The Hunt and the Heartbeat

The royal hunting grounds were a sea of emerald velvet and baying hounds. The nobility had gathered under the gilded pavilion, their laughter ringing out like breaking glass. To anyone else, it was a day of sport, to Evelyne, it was a battlefield she had already walked once before.

She sat atop her obsidian mare, her riding habit a deep, midnight blue that looked almost black in the shade of the ancient oaks. She wore no veil, letting the wind catch her hair, her eyes scanning the tree line with the precision of a hawk.

"You look like you're hunting more than just stags today, Lady Evelyne."

Alaric pulled his white stallion up beside her. He was dressed for the chase, his leather jerkin straining against his chest, a longbow slung across his back. He looked wilder out here, less like a prince and more like the wolf he truly was.

"I find that in a forest full of predators, it’s best to be the one holding the bow," Evelyne replied, not looking at him.

"And where is your bow?" Alaric leaned closer, his stirrup brushing against hers. "Or do you intend to kill with a look? You’ve certainly been practicing on your cousin."

Evelyne glanced toward the pavilion. Seraphina was there, looking pale and miserable, forced to stay behind because Evelyne had expressed concern to the Duchess about Seraphina’s delicate constitution. The girl was fuming, but she couldn't argue without looking ungrateful.

"Seraphina is a garden weed, Alaric. She doesn't require a bow. Just a firm hand to pull her out by the roots."

Alaric’s laughter was dark and appreciative. "Careful, Evelyne. If you keep showing me this side of you, I might forget that this is supposed to be a political arrangement."

Before she could respond, the horn sounded. The hunt was on.

The group thundered into the woods. Evelyne didn't follow the main pack. She knew exactly where the "accident" would happen: the Narrow Pass near the Black Creek. In her past life, Prince Julian, Alaric’s younger, kinder brother, had been "accidentally" shot by a drunk nobleman. It had been the first step in Alaric’s path to the throne, and though she had once believed Alaric had nothing to do with it, she now knew better.

She broke away from the trail, her horse’s hooves muffled by the moss. She could hear the distant baying of hounds, but here, the woods were deathly silent.

Suddenly, a flash of movement.

Prince Julian was up ahead, chasing a roe deer toward the creek. Behind him, hidden in the dense thicket, a figure raised a crossbow. It wasn't a drunk nobleman. It was a hired mercenary in the d’Astier family colors, a plant meant to frame Evelyne’s own father.

Evelyne didn't hesitate. She didn't cry out. She reached into her saddlebag, pulled out a heavy silver flask, and hurled it with all her might at Julian’s horse.

The flask clipped the horse’s flank. The animal reared, whinnying in surprise, throwing Julian off-balance just as the twang of a crossbow string echoed through the clearing.

The bolt whistled through the air, grazing Julian’s shoulder instead of piercing his heart.

"Assassin!" Evelyne screamed, her voice piercing the woods.

She didn't wait. She kicked her mare into a gallop, charging toward the thicket where the shooter was hidden. But before she could reach the brush, a blur of navy and gold streaked past her.

Alaric.

He had followed her. He leaped from his moving horse, tackling the assassin to the ground before the man could reload. The struggle was short and brutal. Within seconds, Alaric had the man pinned, his dagger pressed against the assassin's throat.

Evelyne dismounted, her heart hammering. She ran to Julian, who was clutching his bleeding shoulder, shaken but very much alive.

"Are you alright, Your Highness?" she asked, her voice trembling, not with fear, but with the adrenaline of finally changing the past.

"I... I think so," Julian gasped. "Lady Evelyne? You saved me."

Alaric stood up, his face a mask of cold, murderous rage. He looked at the assassin, then at the man's cloak, which bore the d’Astier crest. Then, his gaze shifted to Evelyne.

The silence was suffocating. Alaric walked toward her, his boots heavy on the damp earth. He didn't look at his wounded brother. He looked only at her. He grabbed her arm, his grip possessive and bruisingly tight, and hauled her away from Julian, dragging her behind a massive oak tree.

"Explain," he hissed, pinning her against the rough bark. His eyes were glowing with a terrifying intensity. "Explain how you knew to be here. Explain how you knew to throw that flask before the bolt was even fired."

Evelyne looked up at him, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. The proximity was overwhelming. She could feel the heat radiating off his body, the scent of blood and sweat and iron.

"I have good instincts, Alaric," she spat, trying to pull her arm away.

"Liar," he growled. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his body heavy against her own. "That wasn't instinct. That was foresight. You knew he was there. You knew exactly what was going to happen."

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a dangerous, low vibrate. "Who are you, Evelyne? And whose side are you truly on? Because if you’re playing me, I’ll make sure the executioner's axe is the kindest thing you ever feel."

Evelyne didn't flinch. She leaned into him, her hand coming up to rest over his heart, the heart she intended to break.

"I told you, Alaric," she whispered, her voice like a knife in the dark. "I’m the only one who knows what you really are. And if I were you... I’d start wondering if the assassin was really there for your brother, or if he was a message for you."

Alaric’s grip tightened. For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them moved. The tension was so thick it felt like the air might catch fire.

Then, the sound of the rest of the hunting party approached.

Alaric pulled back, but his eyes never left hers. He reached down and picked up the silver flask she had thrown. He looked at the d’Astier crest engraved on it, then tucked it into his own belt.

"This isn't over," he said, his voice a promise of future torment. "You’ve saved a Prince today, Evelyne. But you’ve also made yourself the most hunted thing in these woods."

He turned and strode back toward his brother, leaving Evelyne leaning against the tree, her legs feeling like water. She had saved Julian. She had disrupted Alaric’s plan. But as she watched Alaric command the guards with ruthless efficiency, she realized something terrifying.

She hadn't just caught his interest. She had become his obsession.

And in Alaric’s world, obsession always ended in blood.