Transmigrated as the Crown Prince's Mate
Chapter 230: Stay...

Chapter 230: Stay...

Ruby’s POV

Roman was quiet after the fight. Too quiet.

He didn’t complain about the bruises, the slow way he moved, or how he occasionally winced when standing too fast. He just... watched me.

Every time I brought him water or pressed a cool cloth to his shoulder, every time I adjusted his bandage or touched his arm longer than necessary—he watched me.

Not like a patient. Like a man memorising his reason to stay alive.

He didn’t ask for help, but I gave it.

Just like he once nursed me when I was broken, lost, confused, and afraid of what I’d become. Back then, his hands had steadied me without demanding anything in return. So now, I gave him the same.

It felt... right.

The pack had settled for now. No threats. No chaos. No one knocking on the door screaming for blood. Just silence and this fragile space we were building together, like walking on a glass bridge in bare feet.

And then, one evening—when the bruising on his cheek had finally faded to a yellow-brown smear and the dark exhaustion under his eyes had lightened—he stood in the doorway.

That damn doorway. The one he always found me through.

He leaned against the frame, arms crossed loosely, wearing that infuriating, heart-melting, lopsided grin—the one that always made my lungs forget what air was.

"Come with me," he said.

I looked up from the book I wasn’t really reading.

"Where?"

He didn’t answer. Just held out his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And of course, I took it.

We drove through the city without direction, without rush. The windows were down, and the wind tangled through my hair like playful fingers.

The sky was melting into shades of honey and rose, the kind of twilight that made everything look softer, as if the world were wrapped in a lullaby.

The radio hummed beneath the breeze—some slow acoustic ballad I’d heard before but couldn’t name. Roman didn’t talk much, but when he did, his voice was relaxed, warm.

"You look too quiet," he said, stealing a glance at me. "That’s dangerous. When you’re this quiet, something’s cooking in that head."

"Maybe I’m planning your downfall," I teased.

He smirked. "Hot. Hope I die with my shirt off."

I snorted. "You’d probably fake your death just to get attention."

"Wouldn’t be a bad idea," he winked. "But hey, at least you’d cry a little."

"Cry from laughter, maybe."

We laughed, and for the first time in a long while, it felt natural. Easy. Perhaps the worst of it was behind us.

Eventually, the road twisted into gravel, trees swallowing us whole. I recognised the turn before he even said anything. That winding path. That smell of pine and damp earth. The way sunlight broke through the treetops like something sacred.

The forest clearing.

It hit me in the chest—the memory.

Months ago, I’d stood there with him, toe-to-toe, fighting every instinct in my body when he leaned in and kissed me. My knees had gone weak. My mouth had betrayed me. My heart had never quite recovered.

He parked the car and stepped out first, circling to open my door before I even touched the handle. A habit. One I never asked for but had grown to expect.

"Remember?" he asked quietly, offering his hand again.

"How could I forget?" I whispered.

He led me through the tall grass, fingers laced with mine. And the whole way, I felt like I was walking toward something—not the past, not regret—but something brand new.

The sun filtered through the trees in ribbons of gold and amber. It cast a halo around everything it touched: the moss-covered logs, the fluttering leaves, the man beside me.

Roman let go of my hand just long enough to kneel.

I froze.

Not because I didn’t know what this was. I did. The truth hit me like lightning—but warm, not searing.

He didn’t kneel like a man playing a role. He wasn’t following a script, wasn’t going through motions.

He knelt like the world had always bent him in my direction. Like love wasn’t something he’d fallen into but something that had always pointed him straight to me.

"No audience," he said softly. "No altar. No mess."

He looked up at me, steady, sure. His voice didn’t shake. His eyes didn’t flinch.

"Just me... asking you—will you stay with me? This time, for peace."

I forgot how to breathe. Again.

I didn’t answer right away—not because I didn’t know, but because I felt everything all at once.

My heart raced. My throat burned. I thought of every kiss, every fight, every time we ran from each other and every time we chose to come back.

I didn’t run. I didn’t look away. I didn’t doubt. Not anymore.

"Yes," I whispered. Then I laughed—a hiccup of emotion bubbling up through my chest. My eyes blurred. My voice cracked. "Yes, Roman. I’ll stay."

He rose slowly, like he’d been holding that question in for far too long, like the weight of it had kept him down.

And when his arms wrapped around me, tight, full, sure—I melted into him.

The world fell away. The pain. The ghosts. The what-ifs and maybes.

All that was left... was us.

And for once, that was enough.

We laid on a blanket in the heart of the forest—just us, the whispering trees, and the hush of night all around. And for once, we didn’t rush.

We didn’t speak of the past or what might come tomorrow. We just let the stillness wrap around us, warm and heavy, like a promise.

His hands found mine first, fingers lacing together as if grounding us both.

Then they moved—gentle, reverent—not with hunger, but something softer. Something sacred.

My own fingers traced the familiar terrain of him: the curve of his jaw, the lines of muscle, the old scars that told stories only I knew.

I moved over each one like I was reading them all over again, trying to memorise every inch as if I might lose it come dawn.

When we kissed, it wasn’t rushed. It was deep and unhurried, as if we finally had all the time in the world. The kind of kiss that reminded you what it meant to feel alive.

His lips moved with care, and I felt my body melt into his touch, my heartbeat slowing to the rhythm we made together.

Slowly, he began to undress me, never breaking contact, never letting my eyes drift from his.

Our mouths remained fused, breath mingling, heat rising between us as fabric slipped away. His shirt came next, and I guided it over his head, revealing the warm bronze of his skin beneath moonlight.

My hand followed the centre of his chest, down over the hard lines of his abs, each ripple a reminder of the strength that had so often protected me.

His touch was a whisper along my leg, drifting higher, igniting sparks as he slid his hand beneath the last barrier I wore.

I gasped, not from shock, but from the sensation of his touch, which felt like being cherished. Piece by piece, we undressed each other until nothing remained between us but the cool night air and the warmth radiating from our skin.

I climbed atop him, straddling his hips, and our mouths met again with growing intensity.

Our hands roamed, eager now, desperate to relearn the contours of skin and bone.

Every brush, every caress, sent shivers skittering across my body, leaving trails of heat and longing in their wake.

Then he laid me back against the blanket, pinning my hands gently to the ground, his eyes locked onto mine with a fierceness that made my breath catch.

His lips explored me, worshipping every inch, curves and edges. From the soft dip of my belly, up the curve of my breasts, along my collarbone, to the hollow of my throat—and finally, my mouth.

Every kiss was a vow.

Every touch, a declaration.

And when he finally slid into me, it was like the world stopped turning.

I gasped, the sound swallowed by the trees, by the stars, by him.

His thrusts were slow at first—controlled, measured, as if savouring every second. He moved inside me like we were made for this, like the universe had conspired to bring us back together in this moment, in this place.

The rhythm built gradually, our bodies in sync, moving in a dance only we knew.

We didn’t make love to forget the pain or bury the past.

We made love to remember.

To remember who we were before the scars. To remember that we were still here. That we still belonged to something worth fighting for.

That love—real love, flawed and weathered—was still powerful.

And when it was over, when our breaths came in soft exhales and our bodies pressed together, slick with sweat and wrapped in warmth, I curled into him.

That love—real love, flawed and weathered—was still powerful.