Chapter 10: Elara gasps as Alaric presses his ear to her belly with boyish wonder, his powerful frame curled protectively around her in bed while he murmures promises of royal midwives and a nursery wing, his once-cold eyes blazing with fierce adoration.
The single candle on the bedside table guttered, casting restless shadows that leapt across the tapestries. Elara sighed, a soft sound of pure relief, as she sank deeper into the mountain of pillows. Her feet, swollen and aching from the day’s burden, rested in Alaric’s lap.
He was silent, his focus absolute. He poured a stream of lavender-scented oil into his palm, warming it before his hands closed around her right foot. His thumbs found the arch, pressing in firm, deliberate circles that made her groan.
“Easy there, my lord,” she murmured, her country accent softening the words. “You’ll have me asleep before you’ve even started.”
“The title is Alaric,” he reminded her, his voice a low rumble. “And you will stay awake. I have only just begun.” His thumbs worked their way to the ball of her foot, kneading the tightness with a knowledge that surprised her. His hands, usually instruments of command or violence, were now devoted to her comfort.
He moved to her toes, massaging each one with a painstaking slowness that felt intensely intimate. His gaze was fixed on his work, the candlelight carving the severe planes of his face into something softer, almost reverent. “The physician said circulation is important,” he stated, as if reciting a battle strategy.
“Aye, he did,” Elara agreed, her eyes fluttering closed. “But I didn’t think the Duke of the North would be takin’ his advice so… personally.”
His hands stilled for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was closer, dipped in a possessive warmth that seeped into her bones. “The Duke of the North does many things for his pregnant wife.”
The words, my pregnant wife, spoken in that dark, gravelly tone, sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cool night air. It was a claim, more potent than any legal document or public announcement. It was a biological truth, one his body was celebrating with every touch.
His hands slid from her feet, his fingers tracing a slow, burning path up her calves, over the fine silk of her stockings. He hooked his fingers under the lace tops, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of her thighs. “These are in the way,” he growled, the sound purely animal.
He began to roll them down, an achingly slow process. His palms smoothed over her skin as he went, his touch firm and possessive. Each inch of revealed flesh was a conquest. He leaned forward, his breath hot through the silk, and pressed a open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee.
Elara jolted. “Alaric…”
“Hush.” His voice was muffled against her skin. “Let me.” He continued his journey downward, his lips and hands mapping the territory of her body with a fervor that was both worship and branding. The gossip from London felt a million miles away—the whispers about the Cold Wolf thawing, the scandalized gasps that he’d not only married a maid but had clearly been bedding her long before the rings were exchanged. Here, in their chamber, there was only the truth of his hands on her, the proof of their union swelling her belly.
He finally discarded the stockings, his hands returning to her bare legs. He massaged the powerful muscles of her thighs, his thumbs digging into the tension with an expertise that stole her breath. His touch was no longer just about comfort. It was a reclamation. A reminder.
His grey eyes, when they lifted to meet hers, were blazing with a raw, unchecked hunger. “They talk,” he said, his voice a low thrum. “In their glittering ballrooms. They say the Wolf has gone soft. That he’s been tamed by a pretty face from the country.”
He moved over her, caging her with his body, his hardness pressing against her hip. The scent of lavender and his own distinctive spice filled her senses.
“They are fools,” he whispered, his lips a breath from hers. “They do not understand. I am not tamed.” He captured her mouth in a searing kiss, all teeth and desperation. When he broke away, they were both gasping. “I am possessed. And what is mine, I protect. I cherish. I claim.”
His hand slid between her legs, finding her already wet and ready for him. A dark, satisfied sound rumbled in his chest. “This,” he said, his fingers stroking her with an intimate precision that made her cry out. “This is what they will never understand. This is why their world is about to burn.”
And as he entered her, with a slow, devastating certainty that felt like a vow, Elara knew he was not just talking about the gossips. He was talking about every wall he had ever built, every rule of his ordered life. He was burning it all down for the feel of her around him, for the future kicking softly in her womb, for the title she never used.
Husband.