Page 10 of Claimed By the Alien Prince
The polished wood of the palace floors reflects the flickering light from the bioluminescent sconces, casting dancing shadows that follow me down the corridor. I mutter under my breath, a string of curses aimed at fate and its cruel sense of humor. My fingers fidget with the cuffs of my sleeves, a nervous tic I can’t seem to shake. The fabric feels too tight against my skin, like a reminder of expectations that bind me just as tightly as the guards outside the human woman's room.
Each step brings me closer to my study, a sanctuary from courtly games and judgment. I crave solitude, a chance to collect myself before the inevitable demands of leadership claw at my resolve again.
But as I reach for the door handle, Aran’tha appears around the corner like a hawk spotting its prey. Her presence instantly shifts the atmosphere; her cool-toned green skin glimmers faintly under the ambient lights, her pale rose-gold eyes narrowing with purpose.
“Zevran,” she says sharply, halting me in my tracks. “The Queen has summoned you to the council chambers.”
I brace myself. The Queen wants to discuss the human. Just what I need.
“Must we?” I murmur, irritation creeping into my voice.
Aran’tha’s brow arches, a silent challenge.
The idea of facing my mother, of justifying my choices regarding this particular complication, makes my skin prickle with tension.
Great. Just what I need—a reminder that I can’t escape this mess so easily.
With a resigned nod, I follow her through twisting corridors adorned with hanging vines and shimmering crystals woven into walls that breathe life into our surroundings. The air grows heavier as we approach the council chamber—charged with political tension that vibrates through every inch of this place.
Inside, nobles gather around an ornate table carved from ancient wood; they murmur in low voices while glancing toward me expectantly as I take my seat at one end. I keep my expression neutral, though inside I seethe with frustration over being yanked from my thoughts of her.
The discussion starts off predictably: preparations for an envoy from the Desert Kingdom—their vast resources and trade deals are essential to Verus's prosperity. They speak of caravan routes and offerings of spice-laden goods that could sweeten even the most bitter negotiations.
But all I hear are echoes of her amber eyes shining like sunlit gold beneath an alien canopy—how she’d stammered when confronted by me and how those trembling hands had sought solace in her data tablet while encroaching fear radiated off her.
My spine still aches where our bond ignited—intense warmth coursing through me like wildfire that threatens to consume everything in its path. It gnaws at me as I try to focus on their plans for trade routes and alliances—distracting chatter mixedwith self-serving ambitions all swirling together until they blur into background noise.
Aran’tha leans over toward me; her voice is low enough for only my ears to catch: “You’re not listening.”
“I’m listening.” My tone comes out sharper than intended as I suppress another flinch when her gaze pierces deeper than mere observation—it cuts through layers of pride and stubbornness right into uncertainty coiling tightly around my heart.
“You cannot afford this distraction,” she admonishes quietly but firmly; there’s no mistaking concern hidden behind her sharp words meant only for me.
“I know.” The admission tastes bitter on my tongue—like admitting weakness before those who revel in exploiting it—but denying it would be futile now; she knows me too well for half-truths or false bravado.
As if sensing my inner turmoil, she straightens slightly—a regal presence even amidst chaotic politics—and continues discussing matters without further interruption from me: merchants eager for lucrative partnerships dotting each territory represented in attendance sit poised with greedy anticipation; one noble speaks passionately about expanding influence beyond our forests into neighboring lands once untouched by Kiphian governance.
But their words only wash over me like rain on parched earth—providing little sustenance while fueling an undercurrent of dread coiling tighter within.
What will happen if this human is deemed unworthy? What if they decide she poses a threat rather than potential ally? My mind races through possibilities both daunting and ridiculous as they navigate trivial squabbles concerning price points rather than acknowledging deeper implications lurking beneath surface-level commerce talks surrounding future tradeopportunities promised by desert kingdoms rife with their own agendas hidden within grains of sand shifting ever so slowly between fingers grasping greedily at power.
“Your Highness?” A voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts—a noble raising his hand to draw attention back toward himself rather than focusing on actual decisions requiring input from those more invested in outcomes beyond profit margins alone.
“Your thoughts?” he asks expectantly.
I lean back, forcing a calm demeanor while the noble’s question hangs in the air like an unwanted vine.
“Trade routes are crucial,” I say, my voice even. “We must ensure our partnerships remain beneficial to all involved.” A vague answer, hardly inspiring. I can almost hear Aran’tha’s disapproval radiating from her side.
I cast a glance at my mother, seated at the far end of the table. Her cool gaze flickers across the gathering, unfazed by their petty bickering. The silence surrounding her feels palpable; she knows something. I can feel it—a tension brewing beneath her composed exterior.
Why hasn’t she said anything about the human? Why hasn’t she pressed me for details?
A million thoughts collide in my mind, each one sharper than the last. Is she waiting for me to bring it up? Or does she consider this human matter beneath her concern?
The nobles drone on, oblivious to the undercurrents shifting within me. I force myself to focus on them instead of the gnawing questions that tug at my thoughts—unraveling threads of uncertainty and fear threading tighter around my heart. The meeting stretches on, and with each passing moment, this damned human feels more like a distant dream rather than a reality I've stumbled into.
CHAPTER 9
