilling it. "Gods, I wish I had been there."

"And," Florence added with mock seriousness, "you should have seen how the King scolded the new kitchen boy for serving slightly cold venison. He looked ready to faint. The poor boy almost dropped the tray on Prince Embrez’s lap."

Salviana’s brows furrowed at the mention of the prince, her amusement dimming just slightly. "Embrez... how is he?"

Florence caught the subtle shift in her tone but pretended not to notice. "He’s been quiet. He doesn’t talk much, but the king seems pleased with his appearance these days." She sipped her tea, her gaze curious but kind. "Do you trust him?"

Salviana hesitated, swirling her tea before answering, "I... want to. And Alaric does. That’s enough for now."

Florence gave a small nod.

They sat there for a while longer, drinking their tea until the sun tilted lower in the sky, painting the flowers in shades of orange and gold. Salviana glanced around at the blooming roses, lavender, and lilies, her chest tightening with gratitude again.

"I thought I’d have to start this garden over," Salviana murmured. "But you... you saved it."

Florence sniffled, smiling through her tears. "I saved it because you deserve to come home to beauty, Salviana. Not to dead leaves."

Salviana reached over, taking her hand, squeezing it gently. "You’re family to me, Flo. Not just by marriage. You."

Florence’s tears spilled again, but this time she laughed through them. "Stop saying things like that. You’ll make me cry all over my tea."

Salviana laughed too, leaning her head against Florence’s shoulder as they stared out at the vibrant blooms swaying in the soft evening breeze.

For once, Wyfkeep felt safe. For once, it felt like home.

Meanwhile,

Alaric finally stirred awake, the soft light from the tall windows spilling across the chamber. The bed beside him was empty, the sheets cold where Salviana had once lain curled against him.

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand across his face. His hair, still tousled from sleep, fell in loose black waves around his sharp jaw. For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the imprint she had left on the pillow—delicate, warm, a quiet reminder of her presence.

And of what he had done.

—or rather, not done.

He sighed, leaning back against the carved headboard, running a hand down his face as last night came rushing back to him in flashes.

Her soft mouth on him. Her little moans when she sucked him off with such devotion. Her whispered promise—"This is ours, Alaric. Not fear. Us."

He clenched his jaw, his hands curling into fists against the sheets.

Gods, she had been so perfect, so trusting, so determined to show him he didn’t have to be afraid of himself with her. And yet—he had stopped her.

Even now, he could still taste the taint of alcohol from the blood he had fed on last night. Drunk nobles, drunk hunters, their blood heavy with wine. It had dulled his control, made his body burn yet calm in ways that terrified him.

What if he had lost control? What if her trust had cost her life?

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, breathing slowly, as though trying to wrestle his thoughts into submission. But the guilt remained—a quiet, gnawing ache in his chest.

He had seen the way she had looked at him last night before she drifted off in his arms—hopeful. Wanting. Determined.

And he had given her nothing in return except the safety of sleep.

Alaric stood, finally, and dressed with slow, deliberate movements. His black tunic slid over his broad shoulders, his belt fastened tight, his sword strapped to his side almost by instinct.

The demon prince. The vampire who feared his own hands on his wife.

He paused by the mirror for a brief second, staring at his reflection, his jaw tightening.

"You’ll break her heart if you keep this up," he muttered under his breath.

Maybe he already had.

He ran a hand through his midnight hair, exhaling heavily. "Gods, Salviana... if only you knew how much I wanted you. If only you knew how much I love you."