Chapter 14

The Quiet Rescue

The gardens were wilder in the north fields—untamed and sprawling, much like the parts of herself Blythe kept carefully buried. Today, the council had insisted she show her face during the inspection of the lower parks—a rare and tedious task she despised.

The sun hung low, staining the sky a molten gold. Servants and guards scurried about, but Blythe wandered ahead, needing space to breathe, think, and feel something other than the endless weight pressing on her crown.

Her slippers brushed across the damp grass, and she welcomed the solitude. Until—

A sharp snap echoed behind her.

She turned.

A branch cracked underfoot. Then another.

A low, guttural growl sliced the silence from the thickets beyond the path.

Blythe's blood froze.

She stepped back, her heart hammering.

A massive, half-wild wolf—a rogue, unmistakable in its unkempt fur and bloodstained fangs—emerged from the trees, eyes locked onto her with feral hunger.

No guards. No witnesses.

And she was defenseless.

The wolf prowled closer, its snarl vibrating through the stillness.

Her body screamed to run, but her feet refused to move.

Goddess, not like this.

Not torn apart like prey in her land.

The rogue lunged.

She gasped—arms raised in a useless shield—

But just as the beast leapt, a shadow crashed between them.

A blur of motion.

A body.

A roar of anger and defiance.

Xavier.

He collided with the rogue in mid-air, forcing it back with the full brunt of his strength.

They tumbled into the underbrush, a whirlwind of claws and teeth.

Blythe stumbled back, watching in stunned horror as Xavier fought bare-handed against the rogue's savage frenzy.

Blood sprayed.

Flesh tore.

But Xavier didn't stop.

Didn't hesitate.

He moved with brutal efficiency—striking, dodging, grappling.

Driven not by training but by sheer, desperate will.

Finally—with a guttural snarl of his own—Xavier wrenched the rogue's neck at a brutal angle.

A sickening crack split the air.

The beast went limp.

Silence descended, broken only by Xavier's ragged breathing.

He rose slowly, blood staining his torn shirt, fresh gashes lining his arms.

And then his gaze met hers—wild, vivid, alive.

"My Lady," Xavier rasped, chest heaving, blood trickling down his temple. "Are you hurt?"

Blythe couldn't move at first.

She stood there, breathless, staring at him—this battered, broken boy who had thrown himself into the jaws of death to shield her without a second thought.

Something inside her splintered, sharp and irreparable.

"I'm fine," she whispered, her voice cracking like thin ice underfoot. "But you—"

Instinct overruled rank and reason.

She rushed forward, skirts gathering around her legs like restless shadows.

Her hands lifted without hesitation, reaching for him, brushing against his torn sleeve.

"You're bleeding," she murmured, horror tightening her throat.

Her fingers brushed his arm—warm, solid, trembling slightly beneath her touch.

He flinched as if her hand burned him, but he didn't move away.

He froze—utterly still—beneath her fingertips.

Their eyes collided.

Time didn't just slow—it shattered.

All around them, the world blurred into meaningless noise.

All Blythe could feel was the frantic hammer of his heartbeat pulsing against her skin, the tautness of his muscles trying—failing—not to lean into her.

She felt it.

The ragged, trembling restraint in him.

The raw need threaded into his very soul.

And the goddess helped her—she felt it mirrored in her chest.

Her thumb grazed the inside of his wrist, and he shuddered—one slight, broken breath.

A sound escaped him, something low and unguarded, something he immediately tried to smother.

Blythe's mouth parted, words perched on the edge of her tongue.

Apologies. Please. Something. Anything.

But nothing came out.

How could words possibly survive in the storm roaring between them?

Her pulse was deafening, a thunderclap against fragile ribs.

She could see his jaw clenched, and a battle raged behind those tortured, golden eyes.

He wanted to step closer.

She wanted to pull him closer.

The wrongness of it throbbed alongside the inevitability.

Then—the sound of heavy boots pounding through the undergrowth shattered the fragile world they'd built between heartbeats.

Xavier jerked back as if struck.

Without thinking, he dropped into a bow, his entire body folding into the posture of a perfect, broken servant.

"My Lady," he said again, his voice tight with pain and something more dangerous—something she could taste between them like lightning in the air.

"You should return to the estate."

The words were a dagger.

Not for her safety.

For his survival.

Blythe reached out without thinking—but Xavier was already moving, disappearing into the treeline-like mist before dawn.

She stood there, hand half-lifted, staring into the thickening woods where he'd vanished.

The guards arrived moments later, panting and wild-eyed, calling her name.

But all Blythe could hear was the lingering echo of Xavier's voice—

—and the hollow space he left behind inside her.

"My Queen!" one shouted. "We heard—"

"Too late," Blythe said, lifting her chin. Her voice was steady, even as her hands shook. "The threat is gone."

The guards fanned out to search, but she barely noticed.

Her mind replayed only one thing:

The look in Xavier's eyes as he faced her.

The raw, wordless devotion.

The savage need.

The warning she dared not heed.

Later that night, alone in her chambers, Blythe stripped off her gown and stared at the faint red smudges still staining her wrists—Xavier's blood transferred from where she had touched him.

She pressed her fingers against the marks.

Closed her eyes.

And imagine—just for a moment—what it would feel like to surrender to the fire building between them. To fall into his arms, into his mouth, into everything forbidden and ruinous.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Helena, again dutiful and composed, entered with a tray.

"My Lady," Helena said, bowing. "There is… news."

Blythe tensed. "What news?"

Helena hesitated, glancing nervously at the heavy oak door behind her.

"Some of the staff... They speak of today. Of the rogue."

"And?" Blythe demanded.

Helena swallowed. "They say the young ostler—Xavier—saved you."

Blythe's blood turned to ice.

Helena lowered her voice even further as if the walls might betray them.

"And already... there are whispers, My Lady."

Blythe clutched the edge of the table.

"What whispers?" she managed to say.

Helena met her gaze, pity in her eyes.

"The Queen's heart... no longer belongs to the King."

And in that instant, Blythe knew—

The storm she had been trying to outrun was no longer on the horizon.

It was here.

And it had her name written all over it.