Chapter 13

The Glimpse of Guilt.

The late afternoon sun dipped low across the Fresh Meadows Pack, bleeding gold over the rooftops, but the air was sharp and cold inside Luna's private chambers.

Blythe sat stiffly at her writing desk, the velvet pen trembling slightly between her fingers. She hadn't intended to call for Xavier, yet here she was, scanning the long list of omega duties, wondering if she could "accidentally" assign him nearby.

Foolish, she scolded herself.

She shouldn't even be thinking about him.

But the memory of his steady hands, the strength hidden behind those soft eyes, gnawed at her. Xavier hadn't just awakened her body; he'd unsettled her soul.

A soft knock at the door jerked her upright.

"Enter," she called, breathless. She hastily smoothed the creases of her gown, trying to mask the disquiet swirling within her.

It wasn't Xavier.

It was Helena—one of the senior omegas—her expression carefully blank, yet her steps betrayed a hint of urgency. She carried a silver correspondence tray, and something else flickered in her eyes: caution.

"My Lady," Helena said, bowing respectfully. "Reports from the northern border… and a matter I thought might require your attention."

Blythe arched a brow, her voice cool but edged with curiosity. "Speak."

Helena hesitated, her eyes drifting toward the closed door as though afraid the shadows themselves might be listening.

"It's… about the young ostler. Xavier."

Blythe's fingers curled slightly around the armrest, though her face remained composed.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"Some of the workers in the eastern park say he's been… distracted lately," Helena murmured, voice lowered. "He's missing cues during morning rotations. Daydreaming. Unfocused."

Blythe's heart stumbled, a sudden heat flooding her chest, then sinking like a stone.

Helena continued carefully, "They say he walks around as if something heavy is weighing on him. A few even joked he must've been bewitched."

The words sliced deeper than Helena knew. Blythe's lips parted, but no sound came.

"I only bring it to you, My Lady, because—well—some believe the boy is no longer fit for duties near the council horses. A reassignment was suggested."

That did it. A quiet panic, cold and sharp, swept through Blythe's veins.

Reassignment? That meant distance. Disappearance. Loss.

"Who suggested that?" she asked, sharper than intended.

Helena blinked. "Just whispers, My Lady. Nothing official. I thought it best you know before anything escalates."

Blythe forced herself to nod, slow and measured.

"Thank you. Leave the reports on the desk," she said, her tone regaining its chill as though the conversation hadn't pierced clean through her armor.

Helena bowed again and quietly left the room.

The door clicked shut.

Blythe remained seated for a long moment—still, unmoving—until finally, she pressed her hands to her face, burying herself in their warmth.

I'm ruining him.

The thought echoed like a drumbeat.

He was never meant for this. Not for secret glances. Not for stolen touches behind closed doors. And certainly not for the scalding gaze of palace rumors.

She had asked for nothing yet taken everything.

He had been kind.

And she had lit him on fire.

Now, the heat was burning him from the inside out, in full view of a world that would not be kind enough to pretend they didn't notice.

Blythe pulled her hands away slowly, her breath uneven. She caught her reflection in the polished mirror above the hearth—eyes rimmed with guilt, lips pressed in restraint.

She didn't look like a queen.

She looked like a woman unraveling.

And the worst part was that she couldn't promise herself to stop.

Later that evening, unable to bear the weight in her chest, Blythe slipped into the stone corridors, weaving through servants and guards who bowed low but averted their eyes.

She followed instinct more than reason—and found herself near the eastern gardens.

That's when she heard it.

Low voices.

She slowed her steps, blending into the shadows, heart hammering.

It was Xavier. And Nevada—his roommate and fellow omega.

"You need to pull yourself together, brother," Nevada hissed. "You think nobody notices you staring at her like she's the moon?"

"I'm not—" Xavier started, but his voice cracked.

"You'll get yourself killed. And her."

A heavy pause.

Blythe pressed herself tighter against the cold stone, shame and something darker roiling inside her.

"I know," Xavier finally whispered, broken. "I know. But it's like—when I see her, everything else fades. The Pack. The rules. Even my damned skin."

"You can't afford to feel," Nevada snapped. "You're nothing but an omega. Remember that."

Blythe squeezed her eyes shut against the sting.

She was wrecking him.

Dragging him into something that could never truly be his to hold.

Tears pricked her lashes, furious and unbidden.

When she opened her eyes, the garden ahead shimmered gold in the dying sun—and for one wild second, she thought she saw Xavier's silhouette turn toward her hiding place.

Frozen, she waited, breath shallow.

But he said nothing.

And when she peeked again, both young men were gone.

That night, Blythe sat alone on the balcony outside her chambers, legs curled beneath her, the stars yawning wide above her.

She should let him go.

She should tighten her heart into steel and forget his hands, voice, and how he looked at her like she was something more than a caged bird.

You're the Luna, her wolf, Aria, snarled from deep within. You cannot have a weakness.

"But I'm tired of being strong," Blythe whispered.

The loneliness howled louder than any wolf's cry.

The next morning, Blythe dressed—no jewelry, no heavy crown—and requested a tour of the southern gardens.

An excuse.

A foolish hope.

And sure enough, by the hydrangea hedges near the fountain, she spotted him.

Xavier bent over a wheelbarrow, shirt damp with sweat, muscles taut and straining.

Blythe approached slowly, savoring the burn in her chest.

He didn't see her at first.

Until she said softly, "Xavier."

He stiffened, dropping the spade.

"My Lady," he rasped, turning with a deep bow that made her chest ache.

"You've been avoiding me," she said, the words escaping before she could leash them.

"I..." He swallowed, eyes flickering everywhere but her face. "It's safer."

"For who?"

He lifted his gaze, and again, that storm of longing and despair was warring inside him.

"For you," he said.

The words landed like a blow.

Blythe moved closer, reckless.

"I don't want to be safe," she said fiercely.

"You should," Xavier gritted, fists curling at his sides. "I'm no good for you, My Lady. I'm nothing."

"You're not nothing," she whispered.

His breath hitched audibly.

Blythe reached for his hand before she could stop—fingers brushing fingers.

Heat ignited between them, so fierce she nearly gasped.

But then—

A sharp cough.

They jerked apart.

Elder Moses stood a few feet away, his eyes gleaming coldly beneath his hood.

"My Lady," he said smoothly. "A word, if I may?"

Blythe nodded, struggling to compose herself.

Xavier bowed low, face shuttered, retreating into the hedges.

Elder Moses waited until he was out of earshot before murmuring:

"You should be careful where you plant your affections, Queen. Some roots grow poisonous."

His gaze flicked meaningfully after Xavier.

And for the first time, Blythe realized—

Elder Moses was watching her far closer than she ever thought.

Blythe forces a polite smile, but inside, a new fear blooms:

Had Elder Moses already guessed the truth?

And if so… what would he do with it?