Chapter 151: Son of the year
"Have the cup of tea," Celia says, placing the steaming cup in front of me with a delicate clink. Her movements are precise, practiced, and overly gentle, the way one might handle a wounded animal. She’s been acting like this more and more lately—extra motherly, almost smothering—and it’s hard not to notice. I narrow my eyes slightly, suspicious. What exactly is she up to?
It’s been a month since I arrived in the capital, and the restlessness in my bones hasn’t faded, not even a little. If anything, it’s only grown sharper, more suffocating. The knowledge that Noelle is somewhere nearby makes it worse, makes the air feel tighter, like I’m standing on the edge of a knife. I’m supposed to be patient, to focus on my duties, but how can I when the one thing I’ve been searching for feels so painfully close?
From the corner of my eye, I catch the twins lurking nearby. They’re watching us, wide-eyed and curious, whispering to each other like conspirators. I know they’re itching to come over, maybe hoping to get a closer look at the infamous, brooding brother. I sigh heavily and take a sip of the tea. It’s hot, bitter, and does little to calm the storm inside me.
"You look tense," Celia remarks, her voice annoyingly pleasant. The kind of pleasant that makes me want to throw something.
"I’m always tense," I answer flatly, setting the cup down with more force than necessary. My patience is stretched thin today, a hair’s breadth away from snapping.
She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Don’t be so scary. The twins can’t even muster the courage to come over and introduce themselves like this."
I huff out a humorless laugh. "They’re fifteen, Celia. At fifteen, I was on the battlefield. If they can’t handle me scowling, they won’t survive the real world." My voice is harsh, clipped, but it’s the truth. At their age, I’d already seen blood, death, and betrayal. I refuse to coddle anyone.
Celia folds her arms, her gaze hardening. "Brooding like this won’t make you find your omega any sooner, you know." Her tone is sharp, cutting into me with startling accuracy. The mention of Noelle sends a pang through me, a wound that hasn’t healed, and I clench my jaw.
"Celia." Her name comes out as a low, dangerous warning, a barely restrained growl that has her stiffening slightly. She knows she crossed a line. We both know it.