Married To Darkness-Chapter 505: prince Alarics chest

Salviana slipped it on.

He tilted his head. "Too serious."

"Too serious?" she echoed.

"Yes. It makes you look like you’re about to scold a council."

Sebastian snickered behind them. "I’d listen."

Next came a pale cream cloak.

Alaric frowned. "Absolutely not. You’d disappear into the snow."

She stepped out again, now wearing a rich midnight blue one. Alaric stopped talking.

"Well?" Salviana asked.

He cleared his throat. "That one."

The merchant smiled knowingly. "The lord has found his favorite."

Alaric shook his head, then reached for another—warm gold, soft and bright. "Try this too."

She did, spinning slightly. He stepped closer, adjusted the collar himself, fingers brushing her hair.

"This," he said quietly, "is dangerous."

"For who?" she teased.

"For me."

They didn’t stop there.

Soon, coats were being held up against Sebastian, Simon, Heappal, and the rest of the guards. Alaric insisted—practical cuts, heavy linings, proper warmth.

Sebastian, however, ignored all of that and picked two matching coats—dark grey with subtle silver stitching.

One he tossed to Thalia when they got home. "Couples."

Emma stared at them in disgust. "You’re not a couple."

"Yet," Sebastian said smoothly.

Heappal groaned. "I hate this family."

By the time they were done, arms were full, wyfins was lighter, and laughter had softened everyone’s shoulders.

Salviana finally reached for Alaric’s hand as they left the stall, fingers sliding naturally between his.

They walked back to the carriage slowly, snowflakes beginning to drift down—light, hesitant, almost shy.

"It’s still afternoon," Salviana said softly, leaning into him.

"I know," Alaric replied. "That’s why I’m not rushing."

The ride home was quiet in the best way. No tension. No whispers. Just the gentle roll of wheels and the warmth of furs.

Salviana rested back against the seat, breathing easier than she had in days.

She felt lighter.

Better.

As though yesterday had finally loosened its grip.

They had barely crossed the threshold before the house sprang to life.

Sarah took Salviana by the hand at once.

"Come, Your Highness," she said gently. "You’ll be more comfortable."

Within minutes, Salviana was eased into a simple, soft dress—loose sleeves, light fabric, something meant for rest rather than display. She sighed in relief as Sarah adjusted the last tie.

Meanwhile, Alaric had no such patience.

He tugged off his coat, then his shirt, abandoning it somewhere behind him without a second thought. Bare-chested and utterly unconcerned, he headed downstairs, eager to find his wife.

That was when fate—and gossip—intervened.

Under the staircase stood Thalia, Sarah (who had just returned), and Emma, mid-conversation.

Laughter.

Whispers.

Then—

Alaric stepped into view.

The conversation died instantly.

Three heads turned.

Three pairs of eyes widened.

And three sets of manners vanished.

Silence stretched.

Thalia’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Emma forgot how blinking worked.

Sarah—traitorously—forgot she had seen him shirtless before.

The candlelight caught the sharp lines of his chest, the definition of his abdomen, the strength in his neck and shoulders. He looked like he had been carved, not born.

"Oh," Emma whispered faintly.

Alaric stopped walking.

"...Is there a reason you’re all standing there like statues?" he asked flatly.

No answer.

Thalia swallowed. "Your Highness," she said, then immediately forgot what she had planned to say after that.

Emma blurted, "The princess is very blessed."

Sarah gasped. "Emma!"

"What?" Emma said weakly. "She is!"

That was when laughter rang out from the stairs above.

Alaric turned just as Salviana stepped into view.

She took in the scene in a single glance:

her half-naked husband,

three utterly stunned maids,

and the collective failure of discipline.

She laughed.

Not a polite chuckle. A full, delighted laugh.

"Oh my," she said, covering her mouth. "Did I interrupt something?"

The maids jolted as if struck by lightning.

"Your Highness!" Thalia squeaked, bowing far too late.

Salviana descended the steps slowly, amusement dancing in her eyes. "They’re staring," she observed innocently.

Alaric groaned. "Salviana."

"They’re drooling," she corrected.

Emma clapped a hand over her mouth. "I am not drooling!"

Sarah muttered, "You absolutely were."

Salviana grinned. "I should thank you," she told them. "It’s reassuring to know my husband still causes such... reactions."

Thalia fanned herself. "Respectfully, Your Highness, he always does."

Alaric rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t stick. "Enough," he said. "All of you. Away. Go. Resume your duties."

They hesitated.

"Now," he added.

They scattered immediately, curtsying and apologizing over one another as they fled—though not without one last look over their shoulders.

When the hall finally emptied, Alaric turned back to his wife. "You enjoyed that far too much."

Salviana smiled sweetly and stepped closer, smoothing a hand over his chest with deliberate slowness. "I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I married well."

He leaned down, lowering his voice. "Next time, I’m wearing armor."

She laughed again. "Next time," she said, "I’ll warn them first."

And Alaric, despite himself, smiled.

They entered the painting room quietly, as though sound itself might disturb whatever fragile thing had followed them inside.

Alaric pressed a kiss to Salviana’s forehead before sitting on the low stool she indicated, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving her.

She moved with purpose, gathering cloth, ink, needle—rolling her sleeves with practiced ease.

That was when he swallowed.

The simple motion—fabric pushed back, pale skin revealed, her wrists bare and steady—did something dangerous to him. She looked focused. Calm. Beautiful in a way that made his chest tighten.

"What do you want me to etch on you?" she asked lightly, as if this were nothing more than paint on canvas.

Without pause, without thought, the name left him.

"Anne-Marie."

Salviana stilled.

Just for a breath.

Anne-Marie?

The name echoed in her mind, unfamiliar and sharp at the edges. She did not turn to look at him. Did not ask. A dozen possibilities rose and tangled—his mother, a lost sister, a ghost of a past life.

She told herself not to reach for jealousy where there was no proof.

Alaric exhaled slowly, gaze unfocused now, somewhere far beyond the room. 𝚏𝐫𝚎𝗲𝕨𝐞𝐛𝕟𝚘𝐯𝚎𝗹.𝕔𝐨𝗺

"She would’ve been outraged," he said quietly, a sad curl touching his lips. "If she knew I was letting someone mark me permanently."

Her fingers tightened slightly around the cloth.

Would have been.

Not would be.

And there it was—something hollow in the way he said it. Something unfinished.

So it wasn’t his mother. He had never known her well enough to imagine her outrage. That truth slid into place gently, without comfort.

Salviana said nothing.