Page 142 of Chased By My Grumpy Alpha
Nothing except tend my plants.
The herb garden Lucian gave me is my sanctuary—the one place where I have complete freedom to move, to create, to exist without feeling like I’m being watched by invisible eyes. Here, among the moonbell, silverleaf, dragonfern, and carefully cultivated nightshade, I can pretend I still have purpose.
This is where I am now—or rather, I’m in the small laboratory that connects to the garden through glass doors that catch the afternoon light. I’m grinding dried willow bark with my mortar and pestle—the beautiful glass ones Lucian bought me in that little mountain town, back when I thought he was a simple mercenary who cared about my work.
The memory stings, but I push it aside. At least I still have my herbs. At least I can still help people, even if it is only the palace staff.
Luna stretches in a patch of sunlight streaming through the windows, her black fur gleaming. Having her back has been the only bright spot in these strange, isolated weeks. Three days ago, Lucian appeared at my door with her in his arms—apparently, he’d given her to Seth to keep safe during everything that was happening with the Council. Seeing her again, feeling her familiar weight in my lap, made me cry with relief.
At least one thing in my life has remained constant.
The pestle turns in steady circles, reducing the bark to a fine powder. I’m making a pain tonic for Marcus, the elderly gardener who helps me tend the more delicate plants. His back has been bothering him horribly, and the palace healers keep giving him useless drafts that do nothing but make him drowsy.
I’m so focused on getting the consistency just right that I don’t hear the door open behind me.
“Well, well.”
The voice is gravelly, imperious, and not unfamiliar. I spin around so fast I nearly knock over my stool, the mortar clutched protectively against my chest.
An elderly man stands in the doorway—tall despite his obvious age, with iron-gray hair and the kind of bearing that suggests he has never been denied anything in his life. For a moment, I don’t recognize him. But there’s something about his stance, the way he surveys my laboratory like he owns it...
I gasp silently when I realize I’m staring at the King. He is dressed simply, without the royal regalia I’ve seen in portraits, but it’s him, alright.
Luna wakes up and pads over to investigate this intruder with typical feline curiosity. She doesn’t sense a threat, but that does nothing to calm my racing heart.
I take a step backward, forgetting about the stool entirely. It scrapes against the stone floor with a harsh sound that makes me wince. “Your Majesty, I—”
“As rude as my son,” King Alaric says with a sharp snort. “Two weeks you’ve been in my palace, and you haven’t once come to greet me officially.”
Oh, crap. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I didn’t know—I mean, Lucian said—”
“My son says many things,” he interjects, taking a step into my sanctuary. “Most of them nonsense. Now, give me a chair. Quickly. I’m old, and my joints hurt.”
I practically trip over myself scrambling to offer him a place to sit. It’s just a simple, wooden chair, nothing fancy enough for royalty, but he settles into it with a grunt of satisfaction.
“Better,” he says, then fixes me with a piercing stare. “What are you doing?”
I glance at the mortar still clutched in my hands, then at the array of herbs and equipment spread across my worktable. “I—I’m creating a tonic. For aches and pains.”
“For whom?”
“Marcus, the gardener who helps me with the garden beds. His back has been—”
“So, you’ll help a gardener,” King Alaric cuts me off, his voice dangerously quiet, “but not your own father-in-law?”
“I...” I blink at him, completely lost. “What’s wrong with you?”
The explosion is immediate and deafening. “What’s wrong with me?” he roars, making Luna’s ears flatten against her head. “I’m old! My hips ache constantly! My back seizes up every morning, and my knees creak like rusted hinges! That’s what’s wrong with me!”
I stare at this unpredictable man, my mind reeling. I have no idea how to respond to him, a mercurial royal who apparently takes personal offense at my herb-mixing priorities.
“Y–You could try the tonic,” I say hesitantly. “If you’d like.”
His eyes narrow to suspicious slits. “Are you trying to experiment on me?”
“No!” The word comes out sharper than it should. “I mean, I’ve made this remedy many times. I used it on myself whenever I was sore from...from my old life.”
This seems to satisfy him somewhat. He holds out an imperious hand. “Give it here.”
