Divorcing My Alpha Husband For His Uncle

He Wants Her Back

~Althea

My eyes darted towards the door with a rapid beating heart.

It's probably ten steps away. Twelve at the most. I could feel my body already measuring and calculating, the way it had learned to whenever a room felt like a trap.

But the moment I shifted my weight, my foot screamed.

I bit down on the inside of my cheek and stayed where I was. Alaric was watching me. I knew without fully looking at him.

That kind of attention has a weight to it; you feel it on your skin before you see it with your eyes. When I finally looked at his face, bracing myself, he did the last thing I expected.

He moved out of the way, away from the door, stepping aside and clearing the path completely, like he was holding it open for me.

"You can leave," he said, calm and simple. "But you won't make it past the tree line. Not like that."

He looked down at my leg, and I know he didn't say it like a warning. It was more like telling someone it was raining outside. Just a fact.

Take it or leave it.

And that made me feel uncomfortable, more than if he'd slammed his hand against the wall and blocked me himself.

At least if he did that, I'd understand and know how to respond to it. Not this.

So I stayed rooted to that spot. Hating myself a little for it.

He dragged the chair by the window and sat down, one leg crossed over the other, watching me with those dark, quiet eyes that gave absolutely nothing away.

The silence between us grew and stretched until it felt like something physical, like a third person was standing in the room.

I didn't know where to look. Hell, I don't even know where to put my hands. I just stood there, in the middle of his space, feeling every inch of how lost I was.

A knock broke the tense silence. A maid slipped in carrying a tray, warm broth, soft bread, something herbed, and steaming. She placed it on the small table beside me, never looking up once, and left without a sound.

The smell of delectables filled the room, and my nostrils and I resisted the urge to lick my lips. It had been days since I fed my taste buds, so I secretly stared at the food.

Then I looked at him, almost flinching when he leaned forward without making a big thing of it, tore off a piece of bread, and ate in silence, like this was the most normal morning in the world and I wasn't standing in front of him looking like something the forest had chewed up and spat out.

"Eat," he said eventually, pointing to the tray, and he still didn't look up at me, but I could tell he knew when I shook my head in disapproval, muttering a small, “I'm fine.”

A little display of defiance. Who'd want to wine and dine with the intimidating uncle of your husband, who's probably out to kill you?

No one, right? But my traitorous stomach had other plans.

The growl that ripped out of me was loud. Embarrassingly, humiliatingly loud, cutting right through the quiet of the room like there was something it needed to prove.

That I was a pathetic liar.

I felt heat crawl up my throat and flood my face so fast my wide eyes stung.

Alaric said nothing. Not even a sound, but something shifted at the very corner of his lips; it was barely there, but I saw it. I looked away in embarrassment, dragging my feet to reluctantly sit down and join him.

I picked at the food at first, cautious of my surroundings, but then my pace picked up, probably because my body had completely given up on dignity and was just trying to survive. The broth was warm going down, the bread soft, and for a few minutes, I forgot everything except how hungry I was.

He let me eat in peace. No hovering or questions.

Then, quietly, he muttered. "You've been unconscious for almost two days."

My hand stopped moving, and the tension was back on my shoulders, for a brief second, while eating, I forgot exactly where I was.

"My healers treated your wounds. You had injuries all over. Your foot. Your palms." He paused briefly. "You lost a lot of blood."

Each of the things he said landed one by one, each one heavier than the last. Two days. I had been lying here, not knowing anything, for two whole days. I dropped the bread I was holding, and the warmth the food had given me slowly drained away.

But I kept moving the spoon around the bowl without eating anymore, just something to do with my hands so I didn't have to feel the full weight of all of it pressing down on my chest.

He let the quiet sit between us for a moment, studying me carefully.

Then—

"Nolan already sent word."

Everything in me went impossibly still and cold. The spoon dropped from my fingers, clanking against the ceramic bowl.

My spine straightened, my fingers which were now on my laps fisted so tight my knuckles ached, and I stared at the tray because I couldn’t look at him.

I couldn't let him see what those three words did to me.

My throat closed in on me as I tried swallowing.

"He wants you returned."

After those words, the room felt like it shrank around us. Like the walls quietly moved two steps closer without making a sound.

With a stiff back and a racing heart, I waited for what came next, the part where he'd tell me to get up, or the part where the door would open, and guards would march in, or the part where my chest would crack open all over again, but what he said next kind of made everything I felt pause.

"I haven't replied yet."

Slowly, with a clenched jaw, like I was afraid of what I'd find, I looked up. He was already watching me.

No pity, or the satisfied look of someone holding power over another person's head. He just watched me, steady and still, like a man who had already made up his mind about something and was simply waiting for me to realize it too.

He hadn't sent me back. He could have. It would have been easier, cleaner, and the politically safe thing to do. But he didn't.

Nolan was his nephew; they were family in name at least. One word from him and I'd have been dragged back before I even fully woke up.

But he hadn't.

And now he was sitting in this chair, telling me directly, looking me in the eye, as if he thought I deserved to know.

My voice came out smaller than I wanted it to, but at least I didn't stutter.

"What do you want in return?" The words scraped out of me, rough and careful. "For not sending me back."

There was always a catch. And from the countless horror stories I've heard about men like him, I was certain there was something he'd want in return.

All I can hope for is that he doesn't demand my life.

Alaric leaned back in his chair slowly, like a man who had never once been in a rush for anything in his life. One arm stretched along the back of the chair beside him, his legs fell open in that easy, unself-conscious way that took up space without apologizing for it.

He stared at me for a long moment. Then his lips curled in a deep, dark smirk that sent chills down my spine.

Shit. I think I'm in trouble.

"I was wondering…" he replied, voice sharp, “...when you'd ask that.”