Return of the General's Daughter

While General Odin was lost in his reverie, Asael lay on the forest floor some distance away from him beside a quiet stream, beneath a canopy of stars and ash-gray sky. His arm was his pillow. The moonlight slicing through the trees just enough to reveal the longing etched into his face.

"Bella..." he whispered, his voice barely audible above the rustling leaves. "I miss you. I hope you and our child are safe."

Beside him, Galahad stirred at the sound, concern flickering across his face.

"She’s in Calma," he said. "Lara made sure of it. She’ll be alright, brother. She should be fine."

Asael nodded faintly, the ache in his chest tightening like a vise.

Arabella was Sigfrid, his best friend’s younger sister. His shadow for years. At first, he was annoyed by her. She wore her devotion on her face, and he felt that she was very clingy. Her love had once felt suffocating—her loyalty too pure, too bright for someone like him, a soldier hardened by war.

He hadn’t wanted to marry. Not with blood still on his hands and war still in the wind. So he’d kept her at arm’s length, treating her politely but with indifference, because he did not want to delay her if there were men who wanted to be her husband.

But when he had returned from the brink of death two years ago, thanks to the miracle that was Lara—wounded, broken, and sent to recover at the Norse Estate—she had been there. Every morning. Every night. Tending to his wounds. Reading to him, speaking softly to him, even when he couldn’t respond. She said she had already considered Asael as her future husband.

Which man would not be touched by such devotion and love? Only a scumbag would, and Asael was no scumbag. Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, he realized he had loved her all along. It started when he was just a teenager, but he dismissed it as sisterly affection.