THREE: A Book Character

MINTHE

A Book Character

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The ceremonial blade is still spinning on the marble when I realize nobody is coming after him.

The metallic clang keeps echoing through the hall in uneven rings, scraping against my skull while blood slides slowly down my wrist and drips onto white silk. One drop. Then another.

Nobody moves.

Holy shit.

Hundreds of people stand frozen beneath the silver chandeliers, staring at me with the faces of people watching a public execution. The moonlight pouring through the arched windows catches every face too clearly—nobles pretending not to stare, omegas whispering behind trembling hands, warriors looking everywhere except directly at me because apparently humiliation becomes less awkward if nobody makes eye contact.

My lungs burn.

Pierre disappeared less than a minute ago, but it already feels permanent. The massive ceremonial doors still sway slightly from where they slammed open. Rain blows through the entrance in cold bursts, carrying the scent of wet stone and pine from outside.

And he’s gone. With her.

A quiet whisper cuts through the silence.

“The true mate returned . . .”

Another voice answers somewhere behind me.

“I heard the Alpha King once wanted her too.”

“Oh my God . . . Lady Minthe . . .”

I swallow hard enough to hurt.

Don’t cry. Not here. Not in front of all these people.

The Moon Priest clears his throat awkwardly near the altar, visibly sweating beneath his ceremonial robes. He looks at me once before immediately looking away again.

Coward.

The glowing wolf markings beneath the altar slowly dim, and somehow that hurts worse. Because even the magic knows. Even the Moon Goddess took one look at this disaster and said yeah, absolutely not.

Jesus Christ.

My fingers curl tighter into my skirts until the fabric wrinkles beneath my grip. I can feel blood drying sticky against my palm where Pierre ripped his hand away from mine.

Three years.

Three years of rebuilding his entire territory beside him. Negotiated trade routes. Starved through winters. Sold my jewelry when Ashbourne couldn’t pay soldiers. Held him together after battles. Waited for him every single night.

And the moment she walks through the door—he’s gone.

Why can it just be me? I’m here . . .

“Lady Minthe . . .”

The priest finally steps forward carefully, speaking in the cautious tone of a man who thinks I might shatter if he uses the wrong word. Honestly, fair assumption.

“Due to . . . unforeseen circumstances . . .” he says weakly, “the ceremony will be postponed until further notice.”

Postponed.

I almost laugh. Not canceled. Not abandoned. Postponed. It’s as if Pierre simply stepped outside for air instead of sprinting after another woman in the middle of our mating vows.

My throat tightens painfully.

Someone in the crowd mutters, “How humiliating . . .”

I hear that one clearly. Good. At least somebody’s honest tonight.

I lower my hand slowly from where it’s still hanging half-raised from the unfinished vow. My arm feels numb.

The hall remains painfully silent while I step down from the ceremonial dais. One step, then another. My legs feel heavy beneath layers of white silk. The gown suddenly weighs a thousand pounds, and the silver embroidery scratches against my skin now. Earlier it felt beautiful. Now it feels fucking ridiculous.

Every footstep echoes.

I keep my chin up anyway. Because if I fall apart here, these people will remember it forever. And I already know how the story paints Minthe. Pathetic. Obsessed. Unstable. The villainess abandoned for the heroine.

I will not give them the satisfaction of watching me beg.

The crowd parts immediately as I walk through the center aisle. Nobody speaks directly to me. Nobody stops me. They just stare. A noblewoman lowers her voice poorly enough that I still hear her.

“I almost feel sorry for her.”

Almost. How generous.

My pulse pounds violently behind my ribs.

I keep walking. The music stopped a long time ago, and the only sounds left are whispers and the dragging hem of my gown across marble floors.

By the time I reach the corridor outside the ceremony hall, my composure is hanging by threads. The doors close behind me with a heavy boom.

Silence. Real silence this time.

I stand there alone for several seconds, staring blankly ahead while torchlight flickers against dark stone walls. Then I hear servants whispering nearby.

“The Alpha carried Lady Lyria himself—“

“They said she collapsed from exhaustion—“

“Poor thing . . .”

Poor thing.

I let out one sharp laugh before clapping a hand over my mouth, because it sounds dangerously close to a sob.

My chest hurts. Not metaphorically—actually hurts, it’s as if someone shoved a fist between your ribs and keeps squeezing.

I start walking before I embarrass myself further. Fast. 

The corridors blur together beneath dim golden light while servants flatten themselves against walls to avoid me. My heels strike hard against stone floors. My breathing gets shakier the closer I get to my chambers.

I don’t even remember opening the door. It slams shut behind me, and suddenly the silence becomes unbearable.

I rip the silver circlet off my head so violently it catches in my hair.

“Fuck—“

The thing flies across the room and smashes against the vanity mirror. Silver pieces scatter across the floor. My hands shake violently now. I brace both palms against the vanity before my knees give out completely.

The mirror reflects someone I barely recognize. White ceremonial gown. Mascara smudged beneath tired eyes. Blood drying across trembling fingers. Abandoned.

I stare at myself for a long moment. Then I start laughing—not because anything’s funny, but because holy shit, Minthe. You actually believed you won.

I laugh harder until my throat burns.

“You absolute fucking idiot,” I whisper to myself.

My reflection looks exhausted. Pathetic. I spent three years becoming softer for Pierre. Gentler. Patient. The old me would’ve thrown the ceremonial blade directly into his stupid face. 

Modern-world Minthe would’ve burned the entire mating hall down and keyed his fucking car afterward. Instead I stood there trying to understand him, trying to make excuses, because somewhere along the way loving Pierre became survival.

And now I don’t know who the hell I am without that.

A knock sounds at the door—three slow knocks. My stomach twists instantly.

Pierre.

For one horrible second, relief hits me before I can stop it. God, that’s embarrassing. I wipe quickly beneath my eyes and straighten before he enters.

Don’t look desperate. Don’t fucking look desperate.

The door opens. Pierre steps inside still wearing black ceremonial robes streaked with rainwater near the sleeves. His dark hair is slightly damp now, loose strands falling across his forehead. He looks tired. Not guilty—just tired. That realization lands ugly inside my chest.

His eyes move over me briefly before settling on the broken circlet pieces scattered across the floor. Then he sighs. Actually sighs.

“You waited up?” he asks.

I blink at him. My brain genuinely stops working for a second.

“. . . What?”

Pierre shuts the door behind him. “You should’ve slept,” he says while loosening the leather wraps around one wrist. “It’s late.”

I stare at him. There’s no apology, nor panic. No I’m sorry I abandoned you in front of hundreds of people. Nothing.

The room suddenly feels too small.

“You . . . left,” I say quietly.

Pierre’s jaw tightens slightly, already irritated by the conversation. “Yeah, of course. Lyria collapsed.”

I wait. That’s it. That’s apparently the entire explanation.

“Pierre . . . you walked out during our mating ceremony.”

“She needed medical attention immediately, Minthe. What did you think I was supposed to do?”

“And I needed—“

My voice cracks. I look away instantly. Humiliating. Absolutely humiliating.

Pierre exhales sharply. “Minthe, don’t do this tonight. Fuck, just don’t make a scene.”

My fingers tighten against the vanity edge. I stare at the floor for a moment before forcing myself to speak evenly. “You left me standing there alone.”

Silence.

“I know,” he says finally. Something inside me starts unraveling quietly.

I laugh once under my breath. “Do you know what everyone was saying after you left?”

“People gossip, Minthe. Stop acting like you’re not aware of that.”

“No, Pierre.” I look up at him finally. “They were calling her your true mate.”

His expression hardens immediately. “That’s enough.”

The response hits me so fast I almost physically recoil. “You’re defending her?” I whisper.

“She arrived half-dead in the middle of a storm.”

“And I was your bride, Pierre. I’m your bride, baby.”

The words come out softer than I intended. Not angry—just hurt. Which somehow feels worse.

Pierre rubs a hand down his face roughly before looking at me again. “You’re acting cruel. Fuck, you don’t usually act like this. When have you always been like this?”

Cruel.

I actually stop breathing for a second. My chest goes hollow.

“. . . Cruel?”

“She was alone, Minthe.”

“So was I.” My voice barely comes out above a whisper.

He looks away first. That hurts too.

“I didn’t have a choice,” he mutters.

Bullshit. He absolutely did. He chose her. I know he did. The worst part is that he knows it too.

Rain taps softly against the windows while silence stretches between us. I stare at him standing in the middle of our chambers wearing the clothes he was supposed to mate me in tonight, and my stomach twists violently.

“Did you love her the entire time?” I ask quietly.

Pierre’s eyes snap toward me instantly. “Don’t.”

“No, answer me.” My throat burns now. “Please. I just . . . I need to understand what the hell happened tonight.”

His jaw clenches. “She saved my life once.”

There it is. I close my eyes briefly.

Of course. I remember reading that part of the novel years ago curled up in bed in my tiny apartment back in my old world—Lyria hiding wounded teenage Pierre after an ambush near the border territories, Pierre falling hopelessly in love with the beautiful omega who treated him kindly when nobody else did. The original story always painted it as tragic. Fated. Pure.

But all I can think now is, she still left you.

She still left you, Pierre. But I didn’t. I’m here. I stayed.

I open my eyes again slowly. “And what . . .” I swallow, “-what about me?” I ask.

Pierre looks exhausted now more than angry. “Minthe, come on. I’ll make it up to you. This is Lyria were talking about. That’s not fair.”

A sharp laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Not fair?” I repeat softly. “Pierre, you abandoned me at the altar.”

“She needed me.”

“And I didn’t?”

His silence stretches too long. Way too long.

I stare at him while something cold slowly settles into my chest, because if our positions were reversed—if Pierre had stood bleeding at the altar while another man carried me away—I would’ve fought my way back to him. No hesitation. No question.

“If it were me,” I whisper carefully, “if I had collapsed during someone else’s ceremony . . . would you have left her for me?”

Pierre opens his mouth. Then stops. Just for a second—a single fucking second.

But I see it. The hesitation.

And suddenly the room feels freezing cold.

He’d choose her.

He always would choose her.

Why did I think a character from a novel would change for me?