Transcription
The ladies kept provoking her non-stop, tossing out increasingly bold insinuations. She, already exhausted, decided to put an end to it once and for all. "I'll kiss the first man who walks through that gate," she declared. Laughter burst around her. But something shifted. Her heart lurched for no reason, without warning, as if her body knew before her mind just how big a mistake she had just made. And then he walked in. It was not some random lord. It was not any of the expected guests. It was him. The alpha king. The man whose very presence made submissive wolves lower their heads. The man no one dared hold eye contact with for long. The man she had run from 6 years ago. And to her absolute horror, he had heard every word. His gray eyes found hers, and a small, dangerous smile curved his lips. Then he walked straight toward her to claim the kiss.
"I swear by the gods. If Lord Cashes tries to impress me with those hunting stories again, I'm going to fake a faint." Lady Margot rolled her eyes dramatically, adjusting her blonde curls as she watched the carriages arriving through the windows of the south corridor. The other women laughed. Arya stood beside them, smiling politely the way she always did, present yet never fully part of it, included just enough not to be entirely forgotten.
"At least he tries," Lady Evelyn countered, snapping open her fan with an exaggerated sigh. "Marquis Aldrich spends the entire night talking about taxes and revenue. Kissing him is like kissing a handsome but painfully boring accountant."
"Oh, but he kisses well," Lady Isidora added with a mischievous smile. "His hands are cold, but his mouth makes up for it."
Arya watched the conversation flow as it always did. They spoke with the ease of people discussing the weather or the quality of the wine served at dinner parties, conquests, stolen kisses, promises whispered at balls.
"Count the is far too bold," Lady Margot continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Last time we danced, his hand went down so far I had to slap him under the guise of playful teasing."
"At least he doesn't have bad breath," Lady Eiveine made a face. "Lord Edmund kissed me behind the curtains at the spring ball, and I thought I was going to pass out. The man smells like garlic and sour wine."
Laughter echoed through the inner courtyard where they had gathered. It was a strategic spot close to the gardens, but with a clear view of the castle's main gates. From there, they could watch the guests arrive without standing formally at the entrance like hostesses.
Arya smiled again, but it was an empty smile. How many times had she taken part in these conversations? How many times had she pretended to be interested while they traded stories of romantic victories she would never have?
"And you, Arya?" The question came from Lady Margot, accompanied by a smile far too sweet to be genuine. All heads turned toward her.
Arya blinked. "Me?"
"Yes, you." Lady Margot tilted her head, green eyes gleaming with something that was not quite kindness. "Which noble do you plan on charming tonight? Or will you spend the entire ball discussing military strategies with the commanders?"
"Here we go," Arya knew that tone. The false innocence hiding venom. "Maybe," she answered vaguely, trying to deflect attention.
"Maybe what?" Lady Evelyn stepped closer, her fan tapping lightly against her palm. "Maybe you'll discuss strategies. Or maybe you'll kiss someone."
"Arya doesn't kiss anyone," Lady Isidora declared with the certainty of someone stating an absolute truth. "She's far too busy for that."
"Busy? What a delicate word for alone. For no one wants me."
"It's not about being busy," Lady Margot added, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "It's about responsibility, isn't it, Arya? The royal strategist must be an example."
The silence that followed was heavy, dense with everything unspoken.
"And being strategist doesn't stop me from—"
"From what?" Lady Margot lifted a perfectly shaped eyebrow.
"From kissing someone."
"Of course, it doesn't stop you, dear. It's just that, well, you know, men behave differently with women who were born to lead."
Anger flickered, slow but intense. "Actually," Arya heard her own voice rising louder than she intended. "I was thinking of kissing someone tonight."
The five women stared at her, genuinely surprised. "Really?" Lady Eve blinked. "Who?"
Arya looked toward the gates. Carriages kept arriving. Nobles stepped out with their fine clothes and practiced smiles. The courtyard of Dawnvale Castle buzzed with preparations for the coronation ball.
"Step back now, make an excuse, laugh, and say you were joking." But the words were already leaving her mouth. "I'm going to kiss the first man who walks through that gate."
Silence fell, absolute and complete. Lady Margot was the first to react, her laughter echoing across the courtyard. "You're not serious."
"Why wouldn't I be?" Arya crossed her arms, refusing to retreat. "Not now. Not after years of being nothing but an observer. You all spent half an hour discussing who kisses well, who has bad breath, who's too bold. I simply decided to join the game."
"But Arya," Lady Eveene exchanged a meaningful look with the others. "What if it's someone inappropriate?"
"Inappropriate? How?" Arya kept her chin lifted. "I thought you all were modern women. Isn't a kiss just a kiss?"
"It's different for you," Lady Isidora murmured. "You have to think of your reputation. What people will say. Any man."
"Even if he's old, ugly, even if he's any man," Arya repeated, feeling her stomach tighten as she realized the trap she had set for herself.
The women turned toward the gates in unison, watching with the anticipation of people waiting for a show. Arya looked too, her heart beginning to pound erratically. "What have I done? What in the God's name have I just done?"
Minutes dragged by. A carriage with a golden crest entered. From it stepped a man so old and round he needed two canes to walk. Lady Margot let out a giggle. "Will he do?"
"He hasn't crossed the gate yet," Arya murmured, eyes locked forward. Her palms were sweating. Please let it be someone reasonable, a young knight, a wealthy merchant, someone who'd accept a quick kiss and not turn it into a scandal. More carriages, a short count with a ridiculous beard, two twin brothers who looked drunk before even arriving. A merchant dressed in colors so bright he resembled a peacock. None of them had yet crossed the main gate leading to the inner courtyard where they stood.
And then from the far side of the outer courtyard, a man appeared on foot, alone, coming from the direction of the stables as if he had just left his horse with the caretakers. Arya's breath left her lungs, the black tunic, the tall muscular build, the dark hair falling in unruly waves. She knew that silhouette. No, it can't be. But it was.
Draven walked across the outer courtyard toward the gate that separated the entrance area from the inner one, where Arya and the ladies waited. He moved with the predatory grace of someone born for war, seemingly unaffected by the curious stares he drew. Or perhaps not so unaffected. Because when he was only a few steps from the gate, when Arya was still processing the impossibility of him being there, his pupils widened like a predator's and locked with hers. For a split second, something flashed across that golden gaze. Recognition, surprise, and then he smiled.
"Impossible," Lady Evelyn whispered beside Arya, her voice.
"It's the Alpha King, Draven of Iron Ridge," Lady Margot breathed, leaning forward. "I thought he never left his territory."
"They say he has become ruthless. I heard he executed three nobles who questioned his authority," Lady Isidora added, eyes wide.
Personally, Arya couldn't hear them. Couldn't do anything except watch Draven stride through the gate with long, deliberate steps, coming directly toward her. He shouldn't be here. Iron Ridge was 5 days away. He never attended social events. Never.
"Arya," Lady Margot's voice was laced with cruel delight. "You're not actually going to do this, are you? Of course not. This is madness. Draven is not just any man. He's—"
But before Arya could finish the thought, before she could make up an excuse, before she could simply run, Draven had already crossed fully into the inner courtyard. His eyes, molten gold, stayed locked on hers, as if he knew exactly where she would be. And that smile, that smile was not kind. It was the smile of a predator who had just found his prey.
Arya's legs refused to move as he crossed the courtyard toward her. Each step echoed inside her mind. The ladies around her stepped back instinctively, creating space. *Run. You need to run now.* But Arya stood frozen like a doe before a wolf.
Draven stopped just inches from her, close enough for her to smell pine and damp earth clinging to him. Close enough to see the small scars marking his strong jaw. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body like a cloak.
"Arya." His voice was deeper than she remembered. Rough. Dangerous. "What a pleasant surprise."
Before she could respond, before she could even process what was happening, Draven leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead. It was gentle, almost chaste, and absolutely devastating. Gasps erupted around them. Lady Margot choked on air. Lady Eveine clutched her chest dramatically. Arya remained frozen, the warmth of Draven's lips burning on her skin.
When he pulled back, his eyes gleamed with amusement. He leaned in again, his mouth brushing dangerously close to her ear. "I always suspected you were crazy about me," he murmured, low enough for only her to hear, "but thank you for the very public confirmation."
He heard. Realization hit Arya like a punch to the stomach. He had been in the courtyard, close enough to hear. He heard everything, every word.
"Would you like to have tea with me this afternoon?" Draven stepped back just enough so their eyes met again. There was something beyond amusement in that golden gaze, something hungry, something that made Arya's stomach tighten. "We have much to discuss."
Arya felt all the ladies watching her. Felt the weight of their expectations, their silent judgment, felt the danger radiating from Draven like heat from a bonfire. *Say no. For all the God's sake, say no. Nothing good can come of this.*
"Yes." The word left her lips as a whisper, a surrender.
Draven's smile widened, revealing perfect white teeth. He took her hand, lifting it to his lips in a courtly gesture completely at odds with the intensity of his gaze. "Until this afternoon, then." And then he walked away, his black tunic trailing behind him as he headed toward the quarters reserved for honored guests.
Arya stayed rooted in place, her hand tingling where he had touched her, heart pounding so loudly she was certain the other women could hear it. "Well," Lady Margot finally broke the silence, her sharp voice filled with disbelief and something dangerously close to envy. "I suppose you won that bet, Arya."
But Arya barely heard her. "What have I done? What in the God's name have I just done?"
***
On the other side of the castle, in the chambers reserved for honored guests, Draven of Iron Ridge watched the sunset through the arched window. She didn't come. He had waited, prepared tea, dismissed his advisers, refused three invitations to political meetings, and Arya never appeared. A bitter smile curved his lips. "Of course, she didn't come because running is what Arya does best."
Draven ran a hand through his hair, frustration tightening his chest. Six years had passed since he woke up that morning and found the bed empty. Six years since he searched every corner of the castle only to discover she had left before dawn without a word, without an explanation. As if that night hadn't meant anything, but it had to him. It had meant everything.
Draven closed his eyes, allowing himself to remember. Arya at 7 years old, the commander's daughter, showing up in the stables with scraped knees and fierce determination in her eyes. He had been nine at the time, already training with a sword under the strict supervision of his weapons master. "Teach me to fight," she had demanded, planting herself in front of him with clenched fists. Draven had been so stunned by her audacity that he simply agreed. That was the first of countless memories.
Arya at 10 teaching him how to track footprints in the forest, laughing when he tripped over a tree root. "You might be a prince in the castle, but out here, I'm the one in charge," she had declared with that mischievous smile that already made his heartbeat faster.
Draven had been by her side from the beginning. He was the one who taught Arya how to hold a sword, his hands guiding hers until the movement became perfect. He was the one who defended her when young nobles mocked her dream of fighting. And he was the one who, hiding his pride deep in his eyes, celebrated in silence when she finally earned her place in the royal guard.
They grew up together, side by side. He, the crown prince destined for the throne. She, the commander's daughter, with fire in her veins and a refusal to accept limitations. The court whispered, "The prince and the guard girl. What a scandal." But to Draven, Arya had never been a scandal. She was his constant, his anchor, the only person who treated him as Draven, not as prince.
When she officially joined the royal guard at 18, Draven was 20 and felt a pride he could barely contain. She was fierce, dedicated, brilliant in strategy. And yet, she kept that easy laugh that made his chest tighten in ways he couldn't name. Love. He had always known, ever since he was old enough to understand what the word meant. But Arya was free, wild, bright like fire that couldn't be contained. And Draven was terrified of saying anything, of making any move that could destroy the friendship that was the most precious thing he had. "If I lose her friendship, there's nothing left." So he buried his feelings, pushed them deep, contented himself with having her by his side as a friend, training partner, confidant. Even when every look, every accidental touch during sword practice, every smile directed at him made his heart bleed with the weight of the unsaid, he watched her fight alongside the other guards, watched the way she commanded respect, how her strategic mind solved problems that left older men perplexed, watched other men look at her with admiration, some with interest that went far beyond professional respect, and Draven bit his tongue. Because he had no right to jealousy. Not when he never had the courage to tell her what he felt until that night.
The celebration ball. Draven had been 21, Arya, 19. He couldn't even remember the reason for the party anymore. He only remembered the wine flowing freely, the music filling the hall, and Arya laughing beside him, cheeks flushed from drink. She had been different that night, more relaxed. The weight she always carried on her shoulders had temporarily slipped away. And Draven, drunk on both wine and the sight of her, couldn't stop staring.
"Dance with me," he had asked, the words slipping out unfiltered.
"You hate dancing," she replied. But she was already taking his hand.
They danced one song, then another, then another. The hall was full, but Draven saw only her. The way she moved, the way her eyes sparkled in the candlelight, the way she fit perfectly in his arms, until the hall began to empty, and they were still there, lost in each other.
"You're my best friend," Draven murmured at some point, his forehead pressed to hers, his inhibitions dissolved by alcohol.
"And you're mine," Arya whispered back.
He didn't know who moved first. It didn't matter. Suddenly, his lips were on hers, and the whole world made sense. The walk to his chambers was a blur. Interlaced hands, quiet laughter, stolen kisses at every corner, both of them stumbling, laughing, unable to keep their hands off each other. And then they were in his room, and there was no more laughter, only urgent hands, breathless kisses, and the overwhelming sensation of finally, finally being complete.
Draven remembered every detail of that night with a clarity that surpassed the haze of alcohol. "I've always wanted this," he had confessed at some point, the words slipping out through the fog of drink and desire. Truths he had buried for years, finally finding a voice.
"So have I," she answered. And those four words broke something inside him and rebuilt something, too.
They fell asleep, tangled together. Draven remembered pulling her closer, kissing her temple, feeling her heart beating against his. Remembered thinking, even drunk, that maybe, finally, he could have everything. "Maybe tomorrow I'll finally say it. Finally tell her I've loved her since I was 12. That every day without saying it has been torture."
When he woke, she was gone. The bed beside him was cold, her clothes gone, as if she had never been there. Only her scent remained on the sheets, a cruel reminder of what he'd had for one night. Draven got up unsteadily, his head pounding, his heart in panic. He dressed hurriedly and searched for her frantically. Walked through every corridor in the castle, questioned every guard, checked her quarters, the guard's hall, the strategy room, the stables. Nothing until he finally found the commander, her father, with a grim expression.
"She requested a discharge from the guard," the man said, his voice careful, avoiding Draven's eyes. "To take care of personal matters. She left this morning before dawn."
"Personal matters?" The words were like a knife to the chest. "Where?" Draven asked, his voice coming out more desperate than he intended. "Where did she go?"
The commander shook his head. "She didn't say. She only asked that I respect her decision."
Draven wanted to chase her. Wanted to demand an explanation. Wanted to mount his horse and search every kingdom until he found her. But wounded pride and shame paralyzed him. Maybe it really was just the drink. Maybe she woke up, looked at me, and realized she'd made a terrible mistake. That sleeping with her best friend was something she couldn't take back. Maybe I ruined everything. Maybe I destroyed the only thing that mattered by letting my feelings speak louder.
So, he let it go. Buried the pain under layers of duty and responsibility, focused on his obligations as prince. When his father fell ill 3 years later, at 24, Draven took the throne of Iron Ridge and became exactly what everyone expected. Strong, ruthless, unshakable, the alpha king who executed traitors without hesitation, who ruled with an iron hand, who never let anyone get close. Because getting close meant feeling, and feeling meant remembering, and remembering was a pain he couldn't bear.
But on lonely nights, when the castle fell silent, and he was left alone with his thoughts, it was Arya who appeared. Arya, small, stubborn, demanding he teach her to fight. Arya, young, laughing loudly when she knocked him down in training. Arya, a grown woman, lying in his arms on that single perfect night he could never forget.
As the years passed, the truth became undeniable. It wasn't the wine. It wasn't confusion about their friendship. It wasn't a mistake. Arya was the woman of his life. The only woman he would ever forget. And he had lost her until he finally managed to find her again, learn where she had gone until today, seeing her in the courtyard, even more beautiful than he remembered, declaring she would kiss the first man who walked in. As if Destiny were giving me a second chance.
Draven opened his eyes, determination hardening his jaw. "She ran once. I will not let her run again. Not without a fight, not without answers, not without at least trying to make her understand that that night had never been a mistake to him, that nothing involving her could ever be a mistake."
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," Draven called, turning around. A servant entered, bowing respectfully. "Your Majesty, the ball will begin in 2 hours. Shall I prepare your attire?"
Draven nodded. "Yes. And," he hesitated. "The strategist Arya. Will she be present?"
The servant looked surprised by the question, but nodded. "Yes, your majesty. As strategist of the royal guard, her presence is mandatory."
"Good." Draven turned back toward the window, a slow smile forming. "Then tonight will be interesting."
When the servant left, Draven allowed himself a moment of anticipation. "You can run from tea, Arya, but you won't run from me tonight."
***
Draven was leaning against one of the marble columns in the ballroom, an untouched glass of wine in hand, watching the entrance with the patience of a predator. He had arrived early on purpose, greeted the newly crowned king of Dawnvale, exchanged a few necessary political words with important nobles, and then positioned himself strategically where he could see everyone who walked in, waiting for her. The music played softly. Couples danced. Conversations flowed around him, but Draven was completely oblivious to all of it until she appeared.
Arya slipped in through the side door, clearly trying to avoid attention. Yet, it was impossible not to look at her. The deep rose gown blessed every curve of her body, contrasting beautifully with the fair skin he remembered being soft as silk. Her hair was loose, falling over one shoulder. Draven felt the air leave his lungs. "Heavens, she is even more beautiful than I remembered."
He watched her move through the ballroom with that natural grace that had always defined her. She greeted a few guards, waved at acquaintances, her eyes constantly cataloging details of the room, always the strategist, always observing, always in control. And then a man approached her. Draven straightened immediately, every muscle in his body tensing. The man was broad, older, his hair beginning to gray. He touched Arya's arm with familiarity, leaning in to whisper something in her ear that made her smile. A real smile, not the polite one she gave everyone else.
"Who the hell is that?" Draven watched with growing irritation as the man remained by Arya's side, clearly comfortable in her presence. A woman in a green dress soon joined them, linking her arm with the man's, but he continued talking animatedly with Arya. Far too animatedly.
Draven took a sip of wine, his eyes never leaving the trio. The man laughed. Arya laughed too. The woman in green looked amused by some inside joke between them. He is standing too close to her. Another touch on Arya's arm, this time longer. Draven's hand tightened around his glass hard enough that it nearly shattered. *Calm down. You have no right to be jealous. You two are nothing. She made that clear 6 years ago when she ran.* But logic did nothing to calm the beast roaring inside his chest. He watched as the man leaned in again, saying something that made Arya roll her eyes with affection. The kind of gesture that spoke of years of familiarity, of intimacy. He knows her well, far too well.
Draven was seriously considering walking over there and dragging the man away from Arya when the music shifted to a waltz. The man extended his hand to Arya with a smile and she accepted. Oh no. Absolutely not. Draven set his glass on a nearby table and began crossing the ballroom. His steps were measured, controlled, but the predatory urgency behind them made people instinctively move out of his way. Arya and the man were already heading toward the center of the ballroom when Draven intercepted them.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice courteous, but carrying steel underneath. Arya stopped abruptly, her eyes widening when she recognized him. Draven didn't wait for permission. He simply took her hand, his grip firm, possessive, and gently removed it from the other man's. "But I believe this dance is mine," Draven finished, his eyes locked on Arya.
She glanced back at the man, who now stood still with an expression of surprise that quickly shifted to amusement. The woman in green at his side was openly laughing, her eyes shining with something that looked a lot like satisfaction. The man gave Arya a wide smile, almost as if saying "good luck" before turning back to the woman beside him.
Draven didn't wait to see more. He was already pulling Arya toward the center of the ballroom, placing his hand on her waist with a familiarity that caused murmurs to ripple through the room.
"Are you always this bold?" Arya asked, her voice slightly breathless.
"Only when I see something I want," Draven replied, pulling her closer as the music began.
They started to dance, and Draven had to exert conscious control not to simply carry her out of the ballroom right then.
"Who is he?" Draven hadn't planned to ask, but the question came out sharp, too loaded.
Arya blinked slowly. "Who?"
"That man who was practically breathing down your neck."
"Breathing." She let out a short laugh. "He was just being polite."
"Polite doesn't require touching."
"Some people are warm, your majesty," Arya lifted a brow, too casual to be genuine. "It's a friendly gesture."
"Funny, because that friend seemed very comfortable holding your arm."
"You're telling me you noticed that?" Her smile was pure challenge.
"I notice everything that happens around you."
"That sounds like jealousy."
Draven let out a humorless laugh. "Don't be absurd."
"Then why are you tense like a bow about to snap?"
She slid her fingertips along her own collar. "Pure provocation."
His eyes darkened dangerously. "Because I don't like when someone touches what they shouldn't."
Arya arched a brow. "What they shouldn't?"
He leaned in, his mouth brushing her ear. "You understood perfectly."
"Funny, because I don't remember signing any document saying I belonged to you."
"You didn't." His voice was hoarse, held together by a thread. "But that doesn't stop anyone from wanting."
Silence erupted between them. Too thick, too heavy. "You have no right to be jealous of anything concerning me," Arya said, studying his face.
"And what if I disagree?"
"Then you're being presumptuous."
"Presumptuous for wanting to know who the man is who clearly has free access to you."
"He's John, my best friend's husband."
Silence. "Husband," Draven repeated, processing.
"Yes, Elena, the woman in the green dress you saw with him. They've been married for 8 years, three children." There was amusement in her eyes now. "Jon is like a brother, my right-hand man at work."
The relief that washed through Draven nearly made him stumble. Heat rose up his neck. "I didn't know."
"Clearly," the corner of her mouth curved. "You should have seen your face. You looked ready to challenge him to a duel."
"I was considering it."
Arya laughed. "Genuine, musical, a sound he hadn't heard in 6 years. You were jealous."
"Out of my mind," Draven admitted. "And I don't regret it."
"That's not fair. You can't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because it makes everything harder."
"Good." He guided her face back toward him. "Maybe it should be hard. People are staring."
"Let them stare." Draven pulled her even closer, eliminating any socially acceptable distance. "Let everyone see you in my arms and understand I have no intention of letting you go."
"You're causing a scandal."
"I'm making a declaration."
"Draven." Arya opened her mouth, likely to argue, but Draven couldn't hold back anymore. He leaned in and kissed her there, in the middle of the ballroom with hundreds of nobles watching. For a second, Arya froze. Then she melted against him, her hands sliding up to his shoulders, her body pressing into his as she returned the kiss with a fervor that stole every breath from his lungs.
The ballroom erupted in murmurs. Someone dropped a glass. Draven didn't care. Six years of emptiness. Six years of remembering exactly how she tasted, how she felt, how she fit against him perfectly. And nothing, nothing compared to the reality of having her in his arms again.
When they finally pulled apart, both were breathless. Arya's eyes were dark, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen. "You are impossible," she whispered.
"And you're mine," Draven replied, his voice rough. He intertwined his fingers with hers and without another word began guiding her out of the ballroom.
This time, Arya didn't protest. They barely made it to Draven's chambers. The path was marked by stolen kisses at every corner, urgent hands, breathless movements. When the door finally shut behind them, shutting the world out, Draven pressed Arya against the solid wood.
"This time, I haven't had a single drink," he murmured against her lips, his hands framing her face. "I want you to know that. I want you to know that every second of what's about to happen is a conscious choice."
Arya looked at him, her eyes searching his.
"Draven, I want to relive the most beautiful night I've ever had," he continued, his thumb tracing her cheek. "But this time, I want to remember every detail. I want to be fully present. I want—"
"Kiss me again," Arya finished with a small smile, "among other things."
And then there were no more words, just hands finding skin, clothes falling to the floor, breaths mingling. Draven carried her to the bed, and this time there was no drunken urgency, only something deeper, more intense. Six years of longing carved into every touch, every kiss, every whisper.
"I remember," Arya said at some point, her fingers tracing a scar on his chest. "This one from training when you were 16. You distracted me," Draven accused lightly, kissing her neck. "Showed up wearing that blue dress instead of your guard uniform."
"I wasn't trying to distract you. You always distracted me." He lifted himself to look into her eyes. "Since you were seven and demanded I teach you how to fight. You've always been the one thing that could completely knock me off my focus."
Arya touched his face, her eyes bright with something dangerously close to tears.
"Draven, I love you," he said, the words finally, finally coming out. "I've loved you since I was 12, and you knocked me flat during training and laughed in my face. I loved you when I was 15, and you taught me to track deer in the forest. I loved you that night 6 years ago, and I love you now. It's always been you, Arya. Always."
A tear slid down her cheek. "Don't cry," Draven whispered, kissing her gently. "Not unless they're good tears."
"I don't know what they are," she confessed, her voice breaking. "I don't know how to process this."
"Then don't." He pulled her close. "Just feel. Just stay. Just let me love you the way I always wanted to."
And she stayed. The night unfolded in a blur of sensations. Unlike the first time when urgency and wine had created a frenzy, this time there was deliberate slowness, a savoring. Draven memorized every inch of her skin, every sigh, every shiver, every way she responded to his touch. And Arya, in turn, explored him with a freedom she hadn't had before. Her fingers traced his muscles, his scars, every part of him with a reverence that made his heart stumble.
"Stay with me," Draven whispered when they finally moved together. "This time, stay."
Arya didn't answer with words. She simply pulled him closer, her lips finding his in a kiss that promised everything and nothing at once. They moved together as they had years ago, but better, more connected, more aware. And when pleasure dragged them both over the edge, Draven held her as if she might disappear at any moment, because deep down he knew she could.
Afterward, they lay tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin, their breath slowly steadying. Draven traced lazy patterns on Arya's back, feeling her relax against him. "Stay," he repeated, more plea than command. "When the sun rises, stay. Don't run again."
Arya stayed quiet for so long. He thought she had fallen asleep. "I can't promise that," she finally whispered.
"Why?"
"Because there are things you don't know."
"Then tell me," Draven turned her to face him. "Tell me everything. Tell me why you left. Give me one reason. Any reason."
Arya touched his face, her eyes full of sorrow. "Not tonight. Please, just let me have this night."
And there was something in her voice, something desperate and frightened that made Draven relent. "All right," he murmured, pulling her back into his arms. "Tonight is yours. Hours. But tomorrow, Arya, tomorrow we talk."
She nodded against his chest and eventually, lulled by each other's breathing, they both fell asleep.
Draven woke to the first ray of sunlight warming his face. Still half asleep, he reached out, searching for the warmth of Arya's body. He found only cold sheets. His eyes flew open. The bed was empty. He sat up instantly, scanning the room. Her clothes gone. The rose dress that had been tossed on the floor gone. Nothing but his own belongings remained.
"No, not again." Draven ran a hand over his face, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Of course, of course she ran because that is what she does." He lay back in the bed, staring at the ceiling, frustration and pain warring inside his chest. "I've seen this scene before," he muttered to the empty room, his voice a mix of anger and defeat. "This exact scene."
But even as frustration burned through him, a stronger determination took shape. "Not this time, Arya. This time, I won't let you disappear. This time, I'll get my answers. Even if I have to turn this kingdom upside down to find you."
Draven dressed in record time. His jaw was tense, his movements precise and controlled, like someone using every ounce of discipline not to destroy everything around him. He opened the door to his chamber so forcefully that it slammed into the wall, making a servant passing through the corridor flinch.
"Your Majesty, strategist Arya," Draven said, his voice sharp. "Where does she live?"
The servant blinked, clearly confused. "I—I don't know, your majesty. Maybe one of the guard officers."
Draven was already marching down the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. He needed answers. He needed an address. He needed to find her before she disappeared on him again.
The ballroom was still being cleaned after the previous night's festivities. Servants collected abandoned glasses. Sweepers worked in the corners. And near the windows, a small group of women chatted in low voices. Draven recognized them instantly. The same ladies who had been with Arya yesterday in the courtyard. He walked straight toward them. The women stopped talking as soon as they saw him approaching, their eyes widening. One of them, the blonde with green eyes he remembered speaking the most, stepped forward with a calculated smile.
"Your Majesty, what a pleasant surprise."
"Arya," Draven cut her off, lacking patience for decorum. "Where does she live?"
The woman's smile faltered. "I beg your pardon."
"Strategist Arya. Her address, now."
The ladies exchanged looks, clearly uncomfortable with his tone. "Well, I don't know if that's appropriate," the blonde began, her voice slipping into that condescending lilt that made Draven's teeth clench. "Poor Arya lives outside the castle gates, your majesty, in a modest little house. She has a daughter to take care of, you know. She's a single mother." The way she said the last words, laden with judgment and false pity, made something dark stir inside Draven.
"And why?" Another woman added, tilting her head with malicious curiosity. "Would a king like your majesty be interested in seeking out a single mother? So early in the morning. Surely there are far more suitable ladies."
Draven moved so fast the woman choked on her breath, stumbling back. He didn't touch her. He didn't need to. The sheer fury radiating off him was enough to make all five women pale.
"Address," he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Now, or there will be consequences for wasting my time."
The blonde opened and closed her mouth, torn between clinging to her gossip and the very real fear in front of her. "I—The house is east of the main gates," she finally stammered. "Follow the road that leads to the woods. It's the third house on the left, small with a garden in front."
"Good." Draven turned to leave, but paused, casting a freezing glare over his shoulder. "And if I hear any one of you speaking about Arya like that again, with that cheap superiority and hypocritical judgment, I guarantee the consequences will be far worse than an uncomfortable conversation. Understood?"
All five women nodded frantically, their faces ghost white. Draven didn't wait for anything else. He was already descending the steps of the ballroom, his strides long and determined.
The house was exactly as the woman had described, small but well-kept, a garden with flowers in front, windows with clean curtains. Draven dismounted his horse, tying it quickly before walking to the door. He knocked once, twice. Hurried footsteps approached and then the door opened. Arya stood there and Draven felt his heart twist. She was dressed simply, her hair loose and messy, her eyes red as if she had been crying. When she saw him, her brows knitted in confusion.
"Draven, what are you doing here? How did you—"
"We need to talk," he said, stepping forward.
"I can't right now," Arya replied quickly, already starting to close the door. "I'm busy. I have something urgent to do."
"Arya, I said I can't." Her voice came out louder, almost panicked. "Please, just—just go away." She shut the door in his face.
Draven stood there for a second, processing what had just happened. He stepped back, trying to decide whether to insist or leave. Then he heard it, a scream from the back of the house.
"Sarah! Sarah, where are you?" Arya's voice soaked in absolute terror.
Draven didn't hesitate. He sprinted around the house, following the sound of her voice. He found Arya at the back, near the line of trees that marked the start of a small forest. She was screaming someone's name, her hands trembling, her eyes scanning the woods frantically.
"Sarah, please, sweetheart, answer mommy. Sarah."
"Arya!" Draven rushed to her. "What happened?"
She turned to him and he saw tears streaming freely down her face. "Draven, I—I don't have time to explain. I need to find her."
"I need to find who? What's going on?"
"My daughter," Arya cried, pure terror in her voice. "Sarah, she's 5 years old and she—she's having symptoms of shifting. She's too young. It shouldn't be happening yet, but it is. And she ran off scared, and I can't find her." And her voice broke, a sob tearing free.
"I'll help," Draven said immediately, his hands gripping her shoulders. "We'll find her. What does she look like? Describe her to me."
Arya stared at him, her eyes searching his. And then, in a broken voice, she said, "She looks exactly like you."
The world stopped. Draven felt like he had been punched in the stomach. "What?"
"Dark hair and that—that look, those golden eyes you get when you're about to lose control." Arya swallowed hard, tears spilling again. "She has your face, Draven. Your smile, your stubbornness. She is—She is your daughter."
Daughter. I have a daughter. A 5-year-old daughter I never knew existed. A thousand questions exploded in his mind. A thousand accusations. A thousand demands for explanations. But none of them mattered now because somewhere in that forest was a child. His child, scared and alone and going through a painful transformation she didn't understand.
"Stay here," Draven ordered, already stripping off his clothes.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to find her." He kicked off his boots, his eyes never leaving Arya's. "Trust me."
And then, without another word, he shifted. The transformation was swift. Bones rearranging, muscles expanding, skin giving way to fur black as midnight. In seconds, the man was gone. What remained was a massive wolf, an alpha king in his most powerful form. Draven, now wolf, turned to Arya, and he saw the exact moment she understood what he meant. She nodded and then began her own transformation. Arya shifted into a smaller wolf, but no less impressive. Dark brown fur, green eyes, even in wolf form. The two wolves looked at each other for a moment. And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, they ran side by side into the forest.
Draven let his wolf senses take over. The smell of damp earth, of leaves, of small animals hiding at their approach. And then something else, something familiar despite being entirely new. Her. He didn't know how he knew, but something in the core of his being recognized the scent that was half Arya, half himself, my daughter, my blood. He followed the trail, Arya running beside him. They moved in perfect sync, just like in the old days when they trained together, their bodies working in instinctive harmony. The scent grew stronger, and then Draven heard it. A low whimper. Scared. He sped up, leaping over a fallen log, dodging thorny bushes. And then he saw her, a small girl curled against a tree, her body trembling violently. She was somewhere between human and wolf, the shift clearly painful, her tiny face twisted in agony, black hair like his, golden eyes full of tears.
"Heavens, she really is just like me." Draven approached slowly, keeping his movements calm and non-threatening. The girl saw him and curled in further, a frightened whine escaping her. Behind him, Arya had stopped, keeping her distance. She knew she couldn't get close right now. The child was terrified, and too much stimulation could worsen everything.
Draven lay down on the ground a few feet from the girl, making himself appear smaller, less intimidating. He let out a low rumble, a comforting sound wolves used with their pups. "It's all right. I'm here. You're safe."
The girl looked at him with those golden eyes so much like his. "It hurts," she whimpered in a small, scared voice. "Please make it stop. It hurts a lot."
Draven crawled closer, staying low. When he was within reach, he gently pressed his nose against her trembling hand. "I know it hurts, but you have to stop fighting it. Let it happen. Trust me."
As if she could understand, and maybe she could, through the ancient instinct wolves shared, the girl let out a trembling sigh. And then she stopped resisting. The transformation completed within seconds. Where an anguished child had been, now lay a small wolf pup with black fur. She wobbled, her legs unstable. Draven moved to her immediately, letting her lean against his body. The little wolf lifted her eyes to him, and Draven felt something inside his chest break and mend at the same time. "My daughter. This is my daughter." He licked the top of her head gently, a gesture of comfort and acceptance. And the young wolf, exhausted from the ordeal, pressed herself against him with absolute trust.
Behind them, he heard Arya approach in wolf form. The little pup turned her head and immediately brightened, running to her mother. Arya licked her daughter frantically, checking for injuries, her relief palpable. But then the pup paused, staring between Draven and Arya with clear confusion. And slowly she began to shift back. The reverse transformation was easier, smoother. Within seconds, the little girl sat on the forest floor again, wide-eyed.
"Mommy?" she asked, her voice small. "Who was the big wolf?"
Draven and Arya shifted back too. The girl watched with fascination as the giant black wolf became a tall, dark-haired man. Draven knelt in front of her, studying every detail of her tiny face, the eyes, the shape of her nose, the way her hair fell in rebellious waves. *How did I not notice yesterday in the courtyard? How did I not see there was a child who is my reflection?* But he knew why. Because he hadn't been looking. Because the idea had never crossed his mind that Arya might have been pregnant when she ran.
"Hello, Sarah," he said softly.
The girl blinked. "How do you know my name?"
"Your mother told me."
Sarah looked at Arya, who stood a few steps away, wearing a simple nightgown she clearly kept ready for post-shift moments. "Mommy?" Sarah asked, her voice full of innocence that made Draven's heart hurt. "Why did the wolf help me? Why did he know what to do?"
Arya knelt beside Draven, her trembling hands brushing hair from her daughter's face. "Sarah, sweetheart, there's something important I need to tell you."
"What is it?"
Arya looked at Draven, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He nodded, giving her silent permission. "This man," Arya said gently, taking Sarah's small hand, "is your father."
Sarah went completely still for a long moment, her golden eyes, so much like Draven's, shifting between him and Arya, as if she were trying to process words that made no sense. "My dad," she finally repeated, her voice small and uncertain.
"Yes, sweetheart," Arya said softly, squeezing her daughter's hand. "I know it's a lot to take in all at once, but you're my daddy."
"Sarah," Draven cut in, turning fully to Draven. Draven felt his chest tighten so hard he could barely breathe. He looked at that small girl, at those eyes that mirrored his own, at that face that carried his features blended with Arya's. "My daughter. This child is my daughter."
"Yes," he said, his voice coming out rough with emotion. "I am."
Sarah studied his face for another moment. And then, without warning, she threw herself at him, her small arms wrapping around his neck with surprising strength. "I always wanted a daddy," she whispered against his shoulder. "Always."
Draven froze for a fraction of a second before his arms closed around her, holding her with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his strength. He shut his eyes, letting himself soak in the moment, her scent, earth and flowers, and something inexplicably familiar, the weight of her against his chest, the absolute trust with which she clung to him.
When they finally pulled apart, Sarah was smiling. A wide, genuine smile that made Draven's heart completely melt. "Are you going to live with us now?" she asked hopefully. "Are you going to stay?"
Draven looked at Arya over the top of Sarah's head. She stood a few steps away, arms folded across her chest, silent tears streaming down her face. "I'd like to talk that over with your mother," he said carefully. "But I promise you this. Now that I found you, I am not going to disappear."
"Do you really promise?" Sarah held out her tiny pinky. "Pinky promise?"
Draven couldn't help the smile. He hooked his finger around hers. "Pinky promise."
Sarah seemed satisfied with that. She yawned, the exhaustion from the shifting finally catching up with her. "I'm sleepy," she murmured.
"Then let's get you home," Arya said, reaching out her arms. But before she could take her daughter, Draven had already lifted Sarah, settling her against his chest. The girl relaxed instantly, her head resting on his shoulder. "I'll carry her," Draven said simply.
Arya looked as though she might argue, but then she just nodded. The walk back to the house was quiet. Sarah fell asleep halfway there, her breathing
Turning soft and steady. Draven held her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. When they reached the house, Arya opened the door and led Draven to a small room at the back. It was cozy with flowers painted on the walls and a little bed covered in colorful blankets. Draven laid Sarah down gently, making sure she was properly covered. He stood there for a moment, just watching her sleep.
"My daughter." No matter how many times he repeated the words in his mind, they still did not feel real. Arya touched his arm lightly. "Come on, let her rest." They left the room in silence, and Arya closed the door carefully behind them.
In the small room that served as a living area, the silence settled like a physical presence. Draven stood in the center of the space, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, the full weight of what he had just learned finally crashing down on him. "It has been 6 years since you left, Arya," he said, his voice low, but charged with held-back emotion.
"Draven." He turned to face her, raw pain in his eyes. "You owe me an explanation. You owe me the truth. Why did you never tell me? Why did you let me believe you had just walked away?"
Arya wrapped her arms around herself as if trying to shield her own body. "It wasn't that simple."
"Then explain it to me." Draven took a step toward her. "Make me understand why you hid my daughter from me. Make me understand why you left me to wake up alone, not once, but twice. Make me understand any part of this madness."
"I was afraid." The words burst out of Arya, her voice breaking. "I was terrified and ashamed and afraid of me."
"You were afraid of me?"
"Not of you. Never of you." Arya pressed her hands to her face. "Of the situation, of what it meant, of what people would say."
"Arya, look at me." Reluctantly, she lowered her hands. "Tell me what happened," Draven said. "Gentler now."
"From the beginning, please." Arya took a deep breath, and when she started speaking, her voice was heavy with painful memories. "When I woke up that morning 6 years ago, you were still asleep, and I panicked because suddenly everything felt too real. We had... we had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. And I had no idea what it meant, if it meant anything at all."
"It meant everything to me." Draven cut in. "I didn't know that then."
Arya hugged herself again. "So I got dressed and left. I was almost home when your mother found me."
Draven went completely still. "My mother?"
"Queen Beatatrice. She was going out for her morning walk through the gardens. She saw me coming from the direction of the royal chambers. Clothes rumpled, hair a mess." Arya closed her eyes. "She knew instantly where I had been and what I had done."
"What did she say?" Draven's voice was dangerously low.
"She pulled me aside somewhere private and she told me..." Arya swallowed hard, tears rising again. "She told me to disappear from your life. That I would only hold you back. That I had no bloodline, no name, nothing a future queen should have. That she would never, ever allow you to marry me."
"She had no right." Draven hissed, fury burning through his veins.
"She was absolutely right," Arya shot back, her voice bitter. "I was the daughter of a guard commander. You were the crown prince. We didn't make sense."
"We made all the sense in the world. Not in the eyes of the court. Not in the eyes of the kingdom." Arya wiped her tears with the back of her hand. "So I left. I resigned from the guard. I went to another kingdom looking for work, trying to start over."
"And when did you find out you were pregnant?"
"2 weeks after I left." Arya let out a humorless laugh. "I thought about coming back. I thought about telling you, but then I heard your father was sick, that you had so much on your shoulders, and I remembered your mother's words that I would only hold you back."
"You would never hold me back." Draven said fiercely. "Never."
"But I believed I would. So I decided... I decided it was better this way. That I would raise Sarah alone. That you would never have to know." She looked at him, her eyes full of regret. "I thought I was doing the right thing. Protecting you. Protecting her. Protecting..."
Draven ran through his hair, frustration written all over him. "Arya, you stole 5 years of my daughter's life from me. Years I will never get back. First steps, first words, all of it."
"I know." Arya was crying openly now. "I know and I'm sorry. I am so sorry, Draven. But I was scared and alone, and I made the decision that seemed best at the time."
Draven wanted to be furious. He wanted to shout. He wanted to break something. But looking at Arya, seeing the real pain on her face, seeing how much those years had cost her, too, he couldn't. Because he knew Arya. He knew her terror of not being enough. He knew how his mother's cruel words would have sunk deep into her soul. And he knew his own mother. Knew how she valued status above everything, how she saw the world in terms of power and position.
"My mother," he said, his voice controlled but edged with steel. "Has a lot of explaining to do."
"Draven, do not defend her." He cut in. "What she did is indefensible. She had no right to interfere. No right to drive you away."
Silence fell between them. "And now," Arya finally asked, her voice small, "what happens now?"
Draven studied her for a long moment. Then he stepped toward her, his hands coming to rest gently on her shoulders. "Now," he said firmly, "you are coming with me to Iron Ridge."
"Draven, no, I am not leaving you here. Not now that I have found you."
His voice was absolute. "Sarah is my daughter. She deserves to know this side of her heritage. She deserves to grow up knowing who her father is."
"But my life is here. My work."
"You can work in Iron Ridge. As a strategist, as queen." He cradled her face in his hands. "As my wife, if you will have me."
Arya blinked, stunned. "Wife?"
"Do you honestly think that after all this, after loving you my whole life, after discovering we have a daughter together, I'm just going to let you walk away?" Draven rested his forehead against hers. "I love you, Arya. I always have. And I will spend the rest of my life proving that to you if you let me. And your mother, my mother will learn to accept it or she will learn to keep quiet." His tone left no room for argument. "You are my choice. You always were. You always will be. I found out you were here and I came for you. For you alone."
Arya closed her eyes, tears slipping free. "Draven, come with me," he whispered. "Please let me be the father Sarah deserves. Let me be the man you deserve. And if it doesn't work, it will." Draven brushed a soft kiss against her forehead as if touching something sacred. "Because I am not giving up on you. And because no matter how hard I tried to move on, my heart never learned to love anyone else. Only you, Arya."
She shut her eyes as if those words had hit the most vulnerable place inside her. One second. Two. Ten. Long enough for Draven's chest to tighten in fear of her answer. But then Arya drew a shaky breath, a small, trembling breath, and nodded slowly. "Fine," she whispered, her voice as fragile as a threat of hope. And in that whisper, Draven knew. The world could fall apart, and he would still fight for her.
Three days later, an ornate carriage passed through the gates of Iron Ridge. Sarah was wide-eyed with wonder, her nose pressed to the glass as the mountain kingdom unfolded before them. Arya sat beside her, nervously smoothing the simple dress she wore. Draven, seated across from them, watched them both with a satisfaction he didn't even try to hide. "My family, at last."
When the carriage stopped in front of Iron Ridge's main castle, Draven stepped out first, holding his hand out to help Arya down. She took it, climbing out with nervous grace. Sarah hopped out after her, her eyes huge as she took in the imposing fortress. "It's so big," she exclaimed.
"Welcome home," Draven said, taking her small hand. And that was when he saw his mother. Queen Beatatrice stood at the main entrance, clearly waiting to greet him after his time away. She looked as elegant as ever, her elaborate purple gown pristine, her posture flawless. Then she saw Arya stepping down from the carriage. Beatatrice froze, her eyes widening in shock. Draven watched his mother process Arya's presence, saw the instant recognition, saw the confusion, the surprise, the first flicker of what looked a lot like panic. And then Sarah stepped out from behind Arya, still holding Draven's hand. Beatatrice looked at the little girl, and all color drained from her face, because it was impossible not to see it. Sarah was Draven in miniature. The same dark hair, the same eyes, the same face shape, the same scent. Beatatrice brought a hand to her mouth, her gaze darting between Draven, Arya, and Sarah with growing comprehension.
Sarah, innocent to the heavy tension around her, let go of Draven's hand and walked straight up to Beatatrice. "Are you my grandma?" she asked with the brutal honesty only children have.
Beatatrice stared at the girl, and Draven saw tears gather in her eyes. "I... she..." began, her voice breaking. "I..." She couldn't finish. She just covered her mouth, tears finally spilling over, and turned, hurrying into the castle.
Sarah looked back at Draven, confused. "She did not like me."
"That's not it, little one," Draven said, scooping her up. "She was just surprised. I will take care of it." He passed Sarah to Arya. "Take her inside. The servants will show you your rooms. I will be there soon." Arya nodded, understanding what he needed to do.
Draven found his mother in her private sitting room, seated in a chair with her face in her hands. "Mother." Beatatrice lifted her head. Her eyes were red. Her face streaked with tears. "A granddaughter?" she whispered. "I have a granddaughter."
"Yes, you do." Draven crossed his arms. "A 5-year-old granddaughter you could have known from the day she was born if you had not interfered."
Beatatrice closed her eyes. "You know, Arya told me everything. How you found her that morning, what you said to her."
"Draven, you had no right," he cut in, his voice like iron. "No right to drive her away. No right to make her believe she wasn't good enough. No right to steal 5 years from me and my daughter."
"I was trying to protect you." Beatatrice rose to her feet, her voice defensive. "You were the crown prince. She was only... only what?"
Draven took a step toward her. "Only the woman I loved. Only the most important person in my life." His gaze burned. "You almost destroyed everything, mother, because of your pride. Because of your ridiculous ideas."
Beatatrice seemed to shrink under his stare. "I... I was wrong," she finally admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I see that now. That little girl, Sarah, she's beautiful. And the way she looked at you." More tears fell. "I took that from you. From all of you?"
"Yes, you did."
"How can I fix it?" Beatatrice looked at him desperately. "How can I? Is there anything I can do?"
Draven studied his mother for a long moment. He saw the genuine remorse, the real pain. A woman finally grasping the magnitude of what she had done. "You can start by apologizing," he said at last. "To Arya, not to me, to her." Beatatrice nodded slowly. "And after that, after that, you can be the grandmother Sarah deserves if Arya allows it."
The next day, Beatatrice asked to speak to Arya in private. They met in the castle gardens, far from prying ears. Sarah was with Draven, exploring her new home with childlike enthusiasm. Beatatrice was visibly nervous, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as Arya approached. "Lady Arya," she began formally.
"Just Arya is fine," Beatatrice nodded. "Arya, I... I do not know where to begin. I was wrong." The words tumbled out in a rush. "So completely, utterly wrong. What I said to you that morning, the way I treated you, it was unforgivable."
Arya stayed quiet, waiting.
"I thought I was protecting my son." Beatatrice went on, tears starting to fall again. "I thought he needed someone who could strengthen political alliances, but he never accepted another woman. We tried everything. But he was obsessed with finding you. I could never fight that. And I did not know you were pregnant. You two were friends, but I knew he loved you and that someday this would happen. I was only trying to protect him. But I was wrong." She took a step closer to Arya, hands out in appeal. "I will never forgive myself for what I did. Never. But I am begging you. Please give me a chance to know Sarah, to be part of her life, to try in some way to make up for the years I stole."
Arya looked at the queen and saw genuine remorse, real sorrow. She thought of Sarah, of how the girl had asked about her grandmother, of how her eyes had lit up at the idea of having more family. "I cannot promise it will be easy," Arya said at last. "I cannot promise I will forget what happened. I do not expect you to forget."
"But..." Arya drew a deep breath. "Sarah deserves to know her grandmother. And if you are truly willing to try, I am."
"I swear I am." Arya nodded slowly. "Then we will try for her." Beatatrice let out a sob of relief and, to Arya's surprise, pulled her into a hug. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you for being more generous than I deserve." When they stepped apart, both women were crying.
"Come," Arya said, wiping her cheeks. "Let's find Sarah. She is dying to meet her grandmother properly."
Weeks passed. Sarah settled into life at the castle with the effortless ease of children. She explored every corner, made friends among the servants' children, and had Draven completely wrapped around her tiny pinky finger. True to her word, Beatatrice spent hours with her granddaughter. She taught her about flowers in the gardens, told her stories about the royal bloodline, and spoiled her with sweets and little gifts.
And Arya, Arya was trying to find her place. Draven had insisted she join the kingdom's strategy council. She agreed, grateful to have something to do besides worry about her new role in this life. But there was something else, something she still hadn't told Draven. She was in her office going over defense maps when the wave of nausea hit again. It was the third morning in a row. No, no, it cannot be. But even as she denied it, Arya already knew the truth. She knew the signs. The fatigue, the morning sickness, the tenderness in her breasts. "I am pregnant again."
The door opened and Draven walked in, Sarah's hand in his. "Dad said we can go riding after lunch. Are you coming?" Sarah ran to her.
Arya looked at her daughter, then at Draven, who was watching her with those sharp eyes that always saw too much. "Of course, sweetheart," she said, forcing a smile. "Now go ask Martha to get you ready for lunch."
"All right." Sarah ran out, leaving Arya and Draven alone.
"What is wrong?" Draven asked immediately.
"Nothing."
"Arya?" He stepped closer. "You are pale and I noticed you did not eat a thing at breakfast."
"It is just..." Arya hesitated. "Draven, there is something I need to tell you." He went tense at once. "What?"
Arya took a breath. There was no easy way to say it. "I am pregnant."
Silence. Draven stared at her, processing the words. Then a slow, radiant smile spread across his face. "Pregnant?" he repeated.
"Yes, I think. Well, I am almost sure."
"Pregnant," he said again. And then he grabbed her by the waist and spun her, making her laugh in spite of everything.
"Draven, put me down." He did, but only so he could frame her face in his hands and kiss her deeply. "Another child," he murmured against her lips. "A chance to be there from the very beginning."
"You are not angry."
"Angry? Why in the world would I be angry?" He pulled her into a fierce hug. "I am overjoyed."
Arya let herself relax against him, relief flooding her. "We are going to need a nursery," Draven was already planning aloud. "And a nursemaid and..."
"Draven," Arya cut in, laughing. "We still have months."
"I do not care. I want everything perfect." He kissed her forehead. "This time I will be here for every second."
Eight months later, a baby boy was born. It was a difficult birth, but Arya was strong. And when the baby's first cries filled the room, Draven was there, holding her hand, tears streaming freely down his face. "A boy," the midwife announced, placing the baby in Arya's arms. Draven looked at his son, small, red, perfect, and felt his heart overflow.
Sarah was brought in to meet her brother, and she stared at the baby with wide, adoring eyes. "He is so tiny," she whispered.
"You were like that too," Arya said with a tired smile. "Can I hold him?"
"Of course." With Draven's help, they settled the baby carefully in Sarah's arms, watching closely. Sarah looked at her brother with pure love. "Hi, baby. I am your big sister. I am going to protect you always."
Draven looked at his family. Arya, exhausted but glowing in the bed. Sarah, cradling her new brother with reverent care, the baby sleeping peacefully, and felt a gratitude so deep it almost hurt. Beatatrice appeared in the doorway, her expression softening at the sight. "May I?" she asked timidly.
"Come meet your grandson," Draven said. Beatrice stepped closer, tears shining in her eyes as she saw the baby. "He is beautiful," she whispered. "Absolutely perfect."
"Do you want to hold him, Grandma?" Sarah offered. Beatatrice took the baby with trembling hands, gazing down at his tiny face in wonder. "Welcome to the family, little one," she murmured.
Draven sat on the edge of the bed beside Arya, taking her hand. "Are you all right?" he asked quietly.
"I am perfect," she replied, giving his hand a squeeze. And she was surrounded by the family she had almost lost, by the family she had almost never had.
Draven looked around the room. Sarah chatting with her grandmother about the baby. Beatatrice smiling genuinely for the first time in years. Arya at his side, tired but happy. His son in his mother's arms. His daughter finally knowing every piece of who she was. The woman he loved. Finally his. "This," he thought, "this is happiness."