Fated to the Grumpy Beta

Chapter Four:

༺ ELARA ༻

My legs felt like lead as I hurried up the winding stone staircase toward the royal family wing.

I kept my chin tucked down, pulling at the frayed neckline of my dress, which I’d finally managed to give some semblance of modesty. My hands still wouldn't stop shaking. The scent of sandalwood and cedar clung stubbornly to my skin, a mocking reminder of my stupidity.

Focus, Elara. Just make a polite exit, then run.

I reached the double doors of Sigrun’s chambers and knocked softly before slipping inside. The large room was warm, smelling of jasmine and sweet milk.

Sigrun was sitting near the hearth in an oversized robe, gently rocking a swaddled bundle against her chest. Three weeks post-childbirth had left the Luna glowing, though her tired eyes gave away her exhaustion. But she looked blissfully exhausted.

Nearby, in a carved wooden bassinet, three-week-old Prince Ronan slept soundly, while Princess Sigrid whimpered softly in her mother's arms. Sigrun’s slender hand was raised over the infant in her arm. A faint, pearlescent shimmer of blue light crackled against her fingertips. The baby let out a tiny sigh of content, her whimpers subsiding into a peaceful sleep.

"Elara," Sigrun whispered, extinguishing the magical glow with a flick of her wrist as she gave me a weary, gentle smile. "I thought you were still downstairs."

"I... I came to say goodnight," I stammered, my voice sounding paper-thin. I kept my distance near the entry, wrapping my arms tightly around my waist. "The sounds. The cheering. My head is... it’s spinning. A migraine. I need to go home."

Sigrun’s smile faded, her eyes scanning my face. "Elara? You’re pale as a sheet. And you’re trembling." She shifted Sigrid slightly, her brow furrowing with genuine concern. "Are you alright? Do you need to take a sensory break?"

My mouth went dry. A sensory break just got me pinned against a pillar by your husband's Beta…

"I’m fine," I squeaked, the lie burning in my throat. "Just overwhelmed. I really should just get home."

Sigrun tucked the baby into the bassinet alongside her brother. “Okay, but let me get a guard to take you home. It’s snowing heavily outside and—“

The doors burst open, and Marta, the head maid, hurried inside, breathlessly straightening her apron.

"Luna Sigrun," Marta announced in an urgent, hushed tone. "Queen Astrid has just left the Great Hall and is coming up the corridor to see the babies."

Sigrun froze, a sudden wave of flustered anxiety washing over her face. "Queen Astrid? Now? Oh gods, Marta, grab the extra blankets. The room is a mess."

In the sudden flurry of hushed panic and scurrying maids in preparation for the arrival of the Queen of the South, Sigrun’s attention thankfully dropped off me.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Sigrun," I murmured, taking two slow steps backward.

Sigrun gave me a quick, distracted nod as she adjusted Sigrid’s blanket. “Get some sleep, Elara! Don’t forget to leave with a guard! We'll talk in the morning!"

I didn't wait for another word. I turned on my heel and slipped out into the corridor.

I took the back staircase, moving as fast as my aching thighs would carry me, desperate to escape the castle.

I rounded the corner of the lower gallery—and ran straight into a wall of solid muscle and broad shoulders.

The impact knocked me back a step. A pair of warm, calloused hands reached out instinctively, catching my forearms to steady me before dropping away as if I were made of fire.

My head snapped up.

Darren.

He stood taller than the world, his jaw set like carved granite. His piercing grey eyes locked onto mine, unreadable and guarded tight.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it would crack a bone.

And of course, my brain instantly went into overdrive.

"Beta Darren! I—I was just leaving—not that I'm running away, because why would I run away? I just—I have a migraine, which is scientifically accurate because sensory overstimulation causes neurological inflammation, and I was just heading out to my house because my feet hurt—well, not just my feet, my whole body aches, which is unrelated—"

I clamped my mouth shut, my cheeks burning with a heat so intense I thought my skin would blister.

Darren just stared at me, his stoic expression giving away absolutely nothing.

"Watch your step on the road, Lady Thompson," he muttered quietly, finally stepping aside to clear the path. "It's freezing outside."

Lady Thompson.

Temporary lapse...

A mistake…

"Right. Thank you," I squeaked, pulling my glasses up with a finger, and bolting past him.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I practically threw my body against the grand doors leading out of Pillak Towers, ignoring the guards that lined the entrance. I plunged into the bitter Northern night, running as fast as my legs could carry me. The winter wind slapped my face, but it did nothing to cool the raging shame inside me.

By the time I reached the Market Square, my legs were numb, my dress was damp from melted snow, and tears were freezing on my cheeks.

I pushed through the front door of the bookstore which doubled as my home, slipping inside and leaning back against the wood, letting out a shuddering breath.

"Pet?" A voice called out from behind the counter. My father stepped into the light, holding a brass oil lamp, his traveling cloak still draped over his shoulders.

"Father?" I blinked through my blurred vision, hurriedly taking off my glasses to wipe the condensation off on my wet sleeve before shoving them back onto my face. "You're back early. I thought you wouldn’t return until a fortnight."

"The roads cleared up faster than expected," he said with a tired, soft smile. He looked exhausted, his face lined and aged by endless weeks of traveling from border to border. He paused, his face shifting into concern as he stared at me. “Are you alright, pet?”

I nodded and diverted my eyes from his, my throat tight with hot tears. “Yes, Father. I’m fine,” I lied in a hoarse whisper.

My father stared at me for a few more moments. He finally nodded, taking my word for it. Something fragile in me wished he would have pressed a little more. Maybe if he had, I would have told him that I wasn’t sure my heart was working right anymore. That I was feeling so much pain and I was so scared. And that I just wanted a hug and someone to tell me that they loved me.

But he didn’t press.

And I neatly put away my feelings under lock and key, like I’d learned how to do since I was a child.

My father rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes behind his spectacles drifting absentmindedly toward the empty rocking chair near the fireplace. It was the spot where he always looked when he thought about my mother.

People in town always praised Leward Thompson’s dedication as a scholar, assuming his frequent travels were driven by a passion for historical mapping.

Only I knew the truth. He wasn't traveling. He was running.

When I was six years old, my mother packed a single satchel in the middle of the night and walked out the door, abandoning us both without a word. She never came back. For the last two decades, my father had buried himself under mountains of research, translating obscure texts and mapping foreign territories because sitting still in one place meant facing the silence—and baggage (me)—she’d left behind.

I’d gotten used to telling people my mother died when I was a child. It was easier that way. Telling people she was dead brought soft, respectful condolences. Telling them she simply didn't want us invited questions I didn't have the answers to.

Why wasn't I enough for her to stay?

"How was the feast at the Towers?" my father asked, cutting into my thoughts as he set the lamp down on a counter stacked high with leather-bound manuscripts. "I received your letters."

"It was fine," I lied quietly, hanging my damp cloak on the wooden peg near the door. "Just busy. So, how long will you be staying this time—?”

"Actually, Elara," my father cut in gently. “My early return is fortuitous. I was granted access to the grand archives in the Western Reaches. They’ve invited me to lead a full research translation at the Citadel of Knowledge in Oakhaven."

My brows flew up. "Oakhaven? That’s across the sea."

"It is," he nodded, pulling a rolled scroll sealed with red wax from his inner pocket. "I know you turned down my offer to accompany me last month…you said you wanted to stay here and look after the bookstore. But I intend to pack up the shop and leave before the mountain passes freeze over for the winter. The ship sails from the coast in three days."

He paused, looking at me intently over his spectacles. "The offer stands, Pet. There are texts in Oakhaven that haven't been opened in three centuries. A mind like yours would thrive there."

A month ago, I had adamantly refused. I had wanted to stay in the North. I had wanted to stay close to Pillak Towers, holding onto the pathetic hope that a certain stoic Beta commander might eventually notice me. But I was stupid and naive.

I’d only been a willing body for his feral rut. I didn’t matter. I would never matter enough to be chosen by him.

Maybe I’m the problem. And maybe leaving is in my blood, too…

My father scratched his forehead, looking wry. “Look pet, I know you might need some time to think about—“

"I'll go," I cut in, my voice surprisingly steady.

My father blinked, taken aback. He’d probably been prepared to convince me. “You will?"

“Yes. The research opportunities in Oakhaven are... statistically superior to anything here. We can leave tonight, right?”

“Tonight? I—Why, yes, perhaps…?” My father spluttered, staring at me like I’d grown two heads.

“Splendid,” I said with a bright smile as I backed toward the hallway. “I’ll go pack my bags.”

I didn't wait for his reply or to watch the stunned look on his face. I walked upstairs to my small bedchamber, shut the door behind me, and pulled my traveling chest out from under the bed.

I told myself I was going for the ancient texts. I told myself it was for science, for history, for my career.

But I was lying to myself.

I was running away from the man who had just shattered my heart into a thousand pieces—and I was never coming back.