CHAPTER 444: THE AFFECTION SHOW

Alaric.

He strode in like the storm he was—cloak dusted in wind, sword slung at his back, midnight eyes scanning, and when they landed on her, his entire body relaxed.

"There you are," he murmured. "Fiery wife, I’ve been looking for you."

Salviana smiled and stepped forward as the girls’ mouths dropped.

"You found me," she said simply.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed her—not a polite peck, but a kiss full of heat and ownership and a little too long for public decency.

When they broke apart, Salviana turned to the stunned onlookers and added with a wink, "And for the record... he’s whatever you can imagine and more."

She tugged Alaric by the hand and swept out of the boutique like royalty.

Behind them, silence reigned.

Until one girl whispered faintly, "I think I just changed religion."

They stepped out of the shop, the cool Wyfhelm air brushing against their skin. The sky above was pale with rolling clouds, the scent of earth and mountain stone thick in the breeze.

Down the street, their horse waited where they’d tied it—sleek and black, stomping softly at the stone.

Alaric held her hand the entire way, but once they were out of earshot, he gave her a sidelong look. "You were hiding."

Salviana, lips parted like she might reply, didn’t.

Her smile had faded.

She looked... thoughtful. Almost distant.

He helped her toward the horse. "Salviana."

She blinked and looked up.

"Oh." She shook it off, smiling again. "Yes, I suppose I was."

He lifted her up with practiced grace, his hands warm at her waist. "I don’t know whether to scold you or kiss you again."

"Do both," she replied, trying to keep the playful lilt, but he didn’t miss the flicker in her eyes.

He mounted behind her and tugged the reins. The horse trotted forward.

"You were hiding," he said again, voice softer this time. "That’s not like you."

She didn’t speak for a moment.

Then, finally, "I was trying to play but then I heard what they said and I wanted to hear more."

"You’re a queen," he muttered against her hair. "You don’t need the opinion of common mouths."

"I know." Her voice was steady, but her fingers clutched his forearm tighter. "I just wondered what it must look like... from the outside. Being with you. Being me."

He rested his chin on her shoulder, his breath warm at her ear.

"They don’t know you," he said. "They don’t know what it means to love a man like me."

She chuckled quietly. "A man like you?"

"A hunted prince. A would-be monster who isn’t sure what he is completely, a prince who is too scared to make his wife a woman. I’m a man who’s more shadow than sunshine."

"You forgot ’devastatingly handsome’," she added with a sad smile.

"And hopelessly in love with his wife," he whispered.

Her body relaxed into him then, her back pressing into his chest as they rode.

"I didn’t hide out of shame," she admitted after a moment. "I think... I wanted to hear if they thought you were worth all this. If I was."

Alaric kissed her temple.

"They’re not the ones who get to decide that, Salviana."

And with that, they mounted their horse—Alaric lifting Salviana effortlessly, settling her before him in the saddle.

Her body molded into his, her warmth a balm against the biting mountain air.

Lucius and Jean followed swiftly behind, their own horse trailing close, Jean’s fingers gripping the vampire’s coat tightly, curls bouncing in the wind. Wyfhelm’s craggy peaks faded behind them as they rode out of the city’s heart.

The cobblestone gave way to packed dirt roads, flanked by tall pines and the haunting echo of cold wind threading through the cliffs.

They weren’t staying the night anymore. It was too risky now. Whispers had followed them from the marketplace.

The pastry shop incident had proven it—they’d been recognized.

The price on Alaric’s head wasn’t just a bounty. It was a lure. A siren’s call to every desperate sword and cursed mercenary within the kingdom.

They were exposed. Hunted. Marked.

And so they fled—on horseback, through the mountain roads, cloaked in mist and urgency.

Alaric kept one arm around Salviana’s waist as they rode, his other hand on the reins, his eyes scanning the treeline.

The road ahead narrowed into a small valley passage, ringed with shadows and stone into the night.

They rode nonstop into the next morning but suddenly Alaric slowed.

He slowed the horse.

Lucius noticed immediately.

"What is it?" Jean whispered behind Lucius.

"Quiet," Alaric said sharply, voice low.

Salviana tensed in his arms.

The wind had changed.

And then it came.

A hiss in the trees. A metal whistle in the air. Something fast—too fast.

An arrow.

Alaric swerved the horse hard, the shaft slicing the air where Salviana’s head had been. It landed in the dirt with a deadly thud.

"Ambush!" Lucius shouted, leaping off the saddle and shielding Jean behind a boulder.

From the treeline, eight figures emerged—shrouded in ragged cloaks and chainmail, faces painted with red symbols.

Eyes hungry. Swords sharp. One held a bounty scroll, already crumpled in his fist.

"Third prince, lad" the leader hissed. "You have got a pretty sum for your corpse."

"And a prettier one if we take your head still whispering sweet nothings to your lady," another jeered.

Alaric’s jaw clenched, his expression turning unreadable.

Then one of them moved too close.

Too close to Salviana.

A hand reached out toward her boot, grazing her leg.

That was the mistake.

Alaric didn’t speak.

He vanished.

In the blink of an eye, he had dismounted and crashed into the nearest hunter, his blade unsheathed and gleaming like moonlight against water.

One strike—a burst of wind and rage—and the man flew backward, colliding with a tree. He did not get back up.

"Touch my wife again," Alaric growled, voice low and inhuman, "and I’ll rip your arms off and beat you with them. Even if you don’t touch her"