Never Yours Alpha

CH 8 -Lily

LILY POV

After the conversation we’d had — quiet, uncomfortable in ways I hadn’t expected — and the coffee I probably needed more than I wanted, it was time to head back. The sun was already sinking, and the last thing I needed was servants whispering about how the *broken princess* had disappeared for hours, doing gods-knew-what with the man she was supposed to marry.

Samuel drove with one hand on the wheel again, relaxed and infuriatingly confident, like the icy road and the narrow curves leading up to the palace gates were nothing more than scenery. The car moved smoothly beneath us, tires gripping the snow without hesitation, and I realized I should have been annoyed.

Instead, I found myself watching him.

The way his fingers tightened just slightly when the car hit a slick patch, how his focus never actually drifted even when he joked or glanced at me, how that confidence wasn’t reckless at all but measured, practiced. He wasn’t showing off. He knew exactly what he was doing.

And he was hot. Not in a polished, ornamental way like most fae men, but in a grounded, unmistakable one that made my attention linger even when I told myself it shouldn’t.

That realization settled uncomfortably in my chest.

I’d told him I would try. I’d agreed to this arrangement because I had no real choice. But trying didn’t mean losing myself, and I needed to be careful not to mistake intention for affection.

Especially not with a man like him.

The palace lights came into view, glowing warm and gold against the snow, and with them came the familiar tightening under my ribs. Home. Or whatever this place was supposed to be. A cage dressed up as a sanctuary. A crown waiting to snap shut around my head if I didn’t perform correctly.

Samuel slowed as we approached the entrance, the engine purring as if reluctant to stop.

“Well,” he said easily, glancing at me, “still alive.”

“For now,” I replied.

He smiled at that, the corner of his mouth lifting first, then the rest of it following, and there it was again — the stupid, disarming smile with the two dimples that made him look younger than he probably was and far more dangerous than he let on.

“You were expecting something worse,” he said, not asking.

“I was,” I admitted. “You didn’t match the mental image.”

“Disappointed?”

I hesitated. “Confused.”

He laughed softly and pulled the car into a smooth stop, cutting the engine without rushing me. That, too, felt deliberate. He didn’t reach for the door. Didn’t move. Just turned fully toward me, resting one arm along the back of the seat like he wasn’t in a hurry to leave.

“I meant what I said today,” he told me, his voice lower now, stripped of the casual edge. “I don’t do things halfway. Especially not this.”

“This,” I echoed, vaguely gesturing between us.

“You,” he said simply.

That should have made me recoil. Instead, it made my stomach twist in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant and definitely unsettling.

Damn me.

Before I could respond, he stepped out of the car, walked around the front with that cocky, lazy confidence he owned, and opened my door for me like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I stared at him for a second too long. ‘And they say chivalry is dead.’ I thought instantly regretting it. damn me.

“Coming?” he asked, amused.

I climbed out, the cold biting through my boots immediately, grounding me just enough to remind my foggy brain where I was. He closed the door behind me and took my hand without hesitation, lifting it gently, pressing his lips to my knuckles in a kiss that was old-fashioned and careful and somehow far more intimate than it had any right to be.

“Good night, Lily,” he said. Then, with a grin that told me he knew exactly what he was doing, “See you tomorrow, my future wife.”

And that was it.

That was the moment my brain shut down.

I didn’t curtsy. I didn’t respond with grace or poise or any of the dozen perfectly rehearsed replies drilled into me since childhood. I just lifted my hand in a small, awkward wave and said, “Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Not a polite nod and maybe a formal goodbye. Nope.

Not ‘Good night’.

Not even ‘Of course’.

Just… ‘Yeah’.

And he just chuckled.

The door closed behind me, the car pulling away almost immediately, and the second Samuel was gone, the full weight of what I’d just done crashed into me.

Gods.

Smooth, Lily. Truly regal.

I turned toward the palace entrance, already bracing myself for the judgmental stares I was sure were waiting for me, and stopped short.

Because a man was standing there.

Just inside the doorway, partially shadowed by the archway, tall and immobile like he’d been carved out of the stone itself. I recognized him instantly, even though we’d never met in person.

The ambassador.

Sir Augustus Ratlige.

I’d seen him in portraits, in official recordings, in stiff diplomatic calls where he’d always looked bored and vaguely predatory in a way that made my skin itch even through a screen. In person, the effect was… different.

His jaw was set hard, the muscle ticking as if he was grinding his teeth, his fists clenched at his sides like it took effort not to do something else with them. His gaze was locked on me, sharp and icy and entirely unimpressed.

He had seen everything.

The car.

The hand kiss.

The wave.

I felt heat flood my face, embarrassment crawling up my spine like a living thing.

Fantastic.

As if half the court didn’t already think I was fragile and unstable, now I’d given them proof of my complete lack of self-preservation in front of a foreign dignitary.

I straightened instinctively, lifting my chin, but it felt useless under the weight of his stare. He didn’t bow. Didn’t smile. Didn’t soften his expression in the slightest. He just watched me like I was a variable he hadn’t accounted for.

“Ambassador,” I said, because that was the correct thing to say.

“Princess,” he replied, his voice low and way too close to a growl, every ounce of warmth stripped out of it.

There was a pause. A strange, uncomfortable silence that stretched longer than etiquette allowed. I waited for him to comment, to scold, to offer some thinly veiled remark about appearances or decorum.

Instead, he stepped aside, gesturing toward the entrance.

“Enjoy your evening,” he said flatly.

That was it.

No judgment spoken aloud. No reprimand. Just that cold, dismissive tone that somehow cut deeper than anything else he could have said.

I walked past him, hyper-aware of every movement, every sound, every inch of space between us. The air felt heavier as I crossed the threshold, like I was stepping into something that had been waiting for me.

Only when I reached the stairs did I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

My room felt too quiet when I finally closed the door behind me. Too still. I leaned back against it, staring at the ceiling, replaying the evening in my head whether I wanted to or not.

Samuel’s smile.

The way he’d said *my future wife* like it wasn’t a question.

The ambassador’s stare, and his eyes… eyes I could almost swear were similar to… but nah! I’m just being delusional once more.

He was never going to come back.

And I’d stopped waiting for him.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.