CHAPTER 391: CARING FOR HIS WIFE

(Third Person).

Meredith shook her head. "Not yet. I wasn’t hungry."

Draven frowned. "You bled. You need strength to recover."

She looked up at him, her violet eyes gleaming faintly under the soft light. "I will eat soon. Don’t worry so much."

But he leaned forward, pressing a slow kiss to her forehead. "I will be right back," he murmured against her skin. "You’re eating tonight, whether you like it or not."

That earned him a quiet laugh from her. "You sound like Madam Beatrice."

"Good," he said, standing up with that faint, knowing smirk. "Maybe you will actually listen."

Meredith smiled as he turned and made his way to the door. The warmth of his touch lingered long after he left, the faint sound of his retreating footsteps echoing softly down the corridor.

When the door clicked shut, she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and leaned back against the pillows, the corners of her lips lifting slightly.

---

The heavy oak doors to the kitchen swung open, startling everyone inside.

Conversations ceased instantly. A few chefs froze mid-motion—one still holding a ladle over a steaming pot, another halfway through chopping herbs.

The faint hiss of simmering oil was the only sound that dared remain.

Draven stepped inside, and immediately, the air thickened with unspoken nerves. His presence alone filled the room—quiet, commanding, and unexpected.

His black attire still carried faint traces of the night air, and his sharp gaze moved over the startled faces before settling on the older woman standing near the central counter.

"Alpha," Madam Beatrice greeted, her voice calm but respectful as she quickly wiped her hands with a towel and stepped forward. "This is a surprise. Do you require something?"

Draven’s tone was even, clipped but not cold. "My wife’s dinner."

A ripple of surprise swept through the kitchen. The servants exchanged uneasy glances, unsure if they’d heard correctly. Madam Beatrice blinked once, then gave a polite nod.

"Of course, Alpha. I will have the servants prepare it and send it to her room immediately."

Draven shook his head. "No need. I will handle it myself."

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through steel. A few of the younger maids looked wide-eyed, as though they couldn’t fathom the Alpha of the house serving anyone, not even his Luna.

Madam Beatrice hesitated, reading his expression before sighing softly. "If you insist," she said.

With brisk efficiency, she began to gather the necessary items—roast pheasant, soft bread rolls, a bowl of steaming vegetable stew, and a small carafe of warm spiced wine.

Within minutes, she arranged everything neatly on a silver tray. When she was done, she straightened, smoothing her apron.

"Allow me to carry it for you, Alpha," she said firmly, lifting the tray before he could object. Her tone carried that matronly authority that even Draven didn’t bother arguing with.

He simply gave a small nod of acknowledgement.

As they turned to leave, he paused and glanced toward one of the chefs still standing near the refrigerator. "Hand me a pint of ice cream," Draven said.

The chef nearly tripped over himself getting to the cold storage. Within seconds, he handed Draven a sealed pint and a silver spoon.

Draven took them without a word, his expression unreadable.

With that, he turned and strode toward the door. Madam Beatrice followed behind, the tray balanced carefully in her hands.

The kitchen staff remained frozen until the door swung shut again, releasing the breath none of them realized they had been holding.

"I can’t believe the Alpha would walk into this kitchen tonight," one of the younger chefs whispered with wide eyes.

"To get food for the Luna," another added, half laughing, half in awe.

"He must truly love her," the oldest cook murmured softly, shaking her head. "I don’t think I have ever heard this tale of love elsewhere."

Their voices trailed off into reverent silence as footsteps faded down the corridor.

---

Outside Meredith’s chambers, Draven and Madam Beatrice stopped. He gave a single, firm knock before opening the door.

Meredith’s gaze lifted at the sound, and her surprise was immediate when she saw Madame Beatrice following behind Draven.

"Your dinner, my lady." The older woman offered a respectful bow.

Draven took the tray from her hands before she could move further in and placed it carefully on the bed beside Meredith.

Instantly, the aroma of roasted meat and herbs filled the space, warm and comforting.

Madam Beatrice bowed again. "If there is nothing else, I will take my leave."

Draven gave a curt nod. "Thank you."

The door closed quietly behind her, leaving only the soft crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of the curtains stirred by the night breeze.

Then, Draven sat at the edge of the bed and turned toward Meredith, his expression calm. "After dinner," he said, waving the pint, "you can have the ice cream."

Meredith let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "Do you think I’m Xamira?"

That earned her one of his faint smiles—the kind that only ever reached his eyes. "You are worse," he said evenly. "She doesn’t pretend she doesn’t like sweets."

"Maybe I don’t." Meredith tried to look offended, but the corner of her lips betrayed her.

Draven leaned slightly closer, his tone dipping lower. "Then I suppose I will eat it for you."

Her eyes softened, amusement glinting in them. "You wouldn’t dare."

He held her gaze for a long second—a silent challenge, an unspoken game. Then, finally, his expression gentled.

"Eat first," he murmured. "You need your strength."

Meredith reached for the spoon, but the moment she shifted, a sharp sting caught her side.

She inhaled softly through her teeth.

Draven’s eyes narrowed immediately. "Careful."

"It’s fine," she murmured, forcing a small smile, though the wince betrayed her.

Without another word, Draven took the spoon from her hand and dipped it into the food. "No more arguments."

"Draven—"

"Eat," he said quietly, holding the spoon near her lips.

His tone wasn’t commanding, not exactly—it was the kind of firm gentleness that left no room for refusal. So she leaned forward and took the bite, the flavour warm, savoury, and rich.

Draven watched her for a moment before taking a bite himself from the same spoon. He chewed thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving her face.