The Weight of the Crown
The assembly concluded in a blur of oaths and proclamations. As soon as it was over, I fled. I didn't go back to my apartment or the den he'd given me. I shifted, letting my wolf take over, and ran. I tore through the undergrowth of the Thorne Dominion forest, the cool air a balm on my overheated skin. My paws pounded the earth in a desperate rhythm, trying to outrun the impossible reality.
He was the King. My mate was the King. The words circled in my head, a frantic, unbelievable litany.
Hours later, exhausted and with my thoughts no clearer, I shifted back and made my way towards the Packhouse. I had duties to attend to, a life to pretend was still normal. I was carrying a heavy crate of hunting supplies, part of my administrative duties to log the pack's inventory, when I rounded a corner and nearly collided with a solid wall of muscle.
It was Alaric. He was no longer in his regalia, now dressed in practical dark trousers and a shirt, but the crown's weight still seemed to linger in his posture. He was flanked by two of his elite Alpha Guard, their gazes sharp and assessing. He was clearly on a tour of his new domain.
"Elara," he said, his voice a low baritone that made the guards tense.
"My King," I breathed, automatically lowering my head and trying to step aside. My heart hammered against my ribs.
He ignored my deference. His eyes fixed on the heavy crate in my arms. "That's too heavy for you. Let me."
Before I could protest, he stepped forward, dismissing his guards with a flick of his hand. They retreated to a respectful distance, their eyes still watching everything.
*Are you all right?* His voice entered my mind, laced with a concern that felt dangerously out of place in this public corridor. *You ran. I felt your panic.*
"I'm fine, my King," I whispered aloud, refusing to meet his gaze. I tightened my grip on the crate. "I can manage." Accepting his help here, in the open, was unthinkable. It would be fuel for a thousand rumors.
*Let me help you, Elara.* The command in his mental voice was soft but unyielding.
"No," I insisted, my voice shaking slightly. "Please. Don't."
He stared at me for a long moment, his jaw tight. I could feel the conflict in him—the Alpha who wanted to provide for his mate, and the King who understood the need for discretion. Finally, he gave a stiff nod, stepping back. The look in his eyes, however, was a silent chain, a gaze that followed me as I struggled past him with the crate, its weight suddenly feeling a hundred times heavier. It was the weight of his crown, and I was beginning to realize I would have to carry it, too.
