At the stony part of a forest far from where the motel had been, the carriage moved, the clopping of the horses echoing softly as they moved, the wheels of the carriage shaking softly yet vibrating at the same time.
Inside the carriage, Zalthor sat, his posture regal yet controlled and haughtily perfect. Beside him, Yeara, her body gently leaned to the chair, her gaze outside.
Even though someone would think that she was simply admiring the nature of the outside view, thoughts just ran through her head, lots of unanswered questions. She was still speechless even after they came to the carriage.
It was like she had lost her sense of speaking, after what he had said to her.
'Why had he been so serious?' She spoke to herself questioningly, even though she knew she was not going to get any answer.
Why would he say something like that in such a serious tone? She had never seen anybody feel so much excitement in negative things.
She turned to him, her gaze moving to his jaw, and then her heart skipped as she remembered what he had done to her jaw with his tongue. Her hands unknowingly moved to her jaw as she touched it, as if that would stop her from thinking about it.
"When is our wedding?" Yeara finally broke the silence.
Zalthor turned to her, his eyes calm. He then spoke.
"When do you suggest is best?" he asked.
Yeara realised sometimes this man answered her question with a question, as if his ego would be shattered if he answered the proper way or said he did not fully know about something.
"Next week," she spoke, staring at him, waiting for his answer, and then he nodded, taking her aback.
"Very well then."
Yeara did not expect that he had just agreed to it like it was nothing. She stared at him as he locked gaze with her. The way his expression was so blank made her wonder if this man had been like this since birth.
"Did someone hurt you?" Yeara softly asked.
Zalthor's body stiffened ever so slightly.
A fraction of his pupils dilated as his eyes locked onto her. Yeara smiled softly. She moved her small warm hands, resting them on his hands as she moved his hands and rested them on her lap.
Her fingers traced along the line of his palms. The silence stretched. She moved her gaze back to his, but she still saw him staring at her, and then she saw something in his eye—it was brief.
'What was that?'
Yeara could not even describe what she saw at that moment, but she was sure she had seen something.
"Did someone hurt you in the past?" she asked, and finally his gaze returned back to its controlled calmness.
"No."
His brief words came out cold, but for the first time since she met him, Yeara had a little feeling that it was a… lie.
She seriously did not know why she asked that, but perhaps the way he is must have come from what had happened to him in the past. That was why she asked.
"Do you have other mistresses or wives?" she finally blurted out the words that had been in her head since the beginning. Her face was slightly flushed.
Zalthor's lips moved to a sinful smirk as he responded.
"And what if I do?"
Yeara's body stiffened at his words, her eyes looking at him to search for a lie, but she could not find any. She could not even tell if he was telling the truth or not — his face was neutral.
"I would not allow that."
A tinge of pain hit her chest for some unknown reason. She did not understand why.
A teasing thrill moved through Zalthor's eyes as he watched the way her hands loosened and tightened on her gown, rumpling the smooth area, even the way her ears twitched slightly.
His hands moved to her white hair as he tucked it gently behind her ears. Yeara's eyes moved to his.
"Why would you not allow that?" he asked, leaning in as he intentionally made his words curious.
Yeara glared at him almost warningly — a glare that spoke more than words could ever have done.
"Then our marriage would not hold. I cannot marry a man who does not believe that one woman is enough. If you have mistresses, then why marry me? You may as well marry them instead." She spoke, the jealousy mixing in her words unknowingly.
"Is that so?" Zalthor asked as he watched, and she nodded frantically as if that would state her point.
A brief silence fell as Yeara waited for him to answer or at least say something, anything.
But he said nothing. He returned his gaze straight ahead before he leaned into his chair, closing his eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly. Yeara's eyes stared at him.
'Why is he not answering my question?' She thought to herself. Her hands moved to his wrist, slightly pulling his sleeve. Zalthor opened his eyes, his pupils shifting to her from the side.
Yeara bit the inside of her lip. At this point, she did not mind if she was disturbing him she needed to know. Her heart skipped as she asked again.
"You haven't answered my question yet, your majes—"
"Zalthor," he corrected. "Call me Zalthor."
He said, and Yeara nodded softly. The words rolled out of her lips so silky and smooth.
"Z… Zalthor."
A slight tilt moved to Zalthor's lips.
The carriage moved to an abrupt stop.
Yeara's body moved, almost falling, but she was caught by his strong arm. Zalthor held her as he carried her, and before Yeara knew it, her body was in the air before she felt herself on his lap.
Her eyes turned to his. His head rested against the chair, his eyes lazily staring at her and oh heavens… that was drop-dead sexy.
His hands held her in place, resting just above her lap. Her face grew heated as she felt his gaze unwavering on her.
"I… I can sit on my—" Her words trailed off as his hands began to move up her waist slowly. Yeara's eyes widened, her heart beginning to thump, and then he stopped, his hands returning back to her lap, resting atop it.
He then wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her to him as he leaned forward before resting his face on her shoulders, his face pressed to her nape. A shiver curled through her spine as she felt the rhythm of his breath on her neck.
"We are almost at the palace," Zalthor's deep husky voice rumbled through her.
She managed a stiff nod even though she knew he would not see it. She had done that as if to calm herself, her heart was beating hard. She could not even control the way her body was responding to this man at all.
She gazed out the carriage window and saw walls—long, magnificent walls that seemed to stretch endlessly.
"Have we… reached?" she asked softly.
Zalthor hummed in response, inhaling her sweet scent slowly, his eyes lazily shut.
Not long after, the carriage came to a stop before a glossy black royal gate. It opened, and they passed inside. Yeara gasped softly at the sight. A slow, almost imperceptible smile curved Zalthor's lips at her reaction. He leaned back lazily in his chair, letting her remain on his lap, a calm control radiating from him.
The castle was immense—lavish beyond anything she had imagined. Gardens stretched out in every direction. It was far grander than the ballroom she had attended… far, far bigger.
The carriage wound its way around a sculpted circle featuring a magnificent tree, surrounded by flowers, before finally coming to a stop.
Yeara looked up— they were at the front of the palace. Her gaze shifted to the side. A small balcony perched above, and on it stood a lady.
Yeara's body froze. Her lips trembled.
The lady was p..pregnant.
Her pupils shrank as a sharp pang struck her chest. Her eyes remained fixed on the pregnant figure, the words forming only in her mind—not on her lips.
'E… Ella.'