The Alpha King Marked Me. I Still Haven't Told Him I'm A Girl novel Chapter 116

Chapter 116: One Hundred & Sixteen

Valka

The storm begins at midnight and rages even harder, fiercer than normal. And it doesn’t come as a surprise when the captain heralds a stop to weather out the storm. Averis, our intended destination is an entire day’s journey away, and Lucien seems a little stiff-spined about the stop at the small fishing town called Grave’s Bay.

A set back, he calls it.

Eerie name aside, I just think he’s in a cranky mood because the deckhand and more than half the crew of men on the ship have taken no small pains in trying to stare my pants off my ass. He’s been broody the entire day and when I pointed it out, he said, "Restraint isn’t one of my virtues, Val. Forgive me if it’s taking all of my energy not to peel those eyes from their sockets and stitch them to the deck where they can’t leer at you anymore."

How original.

My shoulder bumps into his playfully. "On the bright side, there’s a market. We can eat something other than stale bread and sour beer. And look, the storm’s clearing. It’ll only be for a couple of hours."

He grunts a non committal response and I roll my eyes, walking ahead of him.

The market beyond smells of smoked fish and pine tar. A small world, harmless. Children dart between stalls, laughter thin against the wind. It feels... safe. Ordinary. A little girl with big brown eyes stops by my side and grabs my pinky finger, tugging me forward, towards a stall with cute little daggers and sword belts.

I look back at Lucien, unable to hide my grin, and he sighs heavily, before handing me his pouch of gold. But his lips twitch at the corners, eyes softening fondly. "I’d say save some for later, but you always did have an interesting spending habit."

My fingers close around the red velvet. "Well, it does help that my husband is quite wealthy."

By the time we begin the trek back to the shoreline, the sun is disappearing down the skies, Lucien’s broody frown is gone, replaced by an amused smile as he carries everything I’d deemed important enough to spend all his money on in one arm.

"One more stop," he says, fingers entwining mine, and I let him pull me along, towards a stall with trinkets and charms on the edge of the market.

I stare wide-eyed at the assortments of moon pearls, shell pendants, and opals glimmering under the soft light of day. Each one looks alive, like it’s breathing salt and sunlight. His gaze catches on an opal that shifts color with every tilt, blue to green to the faintest rose. My fingers rise to the necklace already hanging around my throat.

"You don’t have to get me another," I murmur. "I love this one."

Lucien’s mouth twitches. "You say that now."

He signals to the stall keeper, who fumbles beneath a heap of trinkets and dust for the necklace.

"In the our old ways," he says, "when a man chooses his Erasthai, he begins a courtship that isn’t built on words but offerings. Gifts of meaning. The first is usually something found, a token that reminded him of her. The second, something bought, a promise that he will provide. And the third..." His eyes meet mine, steady and unguarded. "The third is something he’s made with his own hands. It’s meant to show devotion. Effort. A piece of himself, offered to hers."

Oh. "And what does she give in return?"

"If she accepts," he says softly, "she offers something made by her, too. A meal, a stitch of clothing, a charm--anything. It’s her way of saying she sees him, and she’s not turning away."

He reaches beneath my hood, thumb catching under my chin, tilting it just enough for me to see him clearly. "I gave you gifts after the wedding," he murmurs, his voice roughening. "You threw them all away."

My breath stutters. Right. I was pissed about him marking me. I hadn’t known it was more than an apology.

My heart’s doing flips in my chest. Did he have to pull any harder on my heart’s strings?

"So I’ll try again," he continues. "And maybe, when the war ends and we’re not running anymore, you’ll make me something in return. A meal. Or a scarf." His smile is faint, but his eyes burn with quiet intent. "And I’ll take that as your yes."

I swallow, throat tight. "I don’t know how to... cook. Or knit."

His fingers curve on my cheek. "It doesn’t have to be perfect. So long as your hands made it, I’d take it. I’d take anything you gave me, Val--burnt bread, a crooked stitch, a scrap of nothing. So long as it meant I crossed your mind, even for a heartbeat."

"You do," I whispers before I can stop myself. The words hang between us, raw and electric, and when his eyes darken with quiet satisfaction, I looks away swiftly, cheeks red as I pretend to study the sea.

Something cold clasps around my neck with a click and an invisible fog falls over my senses. Two words are spoken roughly against my ear as the sharp edge of a blade pushes into my pulse, drawing blood. "Don’t move."

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