Chapter 41: A Bitter Draught
The coin purse was a satisfying weight against Taichi’s hip, the leather worn soft from countless trips to the castle treasury. Today’s haul was good—better than good. A merchant from the southern coast had practically bought him out of his smoked porter, paying in silver marks that chimed together with a clean, prosperous sound. It was money for new oak casks, for that copper condenser he’d been eyeing, for maybe even a proper sign to hang over the tavern door.
He climbed the broad, worn steps to the castle’s lower bailey, the setting sun painting the grey stone in washes of honey and rose. The air here was different from his own patch of earth outside the walls; it smelled of hot slate, distant horses, and the thousand layered histories of power. He usually hated it. Today, the secret hope humming in his veins made it almost tolerable. Yamato had mentioned drilling the new City Guard recruits here in the main courtyard until dusk. If Taichi timed it right, he could ‘accidentally’ pass through, flash the heavy purse, maybe get a raised eyebrow and that particular, wolfish smile. The thought warmed him more than the sun.
He rounded the corner of the armory, the rhythmic clash of practice swords already ringing in the air.
And stopped.
The recruits were there, a sweaty, panting line of them leaning on their weapons. But in the center of the cobbled courtyard, by the murmuring fountain, stood Yamato. He was out of his practice gear, back in his fine linen shirt and leather vest, his hair still damp at the temples. He was smiling.
He was surrounded.
They were like a flock of exotic birds, their gowns in shades of plum and saffron, their perfumes cutting through the earthy scents of the yard—jasmine, rose oil, something sharp and sweet. Female omegas, three of them, their scents a deliberate, dizzying cocktail of invitation. They clustered around Yamato, their laughter a high, tinkling melody against the lower rumble of his response. One, a redhead with lips the color of wine, had a hand resting lightly on the vambrace covering his forearm. Another tossed her dark curls, leaning in to say something that made Yamato’s smile widen, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
The worst part was his hand. It rested casually, familiarly, on the waist of the third omega, a blonde whose gown dipped scandalously low in the back. It was the kind of touch Taichi knew—proprietary, comfortable, alpha-sure.
A cold stone dropped through Taichi’s stomach, landing somewhere near his feet. The warmth from his hope vanished, sucked away into the shadow of the stone pillar he instinctively pressed himself against. The coarse rock bit into his shoulder through his tunic.
He watched, frozen, as the redhead whispered something up at Yamato. He tilted his head down to hear her, his expression one of easy, flattering attention. He threw his head back and laughed, a full, unguarded sound that usually made Taichi’s heart stutter. Now it felt like a shard of glass in his ear.
Good alpha patter, his own cynical voice sneered in his head. Just like I said.
The metallic tang of betrayal flooded his mouth. It was the taste of his own stupid vulnerability, so fresh from the tangle of his bedsheets, now left to sour in this sun-drenched courtyard. His fingers clenched around the purse at his hip, the coins digging into his palm through the leather. All his plans for the condenser, the casks, the sign—they crumpled into ash. This was the reality. This was the world Yamato moved in, a world of perfumed curves and tinkling laughs and casual touches that meant nothing and everything.
The promise from that morning—the biggest scene this side of the capital—felt like a joke. A thing said in the soft, forgiving dark, now burned away by the unforgiving gold of the sunset.
Taichi forced his lungs to work. He sucked in a breath that smelled of jasmine and roasted meat and the faint, taunting musk of Yamato’s contentment. He made himself look away from the tableau, from the alpha who belonged, so easily, to the scene.
His jaw ached from how tightly he’d set it. He pushed off from the pillar, the movement stiff.
He didn’t look back. He turned his boots on the smooth cobblestones and marched, eyes fixed ahead, toward the heavy oak doors of the treasury. The money suddenly felt like a dead weight, a payment for a lesson he’d been too stubborn to learn the first time. The fountain's gentle murmur sounded like mocking applause.