THE ALPHA'S CURSED BRIDE

***CONRY***

Returning to my room, the weight of the night finally settled on my shoulders. The visit to Blake had drained more out of me than I cared to admit. My head ached, my body sore from travel, but it was the memories of the day that truly tired me.

I sank onto my bed with a quiet sigh. The sheets were cool against my skin, grounding. For a moment, I just stared at the ceiling, watching the faint shadows from the torches dance across the stone. The castle had grown silent; even the air seemed to rest.

A gentle knock broke the stillness.

"You called for me," a familiar voice said softly through the door.

"Come in," I replied.

The door creaked open, and Esther stepped in. She moved with the same calm grace she always had - a kind of peace that followed her like a scent. Since my mother's passing, she had become a quiet constant in my life - not as family, but as something close.

I straightened. "What's your honest opinion about Vera?" I asked, my voice low.

She smiled - that small, knowing smile that always came before truth. "I see the way you look at her," she teased lightly. "She'll make a fine partner. I tested her earlier - she passed with grace."

Her words loosened something inside me. Esther didn't give compliments easily. If she spoke well of Vera, then perhaps I wasn't chasing a fleeting feeling.

"Thank you, Esther. That will be all," I said, leaning back.

She nodded, her eyes soft but perceptive, and quietly left. Her footsteps faded down the hall, swallowed by the hush of the night.

Alone again, I tried to rest. But sleep refused to come. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her - Vera. The way she stood, composed yet uncertain. The way her eyes held strength and fear in equal measure. I had seen many women before, but none quite like her.

I told myself to wait for morning. But my heart was impatient.

After a long moment of struggle, I rose, poured water into a basin, and splashed my face. The chill sharpened my thoughts. I reached for my fragrance oil - pine, warm and steady - and dabbed a little along my neck. It wasn't vanity; it was a habit of clarity. The scent always reminded me to be composed.

I didn't know if I was being bold or foolish. Maybe both. But I couldn't rest with her image burning behind my eyes.

The corridors were still. Golden armor plates lined the walls, reflecting the flickering light of torches. My steps echoed faintly on the stone, steady and rhythmic, almost in time with my heartbeat. With each step, it grew louder - heavier - as if urging me forward.

By the time I reached her door, my pulse was wild. I hesitated, then knocked twice.

Almost instantly, the door opened - as if she had been awake, waiting.

"Hi," I said softly, my voice lower than I meant it to be. "I'm sorry to intrude this late."

She shook her head gently. "It's fine," she said, stepping aside.

Her room felt different from mine - warmer somehow. The faint scent of rosemary and fresh wood lingered in the air. Moonlight poured in through the window, washing the space in silver. Everything about it felt quiet, safe, and almost sacred.

"Have a seat," she said, gesturing toward a chair beside her bed. Her tone was calm, but her eyes flickered with something uncertain.

I nodded, but I couldn't take my eyes off her. The linen she wore shimmered faintly in the light, catching on the edges of her shoulders. She looked soft - yet there was something strong in the way she held herself.

Before I could think, I stepped closer. My hands moved almost on their own, resting lightly at her waist. I leaned down, searching her eyes for refusal. When it didn't come, I tilted my head and brushed my lips against hers.

The moment our lips touched, the world seemed to slow. Her breath hitched softly, and for a second, everything else - the walls, the silence, the weight of my position - vanished. There was only her warmth, her scent, the trembling stillness between us.

Then she made a small, uneasy sound - barely there, but enough. I froze. I wanted to stop, but my heart beat too loudly to think. My fingers lingered against her side before I forced them to still.

In that pause, realization struck me. She was innocent. Completely.

A wave of regret rushed through me. I drew back slowly, breathing hard, guilt coiling in my chest. "I should have been more patient," I whispered.

Her eyes met mine, and I saw it - relief. Not fear, not judgment. Relief. That look hit harder than any wound ever could.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, my voice heavier now. "I didn't know you were a virgin."

I sank into the chair beside her bed. My pulse was still erratic, but my mind had gone still.

I expected embarrassment or silence from her - maybe even anger - but instead, she smiled. It was soft, shy, and utterly disarming.

"I don't think I would've regretted it," she whispered. "If you were my first."

Her words stopped the air in my lungs. I just looked at her, unsure if I was hearing right. She wasn't playing games. Her eyes were too honest for that.

Something inside me shifted. The tension, the doubt, all of it fell away.

I reached for her hand, holding it gently between mine. Her skin was warm, grounding. "Please," I said, my voice steady now, "be my mate. Help me build something lasting - something real."

It wasn't a demand. It wasn't even a plea. It was truth.

She looked away shyly, her voice small but clear. "Sure."

The word hung in the air, soft and certain.

I smiled - not wide, but real. For the first time in a long while, I felt peace. The storm inside me eased, replaced by quiet warmth.

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the faint crackle of the torches outside and the slow rhythm of our breathing.

I rose slowly, still holding her gaze. "Get some rest," I said. "You've had a long day."

She nodded, though her eyes lingered on me in a way that made it hard to leave. I turned toward the door, my hand brushing the handle, when I felt a soft tug at my sleeve.

I turned.

Before I could ask, she leaned in and pressed her lips gently to mine - a quick, uncertain kiss, but one that set my chest on fire.

It wasn't passion this time. It was something else - quiet, brave, and full of unspoken things.

When she pulled back, her cheeks flushed. "Good night, Alpha," she whispered.

I couldn't find my voice for a moment. Then I nodded, managing a small smile. "Good night, Vera."

As I stepped into the hallway, the air felt colder than before. My pulse hadn't slowed; it was still hammering, echoing through me.

By the time I reached my room, her kiss was still there - faint on my lips, stubborn in my mind. I sat on the edge of my bed, running a hand through my hair, and let out a long, quiet breath.

No matter how hard I tried, I knew I wouldn't sleep tonight.

Because for the first time, the thought of her didn't just stir me - it settled somewhere deeper. Somewhere permanent.

And that, I realized, scared me more than anything else ever had.