The silence in the freezing room was absolute, broken only by the drip of melting frost from the ceiling.
"Stand up," he commanded. The voice was barely a whisper, yet it vibrated the marrow in her bones. The alpha command was involuntary, laced into his tone.
Fiona's body obeyed before her mind could protest. She grabbed the rough stone wall, dragging herself upright. Her bad leg gave out slightly and she stumbled. Before she could hit the ground, Conrad was there. He closed the distance in a blur of motion. His hands clamped onto her shoulders, catching her, hauling her up.
His grip was bruising, desperate. He stared down at her face. He cataloged every change, the hollow cheeks, the jagged scar, the dullness in her eyes that used to burn with defiant fire. He lifted one trembling hand, his calloused thumb tracing the rough, raised tissue of the scar on her cheek.
Fiona squeezed her eyes shut, turning her face away from his touch. "Don't."
Conrad's breath hitched. Hearing her voice, raspy, tired, but undeniably hers, broke the last dam holding his sanity back.
"They told me you burned," he said. The words tore out of his throat raw and bleeding. "Cedric brought me your tunic. It was soaked in your blood. He said the vanguard was overrun. He said they found your body in the ash."
"I took a spear to the ribs." Fiona whispered, keeping her eyes fixed on the cold stone floor. "I fell into the river. The water carried me out of the valley. Slavers found me before the pack search parties did."
Conrad's fingers dug tighter into her shoulders. He pulled her slightly closer, his nose hovering over her collarbone, inhaling the scent that he had craved every night for two thousand days.
"Six years," he rasped, his voice breaking. "You've been alive for six years. How long have you been in my castle?"
"Two years."
Conrad flinched as if she had driven a dagger into his stomach. He let go of her shoulders and took a staggering step back.
"Two years. You have been scrubbing pots in my kitchens for two years, and you never came to me."
"You were crowned." Fiona snapped, finally looking up. Anger flared in her chest, hot and defensive. "I came back, Conrad. I dragged myself across the mud of three provinces. I fought off dogs. I starved. When I finally reached Oakhaven, the banners were flying. The old king was dead, and you were on the throne."
She pointed a shaking finger at his iron crown. "You were surrounded by lords and ladies. The council was securing your rule. Do you know what happens to a freshly crowned, unstable king whose only mate is a crippled, lowborn infantryman?"
Fiona stepped forward, poking a stiff finger into his armored chest. "They kill her, Conrad. Or they depose him. If I had walked into that hall, Cedric and his loyalists would have slit my throat in the night to keep you available for a political match."
Conrad stared at her, the horrific truth of her words washing over him. The council. The very men who had sworn to serve him. They had lied. They hadn't just assumed she was dead. They had ensured he believed it.
"You should have trusted me," he growled, the beast flashing in his amber eyes. "I would have burned this entire castle to the ground before I let them touch you. I would have slaughtered the council."
"And then you would have been a king of ashes." Fiona shot back, her voice cracking. "You needed an army. You needed stability."
She looked away, her anger crumbling into exhaustion. She wrapped her thin arms around her waist, shivering in the freezing air of the meat locker.
"And now?" she whispered, the fight draining out of her. "You have it. I saw the banners today. I saw the northern sigils. You got your army." She forced herself to look up, meeting his eyes with devastating finality. "And you have a queen."
The words hung in the air, heavy as an executioner's axe.
Conrad looked down at his own hands. The dried blood of the binding ritual was still flaking on his palm. The magical, unbreakable vow he had made to Isolde not an hour ago. A vow made to protect his pack. A vow made because he thought his heart was already buried in the dirt of Crimson Ridge.
He was married. Bound by law, blood, and pack magic to the northern princess. And his true mate, the other half of his soul, was standing in front of him wearing rags and shivering in a meat locker.
Conrad took a slow step towards her. He didn't care about the crown. He didn't care about the vows. He reached out his hand, sliding it around the back of her neck, his thumb resting over the faint silver scar on her pulse point. The mark he had left six years ago.
"I don't care about the vows," he whispered, his voice dark, resolute, and terrifyingly calm. "I don't care about the north."
Fiona shook her head, tears finally spilling over her scarred cheeks. "Conrad, you can't—"
"You are mine." He interrupted, pulling her flush against his chest. The heat of his body was overwhelming. The mate bond, suppressed and starved for years, roared to life, snapping the air with static electricity. "I mourned a ghost, but I am not leaving you in the dark again. If the council wants a war, I will give them one."