Chapter 60 Late - Aleksandr’s POV
I checked my watch again, the timepiece feeling heavy on my wrist. 1:15. Amelia was late, which wasn't like her. The garden table I'd had set up for our lunch sat untouched, white linens fluttering in the gentle breeze, crystal glasses catching the midday sun. Fifteen minutes wasn't long in the grand scheme of things, but an uneasy feeling had settled in my gut from the moment the clock struck one. Something wasn't right. Amelia was never late. Not for me.
'Something wrong,' Skoll rumbled in my mind, his presence pushing forward with unusual urgency. 'Mate not here. Find mate.'
"I'm sure she's just lost track of time," I said aloud, though the words rang hollow even to my own ears. Amelia was punctual to a fault, a habit born from years of harsh punishment for tardiness at the Frozen Mountain Pack.
I paced the length of the garden path, my footsteps crunching against fine gravel. The guards stationed at the perimeter kept their eyes carefully averted, trained not to stare directly at their Alpha King, especially when he showed signs of agitation. Five more minutes, I told myself. Five more minutes and then I would go looking for her.
The minutes crawled by like hours. At 1:25, I abandoned my pretense of patience and strode toward the castle, my longer legs eating up the distance in seconds. Servants scurried out of my way, pressing themselves against walls as I passed. I barely noticed them, my focus narrowing to a single goal: finding Amelia.
'Call through bond,' Skoll urged, his anxiety bleeding into my own. 'Reach for mate.'
I tried, focusing on that connection that had been forming between us, the tenuous link that sometimes allowed us to sense each other's presence. But I met only silence, an emptiness where her consciousness should have been.
"Where would Mira be at this hour?" I asked a passing servant, who froze like prey before a predator at my sudden address.
"The... the east wing laundry, Your Highness," she stammered, eyes fixed on the floor. "Overseeing the cleaning of the guest linens, I believe."
I didn't thank her, already moving toward the east wing with a speed that bordered on unseemly for someone of my station. The laundry was a cavernous space filled with steam and the sharp scent of soap. Mira stood with her back to me, honey-blonde hair escaping its usual messy bun, gesturing emphatically at a row of freshly pressed sheets.
"Mira," I said, my voice cutting through the humid air like a knife.
She whirled, eyes widening as she took in my presence. "Your Highness! I didn't expect—" She stopped abruptly, reading something in my expression. "What's wrong?"
"Amelia," I said, the name feeling tight in my throat. "Have you seen her today?"
Mira's forehead creased in confusion. "Not since this morning. I brought breakfast to her suite around eight, stayed while she ate. She mentioned something about taking a bath, soaking in those lavender salts Sylvia brought her." Her eyes searched my face, concern blooming in them. "Wasn't she supposed to meet you for lunch?"
"Yes. At one." I struggled to keep my voice level, to maintain the composure expected of an Alpha King. "She never came."
"That doesn't sound like her," Mira said, echoing my own thoughts. "Maybe she fell asleep? She mentioned she hasn't been sleeping well lately."
I latched onto this explanation, desperate for any reason that didn't involve danger or abandonment. "I'll check her rooms," I said, already turning away.
"I can come with—" Mira began, but I was already gone, moving through the castle corridors with barely restrained speed.
The hallway leading to Amelia's suite was quiet, the usual guards stationed further down where the royal quarters began. As I approached her door, that uneasiness in my gut twisted sharper. The door stood slightly ajar, a thin sliver of space between it and the frame.
"Amelia?" I called, rapping my knuckles against the wood. No response. I pushed the door wider, stepping into the sitting room. Everything looked normal at first glance—breakfast tray gone, pillows neatly arranged on the sofa, sunlight streaming through tall windows. But then I caught a scent that didn't belong, something chemical and sharp beneath the familiar notes of Amelia's soap and shampoo.
'Wrong smell,' Skoll growled. 'Not mate. Intruder.'
My hand drifted to the knife sheathed at my hip, a reflex born from centuries of threats and assassination attempts. "Amelia?" I called again, moving toward the bedroom door, which also stood partially open.
The sight that greeted me stopped my heart.