My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 133

Chapter 133 Camp Engagement

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Chapter 133 Camp Engagement

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“Since you happen to be in Yondale, it seems only right to have you witness the ceremony, Lord Soren. You must be weary from the journey,” Prince Jinks‘ Estate said, clearly pleased.

Soren said with composure, “The journey isn’t far. I thought I’d come and drink a cup of wedding wine, to share in the happiness.”

Prince Jinks laughed. “You are of marriageable age yourself, Lord Soren. Soon I will be the one begging for your wedding wine.”

A faint curve touched Soren’s lips, but it lay over his features like paint on porcelain, hiding whatever gears turned beneath.

“The camp is humble. Forgive any shortcomings in our hospitality,” Prince Jinks added.

Soren was escorted toward a small rest tent. Halfway there, he nearly collided with Cecilia, who darted to his side, her eyes flashing in the lantern light before she fell into step with him.

“Benedict will never make a good husband,” Cecilia whispered, hope flickering in her gaze. “A man who loves men cannot bear a wife. Will you find a way to take Fiona away? She agreed only to save our granny.”

“That is Ms. Fiona’s burden.” Soren’s voice came out like steel pulled straight from snow, cold enough to blister. “She is willing to shoulder the pain herself, so what possible debt do I owe?”

Cecilia bit her lip, fighting the tremor that crawled up her throat. “Then, could you reach Mr. Xavier? Ask him to spirit Fiona away.” She drew a shaky breath. “This marriage does not have to be her sacrifice alone. I could stand in her place. Benedict and I knew each other as children -better me than her.”

Soren let the plea wash over him like rain on lacquered armor. He did not so much as tilt his head. Only when Xavier’s name drifted through the air did a flicker–thin, annoyed–crease the stillness of his gaze.

“If Fiona weds a man like that, her entire life will be ruined!” Cecilia’s words spilled out, brittle with urgency.

Her persistence met an iron gate. Soren walked on without a backward glance, indifference wrapped around him like an unbreachable cloak.

Fiona returned from Miranda’s tent just in time to see Soren crossing the muddy parade ground. Among the broad–shouldered soldiers, his refined build seemed almost unreal—a sculptor’s study of proportion, wide shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, height lending

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Chapter 133 Camp Engagement

power without a hint of brutality.

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Cradling a bundle of rare melons and peaches–gifts from Miranda–Fiona stepped into his path. After a moment’s thought, she lifted a ripe honeydew toward him. “Lord Soren, taste this. Day and night clash so sharply here that the fruit out–sweetens anything in Jexburgh.”

Soren accepted nothing, only inclined his head. “Congratulations,” he said, the single word falling heavy and enigmatic.

Fiona answered with silence, eyes searching his as though the wind had snatched whatever reply she meant to give.

“Your fiancé fancies men,” Soren added after the quiet stretched. “He already keeps a favorite. Marry him, and your hearts will never beat together.”

A small, bright laugh escaped her. “That is hardly your concern, Lord Soren.”

He studied her, voice soft but edged. “We are acquainted, you and I. You must realize that if you wed him, you will spend your days vying with another man for the scraps of his affection.” The warning slipped out only because old friendship lingered like an aftertaste he could not spit.

For the sake of that faded bond, he could not bear to watch her sink into quicksand.

I know precisely what must be done. It is not his place to fret over my map of dangers. But Fiona had no room for his borrowed mercy. “I gave my word,” she said, forcing patience into each syllable. “I am prepared. There is nothing wrong with the path I chose.”

“If you are content, then so be it.” The chill in Soren’s tone could have frosted glass.

She watched his back recede between rows of canvas, then turned and slipped into her own tent, the flap whispering shut behind her.

Dawn bled pale gold over the encampment. As Soren emerged, orderlies dragged a beautiful young man from Benedict’s quarters. The stranger’s robe hung open, skin striped crimson where pleasure had turned to cruelty. Whether breath remained in his lungs was anyone’s guess.

Benedict followed the spectacle out, eyes locking with Soren’s across the churned dirt. In that brief collision, Soren read the challenge buried deep, bright as a dagger hidden under silk.

“Princess Helen’s notion?” Soren asked, composure unruffled.

Benedict’s glare said everything his silence refused to voice.

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