Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 275: The Promise 2

But then she snapped when she remembered something. "So you had taken in two mistresses, I mean concubines?" There was an edge to Lara’s voice that she did not even notice.

Alaric frowned. He never liked those concubines.

"I divorced them and sent them back to their families. I promise you, I will only have one wife, and that is you!" he said seriously.

The words hung between them like suspended breath. Then—slowly, carefully—Lara leaned in. Her head came to rest against his shoulder, tentative but real. Alaric stiffened only for a moment, then relaxed, resting his cheek atop her hair.

No kiss. No grand pronouncement. Just two hearts, beating in cautious unison.

Outside, the last droplets of rain kissed the earth. The double rainbow began to fade, but for Lara, the moment only grew brighter.

They sat like that in silence, the kind that spoke louder than words. And though the road ahead to the Norse mansion still stretched long, one thing was clear to Lara:

She was not traveling alone.

The carriage rumbled up the long, winding path toward the Norse estate, its wheels crunching over the wet gravel. The rain had passed, but the clouds still loomed—heavy and ominous, a brooding veil over the forested hills. As they crested the final rise, the manor came into view: tall and imposing, carved of obsidian-colored stone, its spires clawing at the sky like fingers of a slumbering beast.

Lightning cracked behind it.

Lara stiffened, her earlier warmth ebbing away. Something in the air had shifted.

The massive iron gates creaked open as they approached, as if sensing their presence. Guards in black and silver armor stood to attention, their spears gleaming wet from the rain. The coach came to a halt in the gravel courtyard, and a footman rushed forward to open the door.

Suddenly, thunder cracked overhead as Alaric threw open the heavy oak doors of the Norse manor. A burst of wind and rain followed them in, howling like a beast denied entry. With a sweep of his arm, he wrapped his drenched cloak around Lara, shielding her from the icy downpour as they rushed inside.

The doors slammed shut behind them with a resounding boom, echoing through the vast, dimly lit foyer. Water dripped from Alaric’s soaked clothes, forming dark pools on the polished stone floor. His silver hair clung to his face, and his chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. Despite the warmth of the grand hearth nearby, his skin was pale, almost bluish at the lips.

Lara turned to him, eyes wide with concern. "Alaric... you’re drenched ..."

He met her gaze with a soft, lopsided smile, though his voice was hoarse. "Don’t worry about me. I’ve endured worse than a little rain and cold. These wet clothes are nothing." His bravado flickered, but the tremor in his hand betrayed him.

Still, Lara’s worry deepened. Her heart ached to see him like this—dripping, tired, vulnerable. Stubborn prince. She touched his arm gently. "Wait here. I’ll get you something dry. Galahad or Asael should have a spare tunic."

Without waiting for his response, she turned and sprinted up the grand staircase, the velvet runner muffling her hurried footsteps. As she vanished around the corner, Alaric watched after her, a ghost of gratitude in his deep, obsidian eyes.

Moments later, soft footsteps approached as he stood near the window, trying to warm himself.

"Your Highness," came a voice, coated with honey, thick with faux sweetness.

Mira.

She sauntered into the room, hips swaying, carrying a silver tray stacked with flaky pastries and steaming tea.

She placed the tray on the low table and turned to him with a practiced smile. "Have some tea to warm you, My Prince. I don’t know why my sister left you to stand there dripping like a neglected hound. Would you like me to dry your clothes?" She reached into her apron and withdrew a fleece cloth, moving toward him with feline grace.

Before her hand could touch him, Alaric stepped back sharply, his eyes flaring with warning.

"Don’t you dare." His voice cut through the room like a blade, cold and sharp. The fury behind his words made Mira freeze mid-step.

The tray rattled as Mira set the cloth down, her smile twitching. "I was only trying to help..."

"I don’t need your help," Alaric growled. "And I don’t need your games, either."

Mira flinched. She never expected that the prince would lash out at her.

At that moment, footsteps thundered down the stairs. Lara appeared, her cheeks flushed from exertion, a soft linen undershirt and a deep blue tunic folded neatly in her arms.

Mira turned to her, eyes narrowing with a flicker of something almost venomous. "I was only offering tea—"

"And yet somehow, your hands ended up on his arm," Lara snapped, stepping between them. "If you’re done playing nursemaid, you can go." Lara glared at her.

Mira stood there for a moment too long, her gaze locked with Lara’s in a silent challenge. Then her gaze landed on the jewelry around Lara’s, and her eyes narrowed.

The betrothal necklace!

How could she have gotten that necklace when she had locked it in a safe for two years? When she moved into the Norse manor, she entered Lara’s bedroom and was jealous of its size. When she rummaged through the drawers and found the necklace, she took it and kept it. But now, how could it be on Lara?

With a huff and a final glance at Alaric, she turned on her heel and stalked off, her slippers whispering against the marble floor. She went to her bedroom to check the necklace.

The silence she left behind was heavy.

Alaric let out a quiet sigh and sank onto the edge of the sofa. Lara crossed the room to give him the dry clothes.

"You go to change," she murmured, gently placing the tunic on his lap. "You could catch a fever."

He looked up at her, eyes softened now, "You came back. That’s enough."

Lara hesitated, then reached for the clasps of his damp cloak. "Of course, I came back. I told you, I’ll get you dry clothes. Let me help you, Al."

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, then gave a slow nod and a smile bloomed on his face.