Married To Darkness

Chapter 518: Prepping For Breakfast together

"To bathe first" Salviana whispered suddenly she wished she had choosen to cuddle instead of going fo this breakfast.

The steam in the en-suite chamber rose in thick, pearlescent swirls, carrying the scent of crushed jasmine and expensive oils. The bathtub, a masterpiece of carved white marble supported by gilded lion’s paws, was large enough to be a small pool. It sat beneath a stained-glass window that filtered the morning light into shards of amethyst and gold, casting a mosaic of colors across the churning, rose-petal-strewn water.

Alaric didn’t let her go immediately. He carried her to the edge of the tub, his movements fluid and strong. The transition from the bed to the bath was a slow dance of discarded silk. As their nightclothes fell away, the air in the room seemed to vibrate with a new kind of tension—not the jagged, desperate heat of the previous night’s confession, but a soft, languid intimacy that felt like a sanctuary.

He stepped into the water first, his pale, scarred skin glistening under the steam. He sat back, his broad shoulders resting against the smooth marble, and reached out for Salviana. She stepped in after him, a soft sigh escaping her lips as the heat of the water met her skin. Alaric pulled her back against his chest, her spine resting against his firm torso, his arms wrapping around her waist like living bands of iron.

"You’re still trembling," he murmured against the shell of her ear, his voice a low vibration that she felt more than heard.

"The water is hot," she whispered back, leaning her head against his shoulder. Her emerald eyes fluttered shut as she felt the rhythmic thump of his heart against her back. It was steady now, a far cry from the frantic drumbeat of his nightmare.

Alaric reached for a sponge soaked in scented oils. With a gentleness that seemed impossible for a man known as a monster, he began to wash her. He started at her shoulders, the sponge dragging slowly over her porcelain skin, tracing the delicate lines of her collarbone. Every movement was a silent act of worship. He was meticulous, as if he were cleaning a precious artifact, his touch lingering on the curve of her neck and the slope of her arms.

"I was so afraid," he confessed softly, his breath hot against her damp skin. "When I woke up and realized I had fed from you... I thought the boy in that room with Anne-Marie had come back. I thought I had finally broken the only thing that makes this life worth living."

Salviana turned in his arms, the water splashing softly against the marble. She reached up, her wet fingers tracing the sharp, regal line of his jaw before resting on his cheek. "That boy is gone, Alaric. You are a man who loves, and that love is your anchor. You didn’t take from me; I gave to you. There is a world of difference between a predator and a husband."

She took the sponge from his hand and began to return the favor. She washed the scars on his chest—the reminders of a father who didn’t understand him and a kingdom that feared him. She lingered over the spot where his heart beat, her touch light and healing.

The romance in the air was palpable, thick as the steam surrounding them. It wasn’t just about the physical proximity; it was the way their souls seemed to be knitting together in the quiet. Alaric watched her with an intensity that made her feel seen in a way no one else ever had. To the world, she was a Divine Lady, a pawn for peace. To him, she was the "Fiery-wife," the sun that had dared to shine into his abyss.

"If Embrez sees you today," Alaric said, his eyes darkening with a playful, possessive glint, "he will know. He is observant. He’ll see the way you look at me, and he’ll never let me hear the end of it."

"Let him look," Salviana replied, a cheeky smile touching her lips. She leaned in, pressing a wet, lingering kiss to his shoulder. "Let the whole court see. I want them to know that I am not just a bride of convenience. I am yours."

Alaric groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated devotion. He pulled her closer, his lips finding hers in a kiss that tasted of jasmine and salt. It was a slow, deep exploration, a promise made in the silence of the steam. His hands slid down her back, pulling her flush against him in the water, the heat of their bodies merging until it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

They stayed there for a long time, lost in the rhythm of the water and each other. The shadows of the past—the wailing children in the mist, the stitched-mouth beast of the Wyfwood, and even the ghost of Anne-Marie—seemed miles away. Here, in the circle of Alaric’s arms, there was only the present.

Finally, as the water began to cool, Alaric pressed one last kiss to her forehead. "We should get out. The family breakfast won’t wait forever, and if we’re late, Embrez will assume I’ve kidnapped you."

"Technically, you did," she teased, splashing him lightly as she rose from the water.

Alaric laughed, the sound bright and genuine, as he stepped out after her and wrapped her in a thick, warm towel. He held her for a moment longer, his eyes locked onto hers. "Then I suppose I should make sure my captive is well-fed."

They dressed in silence, a comfortable, domestic quiet that felt earned. As they prepared to face the Velthorne family, Salviana caught her reflection in the glass. Her emerald eyes were glowing, not with the faint shimmer of magic, but with the undeniable light of a woman who was loved.

Hand in hand, they left the sanctuary of their room, ready to face the dragons of the court, the fire between them burning brighter than ever.

The steam from the bath still clung to their skin, a warm veil of moisture that made the transition back into the cool morning air feel like a gentle awakening. As they stepped back into the bedchamber, the heavy oak doors had already been visited by the silent, efficient hands of the palace staff. Laid out across the fainting couch and the carved armchairs were the ensembles for the morning—garments that signaled not just their status, but the formidable unity of the Third Prince and his Divine Lady.

For Alaric, the attire was a study in monochromatic power. He pulled on trousers of midnight black, the fabric heavy and expensive, followed by a crisp white shirt that buttoned high at the throat. Over this went a structured vest of deep charcoal, but the centerpiece was his frock coat—a long, dramatic garment of black brocade with silver embroidery snaking up the cuffs like frost on a windowpane.

But dressing Salviana was where the true chaos—and the magic—began.

Her gown was a masterpiece of "coquette-regal" design, a fusion of her personal princess-y aesthetic and the high-stakes fashion of the Wyfn-Garde court. The dress featured a bodice of rich, chocolate-brown velvet that nipped in her waist with agonizing precision, leading down into a voluminous skirt of tiered cream lace and soft sage-green silk. It was a gown that required a small army to assemble, yet Alaric dismissed the maids with a sharp flick of his wrist.

"I’ll do it," he’d said, and for the next twenty minutes, the "Monster of the North" met his greatest challenge: silk ribbons and hidden stays.