Rin's Pov
The Prince's chamber was heavy with scent, thick and suffocating. Pheromones clung to the walls, bitter and sharp, like iron and storm-wind. I felt it press against my skin, demanding I bow, demanding I yield.
But I had lived too long behind a mask to let my knees buckle now.
Prince Alaric sat on the bed, his posture rigid, golden eyes cutting toward me. He was as striking as rumor whispered—broad-shouldered, proud, his hair the color of raven's wing. Yet there was something feral about him, like a beast forced into a human room, every breath a warning growl.
"You," he said, his voice rough, unrefined for a prince. "You are the physician they brought me?"
I bowed slightly, my words as polite as silk. "Not a physician, Your Highness. A humble herbalist. I would not dare claim the dignity of your court healers. Though if titles cured ailments, you would have been well long ago."
His eyes narrowed. "You dare mock me in my own chambers?"
"Mockery?" I raised my brows, tone mild. "Forgive me, sire. I intended only to state the limits of my craft. If that sounded sharper than it should, perhaps it is your fevered condition hearing insult where there is none."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. He rose, pacing, and the air grew heavier with every breath he exhaled. Even Darius, standing by the door, shifted uncomfortably. But I held my ground, adjusting my satchel calmly.
"Well, herbalist," Alaric bit out, "if you are half as capable as your tongue, then cure me."
I approached, though carefully—close enough to feel the heat rolling from his skin. His pulse hammered visibly at his throat, his breath harsh. Indeed, his body betrayed imbalance: a man poisoned by his own power.
"Your pheromones are untempered," I said softly, setting fingers to his wrist as if taking his pulse. "A storm without a harbor. No wonder others faint when they come near you."
He jerked his hand away, eyes flashing. "I need no harbor. I need no weakness."
I bowed slightly. "Of course not, Your Highness. Yet even the strongest ships moor before storms tear them apart."
The double edge of my words hung in the air. Alaric's nostrils flared, his gaze burning into me, as though trying to see through every layer of my calm.
Minutes passed in taut silence, broken only by the rustle of parchment as I scribbled notes and list down the herbs that are needed. I kept my tone polite, offering remedies without submission, every word crafted to soothe without bowing.
At last, sensing I had said enough for one night, I gathered my satchel. "With Your Highness's leave, I shall prepare tonics to temper this imbalance. They will not silence your nature, but perhaps… soften its bite."
I turned to go.
But his voice stopped me, low and suspicious. "Before you leave… tell me your secondary gender."
The air froze. My back stiffened.
"I thought," he continued, his tone sharpened with curiosity, "I smelled something sweet when you walked in. Like a summer pear, ripe and soft. Too sweet for a beta."
My fingers tightened around the satchel strap. My smile, though hidden, was tight.
"Your Highness flatters me," I said lightly, though my heart raced. "Perhaps it was only the dried fruit I keep for the road. Pears travel better than people, after all."
The words came smooth, polite, but I knew my composure wavered. The very fact he had noticed—the very risk of it—made my pulse stumble.
Before he could press further, I bowed quickly and excused myself. "If Your Highness will forgive me, I must not linger. Tonics require time, and patience is the first ingredient."
I left without waiting for dismissal, my footsteps measured though my chest was tight.
Behind me, I felt his gaze linger, sharp and suspicious, like a wolf scenting prey not yet cornered.