Married To Darkness

"The woods do not care for your titles," Gideon announced, his voice carrying over the courtyard. "They care for your skill. Today, we hunt. Tomorrow, we celebrate. Let the arrows fly true, and may the strongest claim the day."

The horn sounded—a blast so loud it made the horses rear and the hounds howl.

The Outsiders scrambled for their mounts. Charity rode a white mare with silk ribbons in its mane; HechKay a grey stallion that seemed to blend into the shadows; Kara and Morgan on fiery chestnuts.

Alaric pulled his horse—another massive, coal-black beast named Obsidian—beside Salviana’s mare.

"Stay close to me," he commanded, his voice barely audible over the thunder of hooves. "The guests are drunk, the brothers are angry, and the King is watching. This isn’t a hunt for deer, Salviana."

"Relax, my love," she replied, her hand tightening on the reins. She looked at the sprawling line of royals and guests, a colorful, dangerous snake winding its way into the dark green heart of the forest. "What is it then? A hunt for us." she laughed lightly and Alaric sighed.

And with a snap of the reins, they joined the fray, riding out into the heat of the afternoon where the lines between family, guest, and prey were about to be blurred in blood.

The noon sun hung high over the stables, beating down on the lacquered wood of the carriages and the polished steel of the hunting gear. While the "Outsiders"—Charity, HechKay, and the boisterous Morgan—were busy making a spectacle of their arrival, Alaric had steered Salviana toward a quiet alcove behind the primary staging area. Here, the noise of the drunken bets and the baying hounds was a muffled hum, replaced by the rhythmic sound of horses shifting their weight and the soft rustle of the wind through the pines.

Alaric moved with a slow, deliberate focus that made the world around them disappear. He was no longer the snarling prince who had nearly taken his brother’s head at breakfast; he was a man entirely consumed by the woman in front of him.

He reached out, his large hands looking strikingly dark against the cream-colored silk ribbon of her hunting hat. The hat was a structured, "coquette-chic" piece in chocolate brown, adorned with a single, delicate sage-green feather that matched her leathers. With a precision that would have baffled his soldiers, he adjusted the brim, ensuring it shielded her emerald eyes from the harsh midday glare.

"There," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, velvet register reserved only for her. He didn’t pull his hands away. Instead, he let his thumbs graze the line of her jaw before leaning in to press a lingering, soft peck to her lips.

"Are you nervous?" he asked, his dark eyes searching hers.

Salviana let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, her smile appearing slightly anxious at the edges. "I’ve never been to one of these, Alaric. In the North, hunting was about survival, not... whatever this is. This feels like a theater where the stage is made of thorns."

Alaric’s expression softened, a rare, genuine warmth breaking through his icy exterior. He stepped closer, closing the gap until the heat of his body acted as a barrier against the prying eyes of the court.

"It is a theater," he agreed. "But you aren’t an actress, Salviana. You’re the guest of honor."

To prove his point, he began a process of "pampering" that was as much about calming her as it was about his own need to touch her. He pulled a small, silver-capped vial from his breast pocket—an oil of lavender and crushed mint—and applied a drop to her pulse points. His touch was light, almost reverent, as he massaged the scent into her skin.

"You don’t need to do anything," he whispered. He moved to her gloves, checking the lacing on her wrists. He tightened them just enough to be secure, then kissed the back of each hand. "You don’t need to fire a single arrow. You don’t even need to hold the reins if you don’t wish to."

Salviana laughed softly, the tension in her shoulders beginning to bleed away. "I’m a Divine Lady, Alaric, not a porcelain doll. I can ride." after that first time she had spent a few weeks learning and she was indeed a little good with horse riding.

"I know you can," he countered, his eyes glinting with mischief. "But today, I want you to do something much more difficult."

"And what’s that?"

"Nothing." He reached out and suddenly poked her in the ribs, a sharp, playful tickle that caught her completely off guard.

"Alaric!" she squealed, twisting away from him as a bright, genuine laugh erupted from her throat. She tried to swat his hands away, but he was too quick, his fingers dancing along her waist until she was breathless and flushed, her earlier anxiety replaced by the pure, grounding joy of their connection.

He caught her as she stumbled back, pulling her flush against his chest. He held her there for a long moment, his chin resting on the crown of her hat.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice turning serious but remaining infinitely tender. "The King wants to see you fail. Benjamin wants to see you cower. But you aren’t going to give them that satisfaction. Today, you are going to be the sun. You are going to sit on your mare, you are going to look beautiful, and you are going to be my witness."

He pulled back, taking her hands in his. "I am carrying the bow. I am carrying the blades. I am carrying the weight of every insult they’ve ever thrown at us. Your only job is to stay by my side and watch."

He led her over to his main horse, a sleek, black mare that had been groomed until he shone like darkness. ’Soar’ He didn’t wait for the stable hands; he lifted Salviana into the saddle himself, his strength effortless. Once she was settled, he spent several minutes checking every buckle and strap, ensuring her comfort was absolute. He even produced a small, velvet-lined pouch and tucked it into her saddlebag.

"What is that?" she asked.