Chapter 17 Wives Who Die - Amelia’s POV
I sat cross-legged on the massive bed, fingers tracing the cover of a book I'd plucked from the shelf—some romance novel with a tattered spine that looked well-loved. The afternoon had slipped away while I explored my suite, opening drawers and cupboards like a child playing at someone else's life. My back still throbbed dully beneath Sylvia's salve, but the sharp, burning pain had subsided to something almost bearable. Every few minutes, I'd catch myself waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to burst through the door and tell me it had all been a mistake, that servants didn't get rooms with windows and bookshelves and privacy.
'They're buttering you up before they slaughter you,' Kaela muttered darkly.
"Or maybe they're just decent people," I whispered back, though I didn't fully believe it either.
'Decent people don't have wives who mysteriously die on their wedding nights,' she retorted.
I had no argument for that. Instead, I flipped open the book, trying to lose myself in someone else's story. Three pages in, a knock at the door sent my heart skittering like a frightened rabbit. I slammed the book shut, scrambled off the bed, and smoothed down the dress I'd been wearing all day. Old habits.
"Come in," I called, my voice steadier than I felt.
Mira pushed through the door, arms laden with shopping bags in various colors and sizes. Her honey-blonde hair had escaped its bun in several places, giving her a windswept look that somehow only made her more charming.
"Sorry I'm late," she said, kicking the door shut behind her with a familiarity that shocked me. "The shops were absolute madness. Apparently there's some festival happening in the lower quarter, and everyone decided today was the perfect time to buy new outfits."
I stared at the bags, utterly bewildered. "Those are... for me?"
"Of course they're for you." She set them down with a dramatic sigh of relief. "His Majesty was quite specific—you're to have everything you need to be comfortable."
My cheeks burned. The idea of the Alpha King sending someone shopping for me, thinking about what I might need, was both mortifying and oddly touching.
"I didn't need anything," I mumbled, eyes fixed on the pile of bags. "The dress is fine."
Mira snorted. "You can't wear one dress forever, Amelia. Besides, His Majesty said you were to have options." She gestured expansively at the bags. "So I got you options."
'Take them,' Kaela urged, surprising me. 'We need clothes. We can't escape in that stupid formal dress if we need to run.'
I approached the bags cautiously, as if they might bite. The first one I opened contained jeans—three pairs in different washes, the fabric softer than any I'd touched before. The next held t-shirts in various colors, then sweaters, pyjamas, underwear still with tags attached. Every item was new. Not hand-me-downs, not patched and mended, but brand new.
"I guessed your size," Mira said, watching me closely. "You're quite small, but I think these will fit. If they don't, I can exchange them."
I pulled out a simple navy blue t-shirt, running my thumb over the cotton. "Why is he doing this?" I asked quietly.
Mira tilted her head. "Doing what?"
"All of this." I gestured around the room, at the bags. "The suite, the clothes, the food. It doesn't make sense. He doesn't even know me."
She considered this for a moment. "I can't speak for His Majesty, but..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "He has strong opinions about how people should be treated. Especially those under his protection."
'And then he kills them,' Kaela added darkly in my head.
I set the shirt down and opened another bag, finding shoes this time—comfortable flats, sneakers, even a pair of boots. Things I could run in, if I needed to. The thought made my throat tight.
"There are some dresses too," Mira continued, pulling out a smaller bag. "Nothing too fancy—just casual things, and a couple nicer ones for dinners or events."
I touched a soft green dress with a simple cut. "It's too much."
"It's really not," Mira countered, her voice gentle. "It's just the basics, Amelia."
The kindness in her tone nearly undid me. I swallowed hard against the sudden lump in my throat, blinking rapidly.
'Don't cry,' Kaela warned. 'Don't show weakness.'
I cleared my throat. "Thank you for doing all this shopping. It must have taken hours."
"Part of the job," Mira said with a smile, though we both knew this went far beyond normal servant duties. She began gathering the empty bags. "Do you want me to help you put everything away?"
The thought of someone else touching my things—my new things—sent a flash of possessiveness through me that was as surprising as it was fierce. "No, thank you. I can manage."
Mira nodded, understanding in her eyes. "Of course. Dinner will be sent up in about an hour, unless you'd prefer to eat earlier?"
A wild impulse seized me. "Could I... would it be possible to eat somewhere else? Not here, I mean."
Her eyebrows rose slightly. "Where would you like to eat?"
"Outside," I said, the word rushing out before I could reconsider. "If that's allowed. I haven't been outside in..." I trailed off, not wanting to admit how rarely I'd been permitted to leave the pack house at Frozen Mountain.
Mira's expression softened. "Of course it's allowed. There's a lovely garden near the kitchen that staff use sometimes. It's quiet this time of evening."
"Really?" I couldn't keep the hopeful note from my voice. "I wouldn't be in the way?"
"Not at all," she assured me. "In fact, I think it's a brilliant idea. Fresh air always makes food taste better."
I glanced at the pile of new clothes on the bed. "Could I change first? Into something... not this?" I gestured at the formal black dress I'd been wearing since morning.
"Absolutely. I'll wait in the sitting room." Mira headed for the door, then paused. "Take your time. No rush."
When she was gone, I stood for a moment simply staring at the clothes spread across the bed. So many choices after years of having none.
'The jeans,' Kaela suggested. 'And the blue shirt. Practical if we need to move quickly.'
I gathered the items she suggested, along with new underwear, and carried them to the bathroom. The girl in the mirror still looked foreign to me—too pale, too thin, eyes too big for her face. But already there was something different about her. Something less hunted.