The entire lower floor buzzed like a hive.
Eyes turned. Whispers rippled like fire through silk.
Lan's drenched figure glistened under the chandeliers as Alaric carried her up the stairs—not in haste, but with quiet, storm-burdened fury. Droplets of water traced a path behind them, from her soaked hemline to the marble. Her hair clung to her skin in dark, dripping strands. The thin silk of her inner hanfu layer stuck like second skin, revealing every soft curve underneath.
The guests, nobles, and servants all watched.
Mirelle's lips twisted.
Lady Hilda's fan stopped mid-wave.
Alaric didn't look back once.
Up the grand staircase, into the long hall, and finally, into the chamber that had become theirs—even if only by name.
He pushed the door shut with his boot and gently set Lan down near the dresser. Her teeth chattered, her lips pale.
Lan stood still, blinking at him. Her voice was low and dazed. "I need to change…"
Alaric moved to the wardrobe, pulling open the tall carved doors—and stopped.
There were gowns. Beautiful gowns. But none were fit for after a fall into cold water. No warm robes. No sleepwear. Only delicate, intricate dresses made for grand occasions, too luxurious for a simple night's wear. He turned back slowly, his voice tight. "There's nothing here… nothing warm. No robe. No—who packed this?"
Lan looked at him blankly. Then, without waiting, her fingers reached behind her back.
The soaked silk slid down her shoulder again.
"What are you doing?" Alaric's voice was sharp.
"I need to change," she said, puzzled by his reaction. "It's wet. I'll get sick."
He took a step forward. "Not in front of me."
"But—" She stopped, confused. Her fingers held the edge of the fabric. Her skin glistened, pale and delicate, water droplets sliding down her collarbone, trailing into the hollow of her chest.
Something in his chest stirred. Heat—sharp, unwelcome.
He exhaled hard, pulling open his own trunk, rummaging fast until he found one of the few items that wasn't military or ceremonial: a soft, clean nightgown—ivory, light, and trimmed with lace, something his mother had likely packed for someone else but forgotten.
He tossed it toward her, not meeting her gaze. "Change into that."
Lan blinked, catching it midair. "But—this is…"
"Just wear it."
He turned his back.
Behind him, he heard the rustle of wet silk being pulled down. The faint slap of fabric hitting the ground. His throat tightened.
A beat later—her voice.
"…I can't zip it."
Silence.
He turned around slowly.
Lan stood near the mirror, the gown slipped over her form—but unzipped at the back. The neckline dipped low, exposing the soft line of her spine and the upper slope of her hips. The lace hem skimmed the tops of her thighs, sheer against the light.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. Her hair was still damp, curling against her bare skin.
"Can you?" she asked softly.
Alaric stepped toward her.
His fingers brushed the zipper. Cold metal. Warm skin beneath.
He started to pull—slowly. The fabric hugged her figure as it closed over her. He could feel the flutter of her breath, the curve of her back rising slightly with each inhale.
Lan tilted her head a little. "Thank you."
The zipper clicked into place.
But his hand stayed.
He didn't move. Neither did she.
For a moment, the air between them was thick. Electric. Her skin smelled faintly of rainwater and night jasmine. Her back was still warm. He could feel it even through the gown.
"You should sleep," he said, but his voice was low. Gritty.
She turned, eyes lifted to his.
"I don't think I can… not tonight."
A pause.
Neither reached for the other. But the space between them had shrunk to a thread.
He looked at her mouth.
And then—stepped away, sharply.
...
The sound of the door closing was followed by a long silence. Lan sat on the bed, feeling the weight of the gown on her body. The fabric was delicate, unfamiliar. She ran her fingers along the lace hem, still damp from the ordeal at the poolside. Every now and then, her fingers brushed the place where Alaric's hand had been, lingering for a second longer than necessary. It made her skin tingle.
She wasn't sure what to think of the events that had unfolded. The touch of his hand as he zipped her up still felt heavy on her back. Why had he seemed so... agitated? So distant?
There were too many things she didn't understand.
From the way his presence seemed to consume the room when he entered, to the soft tension in the air between them, it was all confusing. The anger. The strange gentleness.
But before she could spiral too much, she heard the soft tread of footsteps outside the door, and she looked up to see Alaric standing there, dressed in his usual attire, a sharp contrast to the delicate softness of her gown.
He didn't say a word. He simply glanced at her once, his expression unreadable, then turned toward the door.
Lan rose hesitantly, feeling the heavy silence that stretched between them. For a moment, he lingered at the threshold, but then, without a word, he left
Alaric had arrived downstairs to find a circle of familiar faces. He nodded curtly as he greeted the gathered nobles. His eyes scanned the room, but his mind kept drifting back to the moment with Lan. The quiet tension in the air. The confusion in her eyes.
As he entered the main hall, Lady Elara turned towards him, her calm expression shifting slightly in concern. She was dressed in a gown that matched the warmth of her smile. But there was no warmth in Alaric's eyes as he faced her.
"Alaric, my dear, you look... troubled," Elara remarked, her voice laced with curiosity.
Alaric gave a stiff nod. "Nothing to concern yourself with, Lady Elara," he said, his voice colder than he intended. He swept his gaze across the room, noting the lingering whispers of the other guests as they watched him with half-hidden smirks.
"Is everything alright with your... bride?" Elara asked, her tone light but probing.
Alaric's gaze flickered briefly toward the grand staircase, as if waiting for Lan to appear. But the stairs remained empty. She hadn't come down.
"She is fine. Just... not accustomed to this place yet," Alaric responded, his voice suddenly lacking the sharpness from before.
Elara gave him an inquisitive glance but didn't press him further. "I do hope you're treating her well, Alaric," she said with a small smile, though there was something in her eyes that made Alaric pause.
He didn't answer her right away. Instead, he turned his attention to the others in the room—faces he had seen countless times but never truly cared to know. They were all just a blur in the background, a reminder of everything he couldn't afford to focus on right now.
His mind kept drifting back to Lan, to the silence that had filled the room when he'd zipped up her gown. The brief moment of closeness. She was a stranger to him. Yet, in that fleeting touch, something had stirred inside him. Something he didn't want to acknowledge.
After a few moments, Lady Elara gestured toward the others in the room, excusing herself. Alaric took the opportunity to slip away, his gaze once again flickering up the stairs. He couldn't stop himself from looking.
Still, Lan didn't come down.