Return of the General's Daughter

"Lara," the prince’s voice was low and flirtatious. "I have come for another reason."

He had asked her to join him in the garden—the one nestled on the left side of the house, where the swing and a wooden garden set were after following a short cobblestone path. The biting chill of the January evening clung to her skin, prompting her to instinctively wrap her arms around herself.

Alaric noticed. Without a word, he unclasped the heavy cloak from his shoulders and stepped behind her. He draped it gently around her body, the gesture intimate, almost reverent.

"You’re cold," he murmured, as if stating something he already intended to change.

Lara noticed that his scent had changed. It was no longer the smell of herbs but something subtle and pleasant to the olfactory nerve. She breathed his lingering scent on the cloak, the smell of forest pine, musk, and something unmistakably him. Its warmth sank into her bones, offering more than just physical comfort.

"Thank you," Lara said softly. "What would you like to talk about?" Lara inquired, her voice soft yet curious, as she wrapped the heavy cloak tighter around her frame. The dim light from the moon flickered around them, casting soft, silver halos that danced across the garden walls and flicked shadows over their faces like a dream trying not to wake.

Alaric sat down lazily on a carved bench opposite her, separated by an old circular table, its top polished smooth from years of weathering—a tree stump, hollowed by time and silence.

"You’ve learned of my illness," he said, his gaze steady. "So, I want you to cure it."

Lara blinked, her brows lifting slightly at the way he phrased it. I want. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command softened only by the velvet smoothness of his tone.