Choose Your Alpha, Princess

chapter 11

POV Odette

Nathaniel's entire demeanor shifted as he caught my tension. His voice dropped to match the garden's whispered symphony—leaves rustling against stone, fountain water threading silver through darkness, lanterns breathing gold across the maze of hedges.

"I'll stay by your side without pressure, Odette." His words carried weight without force. "You're a married woman. I respect that, even if your husband doesn't deserve you."

"Don't—"

"Let me finish." He raised a hand, not commanding but requesting. "I won't step back from what I've chosen. I intend to compete for the most honored place in your heart. No haste, no trespass, just honest pursuit."

Heat flooded my cheeks, burning paths I couldn't hide. "You can't just declare something like that."

"Why not? Your husband declared his need for three wives. I'm declaring my intention to win one." His eyes held mine steady. "The difference is I'm giving you the choice."

The quiet pain twisted deeper—why wasn't Devon fighting for me like this?

"This could be manipulation," I said, testing him. "Sweet words until you get what you want."

"Everything could be a manipulation, Princess. But time reveals the truth." Nathaniel stepped into the lamplight, letting me see his face clearly. "You want to know who I really am? Beyond the stranger from the bar, beyond the betrothed you never knew existed?"

Curiosity won over caution. "Yes."

His exhale carried contained relief. "Then I'll stay here, in your father's mansion. I'll teach you the court's ridiculous etiquette, help you navigate the political maze you've inherited. Give you time to grow accustomed to my presence without demands."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that." He moved closer, careful not to crowd. "Though I should warn you—I'm exceptionally good at being patient when the prize is worth it."

My wolf stirred, not with alarm but with something dangerously close to contentment. The calm surprised me, unsettled me. Again.

And around Devon lately, my wolf had been nothing but restless anxiety.

"Your Highness?" A she-wolf maid materialized in the garden doorway, bowing low. "The King requests your presence for evening tea."

The spell shattered. I straightened.

"We should go," I said, but Nathaniel was already offering his arm.

"First lesson in court protocol," he murmured as I reluctantly accepted. "A princess never enters a room unescorted when a suitable companion is available."

"Suitable?" I arched an eyebrow.

"Your father will explain exactly how suitable over tea, I'm sure."

* * *

The next morning arrived with breakfast and a gift. King Magnus placed a new phone in my hands—sleek, expensive, nothing like the one lost in the forest during my abduction.

"You'll want to contact your pack," he said carefully. "Let them know you're safe."

I stepped onto the balcony, morning sun warming marble beneath my feet, and dialed Devon's number from memory.

He answered before the first ring finished. "Syrena?"

"I'm safe. My father found me—"

"I know. Leon told me everything." His voice cracked with emotion. "When can I come for you? You're still my wife, my beloved wife—"

The words cut deep, sharper than any blade. "Your beloved wife? Is that what you tell Mira? Celia? Jasmine?"

"That's not—they mean nothing—"

"They mean enough that you're marrying them soon." My grip tightened on the phone. "Or did you forget that detail?"

"The council forced—"

"Stop." I pressed my free hand against the balcony rail, knuckles white. "I need time, Devon. Don't even call or text me. Just... give me space to think."

"Syrena, please—"

"My name is Princess Odette." The words came out harder than intended. "Remember that."

I ended the call before he could respond, before his voice could weaken my resolve.

* * *

The next two weeks developed a rhythm that felt dangerously close to domestic comfort. Every morning, Nathaniel arrived with fresh tortures disguised as lessons—the proper forms of address for seventeen different ranks of nobility, the invisible mathematics of seating charts, when to yield gracefully and when to stand immovable as stone.

"Duke Harrington takes precedence over Marquess Blackwood," he explained, spreading genealogy charts across the library table, "unless the Marquess holds military rank, in which case—"

"In which case, everyone gets offended and starts a small war?" I deliberately misranked a titled cousin on the practice chart.

He caught my mischief immediately. "Ah, testing me?" Nathaniel leaned across the table, close enough that his smell made thinking difficult. "That particular cousin started three succession disputes. You'd actually be doing the kingdom a favor by snubbing him."

"How wonderfully petty."

"Court life in summary." His finger traced the family tree, accidentally-deliberately brushing mine. "Though some competitions are worth the pettiness."

The flirtation wove through every lesson, neither of us forcing it, both of us allowing it space to breathe.

When I fumbled a curtsy, he steadied me with hands that lingered exactly one heartbeat longer than proper. When he demonstrated the correct bow depth for greeting foreign ambassadors, I absolutely did not imagine running my fingers through his perfectly styled hair.

By the end of the first week, his presence felt as natural as breathing. He never overstepped, never pushed past careful boundaries. He simply existed in my space as if my attention were something precious, something worth earning rather than taking.

"You're staring," I accused during a particularly tedious lesson on trade agreements.

"You're beautiful when you're bored," he countered without missing a beat. "Your nose scrunches slightly when you're trying not to yawn."

"How flattering."

"I specialize in honest flattery." He slid another document forward. "Now, the mining rights in the northern territories—"

"Will still be boring in ten minutes." I stood, needing distance from his warmth. "I need air."

He walked me through the gardens, introducing me to guards and clerks without fanfare, stepping back the moment exhaustion crossed my features. I slept better with his presence marking the days, though I refused to examine why.

The memory of our night together surfaced at the worst moments—while reviewing taxation policies, during formal dinner etiquette, whenever he rolled his sleeves up to demonstrate proper sword grip for ceremonial purposes.

With rueful honesty, I admitted to myself that I wouldn't mind seeing him naked again. And the guilt that followed ached differently than expected—I did love Devon, missed him with a physical pain, but I wanted him to miss me the same way.

Nina's silence helped. I'd asked her not to send updates about pack drama, needing distance from that world. But as the second week waned and garden shadows grew long with approaching evening, I found myself reaching for the phone again.

Devon deserved to know where things stood. Or maybe I needed to know if he even cared anymore.

The phone felt heavier than it should as I dialed, Nathaniel's lessons echoing in my mind about protocol and proper distances. But what was the protocol for a discarded wife calling the husband who'd replaced her three times over?