Mated to Her Alpha Instructor (Eileen and Regis) novel Chapter 115

Chapter 115

Eileen

The rhythmic sway of the carriage had lulled me into an exhausted sleep against Regis’s chest sometime during the journey back, my body finally surrendering to the toll of the morning’s confrontation and the cathartic violence of my tears. I didn’t dream—or if I did, the memories dissolved the moment consciousness crept back in, leaving only the sensation of warmth and the steady thrum of a heartbeat that wasn’t my own.

When I woke, we had stopped moving, and through the small gap where I’d pressed my face against Regis’s shirt, I could see the familiar stone archway of our—kis—no, our home framed in the carriage window. The late morning sun painted everything in soft gold, making the climbing roses along the gate seem to glow with gentle welcome, and for a disorienting moment I couldn’t quite reconcile this quiet beauty with the cold brutality of the house we’d just left behind.

My eyes felt swollen and raw, my throat scratchy from crying, and when I tried to speak, my voice came out as little more than a hoarse rasp. “We’re home?”

The question emerged uncertain, almost childlike, as if I needed his confirmation that this place—this warmth and safety—was real and not some fever dream conjured by my desperate mind. Through our bond I felt his immediate response, a surge of relief and tenderness so acute it made my chest ache.

“We’re home, love,” Regis murmured against my hair, his arms tightening fractionally around me as though he feared I might dissolve if he loosened his hold. “You’re safe now. You’re home.”

The front door opened, and Regis carried me inside, still cradled in his arms. I didn’t protest this time, too wrung out to do anything but rest my cheek against his chest as he descended from the carriage. Kieran murmured something too low for me to catch, received an equally quiet response from Regis, and then came the simple noise of leather and the retreat of hoofbeats as he drove the carriage away, leaving us alone in the morning stillness. The break of leather and the retreat of hoofbeats was a sound of such finality that I felt something in my chest simultaneously tighten and release—as though that end came before and opened the possibility of everything that might come after.

The bath chamber was dim and warm when he pushed the door open with his shoulder. He crossed to the large copper tub and turned on the taps; water rushed low and steady. Steam began to rise almost at once, curling upward until it blurred my vision, softening the edges of the room—and, slowly, easing the sharp edges of my grief.

An earthy scent drifted through the haze as he sprinkled herbs into the water. The fragrance spread, weaving itself into the steam, until every breath I took carried a trace of it, grounding me in something gentler than the thoughts I’d been drowning in.

Regis set me carefully on my feet beside the tub, his hands steadying me when I swayed slightly, and then he began working at the ties of my cloak with practiced gentleness. I stood passive under his attention, watching his face rather than his hands, seeing the tight set of his jaw and the careful way he avoided meeting my eyes, as though he feared what he might find there.