My Unchosen Ex Chases Reborn Me (Soren and Fiona) novel Chapter 51

Chapter 51 Private Warnings

Chapter 51 Private Warnings

From the casual way he called the Sixth Prince by name, it was plain that, behind closed doors, Zephyr needed favors from Soren far more than the other way around.

“I doubt the Sixth Prince realizes laugh, the barb coated in honey.

how little esteem you hold him in,” Fiona said with a soft

Soren gave her a sidelong glance. “Do you still intend to become his princess, Ms. Fiona?”

“I am merely trying to secure the Divine Doctor for you,” she said, lowering her eyes but not her pride. “It appears you have taken an excessive interest in my private affairs. Tell me, must my future choice of husband first pass your inspection before the match earns your august approval?”

than any on

Her words were gentle, yet the quiet sarcasm in them cut deeper rebuke.

For the sake of her family’s standing, Fiona normally tolerated much and maintained the grace expected of a duke’s daughter. But Soren’s hand was reaching too far. Whom she chose to love–and eventually to wed–concerned no one but herself, least of all him.

Soren studied her. Her expression remained polite, yet the flush along the edges of her ears. betrayed the anger simmering beneath. “I only fear you might give your heart to the wrong man,” he said softly.

Fiona held her silence.

“My aunt has already selected concubines for Zephyr,” Soren went on. “And you know his

appetite–today his fancy rests on you; tomorrow it lands on someone newer.”

“If your intentions are kind, Lord Soren, perhaps you could choose kinder words as well.”

“You cast me as the villain the moment you stepped inside,” he countered.

Fiona paused. Thinking back, she realized he had only warned her that no good would come from courting Zephyr, and the recognition left her momentarily speechless.

Perhaps the fault lay in the impression he had left on her–both in the last life and in this one -so strong that she now expected malice where none was meant.

“I am leaving for Broadmoor, Soren said, passing a hand warmer into

her palms.

Fiona paused, breathed, and accepted the object before settling gracefully beside him in the cramped carriage. “Your injury has been the perfect excuse to postpone the full inquiry into

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Chapter 51 Private Warnings

Mr. Saunders,” she said. “Technically, you should still be on bed rest. After the New Year, you head for Broadmoor–so what story has the Sixth Prince decided to spin?”

The carriage was narrow, its wooden walls trembling with every turn. The space between them was no wider than a palm..

When Soren turned the slightest degree, he could see the tiny blossom pinned into her dark hair. The ornament, delicate as morning frost, swayed whenever she breathed.

Everything about Fiona’s bearing was impeccable. No matter how the carriage jolted, the tassels of her hairpin never flew into disarray, never threatened her calm dignity.

“The Steppe Nomads have spent six months sharpening their claws,” Soren murmured, the timbre of his voice humming against the carriage walls. “They are staring at our borders like wolves. The danger is so immediate that even if I limped on one leg, no commander would dare suggest I stay behind.”

Fiona’s eyes shimmered with understanding; she had traced every thread of his design. “Tending to Broadmoor will demand months, and the task outweighs domestic intrigue,” she said. “By then, half a year will have slipped past, and the investigation on Mr. Saunders can resurface precisely when you return victorious.”

In that season, the Zonfrillo Estate would bask in fresh military glory, leaving Emperor Aldric little room to favor Matthew.

Soren’s plan was so exact–removing obstacles, measuring time–that Fiona could now understand how, in the previous life, Matthew had met so grim an end.

“Forgive my curiosity, but why have you sought me out today, Lord Soren?” Fiona asked, her Voice a quiet chime beneath the wheels‘ rumble.

Instead of answering, Soren drew a slender ink stick the color of midnight from his sleeve. “If you learn anything of the Divine Doctor, write your report and send it to Clear Sky Pavilion,” he instructed. “The stick is laced with vanishing ink. Once the script dries it fades, and only a special wash will coax it back.”

The precaution spoke volume,

about the danger of loose letters.

“I will act with care,” Fiona promised, slipping the ink into her sleeve. “Mind the Steppe Nomads while you are in Broadmoor–steel and arrows have no mercy. Pain lingers when the body is wounded, and it will affect your daily life.”

Soren’s thoughts strayed, unbidden, to the risqué picture book on conjugal secrets that Fiona had once slipped into his hand. “Tell me, what injuries most interfere with… living? The waist, perhaps the abdomen?” His tone was smooth, almost lazy, yet carried a hidden ember.

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10:19 Sat, Oct 11

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