The Desert Wolf and His Princess

Chapter 4: Conflicting Thoughts

Eric's POV

What a day it had been.

I’d spent nearly four hours on the farm, lending both hands and heart to the work. It had been some time since I’d been able to assist, given recent events, but I wanted the labourers to see that I hadn’t forgotten them—that I could still share in the effort, not just the authority. Today, I helped with the corn threshing, offering motivation where I could and grit where it was needed. Afterwards, we led the cows out to graze on the emerald pastures, the scent of freshly cut hay heavy in the air, while birdsong composed a symphony that floated gently above us.

The farm buildings, with their sturdy, rustic architecture, stood nestled amidst the greenery, weathered yet proud. We fed the pigs and the chickens, their eager squeals and clucks adding to the living rhythm of the place. I’d clearly chosen one of the busiest days to return—but I didn’t mind. I was filthy by the end of it, and satisfied. To wash off the grime, I took a swim in the lake not far from the fields, the water brisk and cleansing against sun-warmed skin.

Refreshed, I made my way to the construction site to oversee the ongoing developments. The progress was undeniable. As I stood surveying the rise of walls and paths, I couldn’t help the quiet swell of pride in my chest.

Our little city is coming together rather nicely, I thought, and allowed myself a smile.

I had, in my haste to leave early, skipped breakfast—something I was now thoroughly regretting. The labour had sharpened my hunger into something near ravenous, but I took comfort in the knowledge that a hearty meal awaited.

The sideboard would be groaning with promise: broiled chops and eggs, thick-cut bacon and ham, potatoes crisped in butter and laced with herbs, bread puddings soaked in rich sauce, platters of chilled radishes and pickles, and stewed orchard fruits crowned with soft peaks of fresh cream.

My stomach growled in anticipation, and I quickened my pace—just enough to get there sooner, without appearing too eager.

As I returned to the manor, the familiar clamor of activity surrounded me—omegas bustling to and fro, tending to their errands with practiced ease. Snippets of their conversation drifted toward me, light and teasing in tone. They were laughing about an outsider who had fainted just beyond the town’s edge—apparently at the very sight of Lago’s face. Their amusement was infectious, though tinged with the usual exaggeration of idle gossip.

Still, I was curious. A rogue, perhaps? A lone wolf seeking shelter? We had become a haven for those cast adrift. It wouldn’t be the first time someone crossed deserts and borders hoping for something better.

Curiosity now fully roused, I made my way to my aunt’s office, only to learn she wasn’t in—she was tending to the mysterious visitor herself. Intrigued, I inquired further and was informed the girl had been placed in Ana’s old quarters, on the second floor.

A surge of anger flashed through me at the thought of a stranger occupying Ana's space. A space so steeped in memory it still smelled faintly of her perfume, of ghosted laughter and promises unfulfilled. But I reminded myself that it was for the best, as Ana would never return,—and perhaps it was time to make peace with that.

I climbed the stairs in silence, each step slow and deliberate.

When I entered the room, it was quiet save for the soft sound of her breathing. She lay on the bed, alone and peacefully asleep, the early afternoon light casting a soft glow across her face. She was young, and undeniably beautiful, with delicate features that seemed both familiar and foreign. I froze in the doorway, captivated. I knew her—or at least, I had seen her before. Never this close. Never like this.

Her countenance, delicate and striking, held me spellbound. Each feature seemed meticulously etched, drawing my gaze with quiet insistence. I couldn’t deny the stirrings of something dangerously close to attraction. She lay there, the covers drawn modestly to her waist, clothed in a simple, robe-like gown. Her golden hair spilled over the pillows in soft waves, lending her an ethereal charm.

Yet even as temptation tugged at the edges of my thoughts, I reminded myself of the risks—of the consequences that could follow any entanglement with someone from the opposing faction. Her father’s death was still very recent, and her sudden presence here was a puzzle not easily ignored.

Something in me stirred. Something I couldn’t yet name.

As I fled with haste, the manor's grandeur blurred around me. I had scarcely exited the drawing room when I encountered Milo and Alistair in the gilded hallway.

"Have you seen the newest addition to our family, cousin?" Milo asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"I have not," I lied smoothly. "I haven’t yet had the opportunity."

"We’re on our way to visit her now," he said. "Care to join us?"

"And where, may I ask, are we to venture?" came Lana’s voice, cool and poised, as she stepped out of her chamber.

"To see the foreigner," Milo replied with a widening grin. "I’ve heard she’s quite the beauty."

"Is that so?" Lana drawled, her tone edged with disinterest. "I suppose I shall have to see for myself. What do you say, Eric?"

"I’ve been told she’s still unconscious," I replied, attempting to excuse myself from the unfolding spectacle. "Perhaps it’s best we wait until she’s more present."

"But she’s awake!" Milo countered, lowering his voice with conspiratorial urgency. "She stirred last night, wandered into the kitchen, and demanded to be fed. According to the cook, she devoured everything in sight—then promptly fell asleep at the table.”

The image made me chuckle, and Alistair added with a wry smile, “She must have been starving.”

“Hmm,” Lana scoffed. “Or just a well-fed freeloader. Now we definitely have to see her for ourselves.”

There was no wriggling out of it now. I fell into step beside them, and we made our way toward her chamber. As we reached the door, Lana halted and let out a theatrical huff.

“They put her here? In this room?” she said, her tone sour. “The audacity.”

Neither Milo nor Alistair responded. I simply knocked, more out of politeness than expectation, hoping she might still be asleep and spare us the awkwardness. But the door creaked open beneath my touch.

She was awake—standing by the window, bathed in early morning light, the warm hues softening her silhouette. Her hair tumbled loose around her shoulders, and though slightly disheveled, she looked… radiant. At peace, almost, as though she belonged here more than any of us.

She turned at the sound, eyes wide, uncertain. For a long moment, we simply stared at each other—something unspoken hanging in the air between us. She looked at me with a kind of quiet awe. And I... couldn't look away.