NINE: Baby

MINTHE

Baby

* * *

The first thing I realize when I wake up is that the Alpha King sleeps very silently.

He could have killed me in my sleep and I wouldn’t have known.

I stare up at the dark ceiling from the floor beside the ruined bed, wrapped in a blanket that smells faintly of smoke and cedarwood.

“Who put this?” I scratch my head.

My neck aches, my shoulders ache, my entire body feels bruised from the last twenty-four hours. Pierre leaving me at the altar.

Nearly dying on a mountain road. Proposing political fraud to the most dangerous man in the empire.

My life has become a fucking circus.

Soft gray light slips through the massive windows. Rain still clings to the glass in streaks, though the storm has mostly passed.

The fire burned low sometime during the night, leaving the room colder now. I push myself upright slowly, wincing when the cuts on my palms pull against the bandages.

A movement across the room makes me freeze.

Hades is already awake.

Of course he is.

He sits on the couch I made for him, one arm resting across the back, dark shirt half-buttoned, damp hair pushed away from his forehead. His silver eyes are already on me—watching, always fucking watching.

“You stare at people while they sleep?” I mutter, voice rough from exhaustion.

“You talk in your sleep.”

Oh God. I immediately bury my face into my hands. “No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

“Please tell me I said something cool.”

“You threatened someone named Karen.”

I slowly lower my hands. “That tracks.”

That bitch ruined my airpods and didn’t even say sorry for it. I’ll be sure to make her pay for it the moment I come back.

One corner of his mouth moves faintly before disappearing again so quickly I almost think I imagined it.

The room goes quiet after that, I mean, not awkward exactly, it’s just strange, the kind of silence where I’m too aware of everything. The massive broken bed beside me. The blood on the sheets. Him sitting there looking unfairly beautiful in the weak morning light.

Jesus Christ. I look away first.

A knock sounds at the chamber doors. “Enter,” Hades says. I quickly stand up and ruined my clothes as if it’s been torn apart by a beast.

Well, I wouldn’t be lying. I look at Hades.

Several attendants step inside carrying folded clothing, polished boots, trays of food, jewelry cases—enough supplies to relocate a small nation.

They stop the second they notice the destroyed bed, and every single one of them immediately lowers their eyes.

“They buy it.” I mouth at him and giggled. This is so fun.

I bite the inside of my cheek so I don’t start laughing again.

One older maid approaches me carefully. “Lady Minthe,” she says softly. “His Majesty ordered preparations for your return journey.”

“My what?”

“The imperial carriage is waiting.”

I blink at her. “I can walk,” I say immediately. “Or take a normal carriage. I’m not dying anymore. Probably.”

“No.” Hades says it without even looking at me—his words are obviously non-negotiable. He rises from the couch, towering over half the room instantly. “You were attacked once already.”

“I survived . . .” I look at the maids who are whispering to themselves, trying to make their presence small. “I mean, I survived . . . baby,” I bite my lip and raise my brows at Hades to act his part.

He grits his teeth, I can see his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Darling . . .” he starts off and walks towards me. My facade quickly falls as I fall back down the broken bed. “You survived because you were found.”

Okay. Fair. Still, I cross my arms. “People are going to lose their minds if I arrive in the Alpha King’s carriage.”

They wouldn’t have seen something this luxurious back in the Ashbourne Pack.

“That is the point.”

The attendants become very interested in the floor.

I exhale slowly through my nose. Right. I forgot I sold my soul to the monarchy last night.

The maids help me dress while Hades disappears into another room—thick black traveling clothes this time, soft fabric lined with silver stitching at the cuffs, expensive enough that touching it makes me nervous. A heavy cloak settles over my shoulders afterward, warm and absurdly soft against my skin.

“This is too much,” I mutter.

“It was ordered personally by His Majesty,” one maid says carefully while fastening the cloak. “He requested your comfort be prioritized.” She giggles.

Well, at least one thing is going right. This act is going to be a headache.

I touch the bandage at my throat absentmindedly while staring at myself in the mirror. Three years ago, I walked away from this palace willingly.

Life is fucking sick in the head.

When I step outside the palace an hour later, cold morning air hits my face immediately. The imperial carriage waits at the bottom of the stairs, black lacquer gleaming beneath the pale dawn—massive wolves stamped in silver along the doors, imperial guards mounted beside it in dark armor. Not escorting me. Guarding me.

I stop walking. Okay, here goes nothing. “Baby!” I yell, giggling.

He stands beside the carriage speaking quietly with one of his commanders, the man disappearing instantly when addressed.

Hades turns toward me. The sight of him this early in the morning should honestly be illegal—dark formal coat fitted across broad shoulders, silver clasps at his throat, gloves covering his hands.

His gaze moves over me once slowly.

“You’ll arrive before midday,” he says.

I nod once. Then quieter, before I can stop myself—“Thank you.”

Something unreadable flickers across his face. He steps closer suddenly, close enough that I catch the clean scent of cedar and smoke again. One gloved hand reaches up toward my throat and I go still as his fingers brush lightly against the edge of the bandage.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “pick something other than ‘baby’.”

My stomach does something deeply embarrassing. “I make terrible decisions under pressure,” I whisper.

“I noticed.”

His hand drops away. Then he opens the carriage door himself, which absolutely does not help the rumors situation.

* * *

The ride to Ashbourne Manor feels longer than usual—probably because I spend the entire journey trying not to think.

Fucking hell.

By the time the carriage finally rolls through the gates of Ashbourne territory, exhaustion sits so heavily in my body I almost don’t move when the door opens.

But the moment the imperial crest becomes visible, the entire manor grounds erupt into chaos. Pack warriors stationed outside straighten instantly, several staring openly at the carriage before recognition hits their faces one after another.

Fear follows immediately after. One man nearly drops his spear.

I step down carefully onto the stone path, boots touching familiar ground for the first time in weeks. Ashbourne Manor rises ahead of me exactly as I remember it—tall gray stone walls, ivy climbing across the eastern side, training yards still scarred from old winters, the fountain near the entrance still broken because Pierre kept forgetting to repair it.

Home. Or it used to be.

The imperial guards remain close behind me as servants gather nervously near the entrance stairs, whispers spreading almost instantly.

“Why is the Alpha King’s carriage here?”

“Why is Luna Minthe wearing imperial colors?”

One of the Ashbourne warriors hurries toward me, stopping several feet away. His expression twists strangely when he notices the bandage around my throat. “Lady Minthe,” he says quickly. “We—we heard about the carriage accident.”

Accident. Right. I force a small smile. “I’m alive. That’s usually a good sign.”

He doesn’t smile back, his discomfort growing worse instead. “We informed Alpha Pierre immediately last night,” he says carefully.

“The moment we received word.” Hope rises automatically before I can stop it.

“But Lady Lyria collapsed with fever shortly after.”

Oh.

“The physicians feared it might worsen during the storm. The Alpha ordered every available carriage sent to the neighboring infirmary.”

The word sets softly, quietly, and still manages to split something open inside my chest.

For a second I just stand there holding my breath while cold morning wind moves through the courtyard. Pierre knew. He knew my carriage overturned in the mountains during a storm. And he still chose someone else first. Again.

The worst part is that I understand it—that’s the truly pathetic thing. Part of me still thinks, of course he did, Lyria was sick. As if nearly dying somewhere on a mountain road should have simply waited its turn.

I tighten my fingers around the folds of my cloak until the fabric wrinkles beneath my grip. Then I smile. “Thank you for telling me,” I say softly.

The warrior looks relieved enough that guilt twists in my stomach for making him uncomfortable in the first place. God. I really did become pathetic for that man.

The imperial guards remain downstairs while I walk inside alone.

Servants pause when they see me, eyes widening immediately before dropping toward the floor. Nobody expected me back looking like this. Nobody expected me back at all.

I climb the staircase slowly, one hand brushing the polished railing, my body growing heavier with every step.

Then I hear voices upstairs. Low. Quiet. Pierre’s voice.

I stop breathing for half a second. My feet move before my brain catches up.

The hallway leading toward our chambers looks exactly the same—dark carpets, tall windows spilling pale morning light across the floor, one vase near the wall still chipped because Pierre knocked into it during one of our arguments last winter. I remember laughing while helping him clean it up.

God.

The bedroom door stands partially open. I reach it slowly. Then stop.

Pierre sits at the edge of his bed.

Lyria lies beneath the dark silk blankets I bought two years ago during a trade visit to the southern territories, her pale hair spread across the pillows while morning light pours through the curtains behind her.

Pierre presses a cool cloth gently against her forehead, his large hand careful as he brushes damp strands away from her face.

For one horrible second, I feel as though I walked into somebody else’s life.

Pierre looks up first and sees me.

“Hey . . .” I smile.

His entire body stills instantly. Then he stands—not relieved, not panicked, but suspicious. His eyes move over me quickly, taking in the imperial cloak, the visible bandage around my throat, the guards waiting downstairs beyond the windows. His jaw tightens.

“Where the hell have you been all night?”