The Alpha’s Rebellious Fiancee novel Chapter 19

Lyra (Seraphina)

The moment shattered like glass.

Lucien’s face turned cold, jaw tight. He pulled back fast, like my presence suddenly burned him. And without a single word, he turned and stormed out of the room.

The door slammed behind him.

I just stood there, breathless, confused, my heart pounding like it didn’t know what to do with itself. My fingers trembled as I lifted them to my lips—the ones he almost kissed.

Almost.

And that almost was the worst part. Because it made me feel something I didn’t want to admit.

***

Word spread fast: a rogue pack had been spotted near the southern border.

Lucien was gone within the hour.

I heard him barking orders at the guards, leading a patrol of warriors into the woods. No goodbye. No explanation. Just steel in his eyes and his Alpha mask back in place.

He didn’t come back until sunrise.

His shirt was torn at the shoulder, blood on his arm—not his, they said. But still, he didn’t come to me. Not even to tell me he was okay.

And I didn’t ask.

For two days, I avoided him.

I stayed in the east wing, not in our room. Took my meals in the garden. Buried myself in council work and training schedules. Every time I caught a glimpse of him across the hall or down the stairs, I turned and walked the other way.

It was easier that way.

It was safer.

But on the third night, duty came knocking.

The annual Harvest Banquet was being hosted at the estate—a tradition among the Hawthorne Pack to honor the strength of the land and its warriors. A formal dinner, speeches, music, wine, laughter.

And of course, a royal couple was expected to attend.

Together.

I stood in front of the mirror in my chamber as one of the servants tightened the silver corset around my waist. The gown shimmered like moonlight, clinging to me in soft, flowing layers. My hair was curled and pinned back with delicate silver combs shaped like crescent moons.

We sat in cold silence as the first course was served. I picked at my food. He downed a glass of wine like it might save him from drowning.

Every so often, someone would raise a glass to us. We’d nod politely. Smile stiffly. Fake it all.

But the air between us was sharp and cold.

Then, halfway through the second course, he leaned toward me. His breath brushed against my cheek.

And he whispered:

“That moment… it didn’t mean anything.”

My fork clinked against the plate. I turned to him slowly, eyes burning. “Excuse me?”

Lucien didn’t even blink. “In the study. The almost-kiss. It was a mistake. Just heat. Tension.”

I stared at him, stunned. “You think that’s what I wanted to hear?”

“I just thought you should know. So we’re clear.”

I swallowed hard, jaw tight. Lowkey embarrassing.

“Crystal,” I whispered.