Chapter 43: First Time Ache.
Morning crept into the room slowly, the soft, golden light spilling in through the edges of the heavy curtains. Salviana’s eyes fluttered open, and the first thing she saw was Alaric. He was standing by the window, the faint rays of dawn catching in his dark hair, casting a sharp silhouette against the backdrop of the morning sky. For a moment, it felt like a dream—the prince, the vampire, the man she’d been married off to, standing so calmly in the same room as her.
This was the first morning she’d woken up with him still in the room. He had always been elsewhere, either gone before dawn or never having entered the bedroom in the first place. It had made her feel like she’d been sleeping alone since her very first night here, despite the grand titles and ceremony that tied them together.
She shifted slightly under the covers, her gaze lingering on him as he delicately picked a single lily from its vase on the windowsill. He turned it toward the light, examining its soft petals, letting the pale beams filter through them.
"You woke up early today," he remarked, his voice low and rich, the deep timbre sending an unexpected thrill through her. Her heart seemed to skip a beat at the sound of it, though she wasn’t sure if it was from the unexpected intimacy of waking up to him or the smooth, commanding tone of his voice. She swallowed softly, still unsure how to react to him—this man who was supposed to be her husband yet felt more like a stranger every day.
She blinked away the remnants of sleep, trying to find her voice, but her mind was still sluggish, thoughts swirling in slow motion. He had never been here in the morning, not like this.
"Your maids will be here soon," Alaric added, turning his gaze toward her, his eyes dark and intense, making her feel as though he could see right through her hesitance.
Salviana stared back, unsure what to say.
What did he mean, she woke up early?
Did he mean she usually slept late, or was this his way of remarking that he’d been watching her? She wasn’t sure if she liked the thought of him observing her so silently while she slept.
Her gaze drifted to the lily in his hand, delicate yet strong, its white petals glowing faintly in the soft light. "Why is there just one flower in the chamber?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, still soft and hesitant, unsure if it was the right thing to ask.
Alaric’s eyes softened slightly, and he looked back at the flower, gently caressing its petals with surprising tenderness for someone of his nature. "It was my mother’s," he answered, his voice deep but tinged with something else—pride, perhaps, or nostalgia. "This lily has survived for years. It’s resilient."