Married To The Resurrected Alpha Prince

Cecelia POV:

I spent the first night in the cold, quiet room. The next day, Alastair was nowhere to be seen. A silent Omega maid brought me a simple meal of bread and broth. The castle staff was giving me a wide berth, isolating me.

It suited me perfectly. It gave me the privacy I needed to access my greatest secret.

After carefully checking the room for any prying eyes or listening ears, I retrieved the strange, smooth piece of metal I had kept hidden. It was the only thing I had brought back from that world.

I closed my eyes, focusing my will upon it, just as I had practiced in my mind a thousand times.

The gray stone walls of the room dissolved.

In their place stood a vast, brightly lit space. Gleaming metal consoles and strange, humming machines lined the walls. Surgical instruments of impossible sharpness lay neatly arranged on sterile trays.

My secret. My pocket dimension laboratory.

I took a moment to inventory my supplies. Antibiotics, scalpels, a blood analyzer. Any one of these items could cause a revolution here.

My plan was simple. First, use the castle's resources to finish my antidote. Second, find a way out of here and establish a foothold in Lunaris. A clinic would be ideal—a place to earn money and gather information.

But the castle was a fortress, and the gates were locked after curfew. I needed an opportunity.

For the next week, I played the part of a docile, forgotten bride. I kept to my room and the small, withered garden outside the west wing. I wanted Alastair to believe I was no threat.

At night, I retreated to my dimension, studying. I devoured texts on this world's herbology, cross-referencing them with my own knowledge of pharmacology.

The "Healers" of this world, I discovered, relied on instinct and simple herbal remedies. They knew nothing of surgery, of pathology, of the microscopic world. It was a gaping void I intended to fill.

A week later, my chance came.

The quiet Omega maid, in a rare moment of chatter, let slip that Alastair would be in the city on family business. The castle guard would be lighter than usual.

That evening, I retrieved a set of men's clothing from my dimension, along with a sophisticated disguise kit.

I applied a special salve to my face, concealing the sallow, blotchy skin of my poisoning. I used putty to build up the bridge of my nose and shadow to deepen my eye sockets, hardening my features. A wig and a cap completed the transformation. In the mirror, a plain but unremarkable young man stared back.

I would call myself Julian.

Using my knowledge of the castle's layout, gleaned from old blueprints I'd studied, I found a disused servant's passage. It led me out beyond the walls.

The streets of Lunaris were empty. A cold fog clung to the cobblestones. I pulled my cap low and stuck to the shadows, heading for the city's black market to acquire some rare herbs.

Suddenly, the clatter of hooves echoed from the street behind me.

I ducked into a narrow alley, holding my breath.

An ornate but unmarked carriage thundered past, its movement erratic. It was fleeing something.

As it passed my hiding spot, a wheel hit a loose stone. The carriage lurched violently, tilting at a dangerous angle. The driver cursed, pulling hard on the reins as the horses whinnied in panic.

Then I smelled it. Blood. Thick and coppery, mixed with another scent—something foul, metallic, and burning.

The smell of silver.

My Healer's instincts immediately recognized the danger. Silver was poison to werewolves. A wound caused by a silver weapon could be fatal.

The carriage shuddered to a halt a short distance away. The driver leaped down, pounding on the door. "My lord! Are you alright? My lord!"

Silence. The smell of blood grew stronger.

I hesitated. This was not my business. I was already risking everything just by being here.

But the scent was a hook in my gut. I was a doctor. I couldn't turn my back on a dying person.

I stepped out of the alley, pitching my voice lower. "Do you need help? I'm a physician."

The driver's head snapped up, his eyes wide with a mixture of hope and suspicion. "A physician? What are you doing out after curfew?"

"A house call," I said calmly. "If you waste any more time, your master will be dead."

My confidence and the reek of blood convinced him. With a desperate curse, he wrenched open the carriage door.

The stench that rolled out was overwhelming.

Inside, slumped on the velvet seat, was a tall man. A massive wound gaped in his abdomen, soaking his dark coat with blood. His face was ashen.

I recognized the injury instantly. A silver weapon. The flesh around the wound was already blackening with necrosis.

And the man's face... though smeared with blood and sweat, it was unmistakable. The chiseled jaw, the strong brow. It was the face from the royal portraits.

It was Jude Montgomery.

My dead husband.