Page 100 of Chased By My Grumpy Alpha
We drift through the crowd, and I see Astra’s attention being caught by everything—the musicians, the dancers, themerchants selling trinkets and sweets. When we pass a stall selling hair ribbons, she pauses, her fingers brushing against a blue one that matches her new tunic.
The vendor, an elderly woman with kind eyes, notices her interest. “That one would look lovely with your coloring, dear.”
Astra pulls her hand back quickly. “Oh, I was just looking.”
Before she can protest, I’ve pulled out several coins and bought not just the blue ribbon, but several others in different colors. The old woman beams as she wraps them up.
“Lucian,” Astra hisses, but I’m already guiding her away from the stall.
“You touched it,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “That means you wanted it.”
“That’s not how wanting things works.”
“It is now.”
She tries her best not to touch anything after that, but her eyes still linger on things, and I’m watching her. At one stall, she admires a small, carved, wooden cat that looks remarkably like Luna. I buy it. Later, she pauses to smell some soap scented with lavender. I buy that, too.
“You can’t keep buying me things,” she protests, but there’s less conviction in her voice now.
I just keep strolling along, not bothering to reply.
By the time we’ve made a circuit of the vendors, my arms are full of packages—the hair ribbons, the wooden cat, the soap, a small pot of honey, a pair of soft, leather gloves, and a necklace with a pendant that caught the lantern light and made her stare.
Astra is flushed and wide-eyed, looking overwhelmed but not unhappy. “This is too much.”
“This is nothing.”
And it is. The amount I’ve spent tonight wouldn’t buy a decent sword in the capital. But watching my mate discover whatit feels like to want something and have it given to her freely? That’s priceless.
“Come on,” I tell her, shifting all the packages to one arm so I can take her hand again. “Let’s dance.”
“I don’t know how to dance.”
“Neither do I.”
It’s a lie—I’ve been trained in formal court dances since I was old enough to walk. But those rigid, ceremonial movements have nothing to do with the loose, joyful dancing happening in the square here tonight.
I hate dancing. I loathe it. But for this woman, it seems like something I can tolerate.
I pull her into the crowd of dancers, and she stumbles slightly, laughing despite herself. “Lucian, I’m going to trample your feet.”
“Trample all you want.”
The music is fast and cheerful, and around us, couples spin and laugh without any particular skill or grace. With one arm around her waist, I guide Astra through some basic steps, her hand clutched in mine.
She’s terrible at it. She misses the beat, turns the wrong way, and does indeed trample my feet. But she’s also laughing—really laughing—for the first time since I met her. The sound goes straight through me like an arrow, making my chest clench tightly.
“This is ridiculous,” she gasps as I spin her around, nearly tangling us both up.
“Completely,” I agree, tugging her to one side to avoid a couple who clearly have even less idea what they’re doing than we do.
When the song ends, we’re both out of breath. Astra’s hair has come loose from its braid, and her cheeks are pink with exertion and laughter. She looks young and carefree andbeautiful, and I want to pull her even closer and kiss the smile right off her lips.
Instead, I force myself to step back, though I keep hold of her hand.
“Want to try again?” I ask.
She nods, still catching her breath. “But you lead. I’m hopeless at this.”
