I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 35: The Captain’s Mate

The next morning, Abel had to leave for his treatments. These were the twice-weekly sessions with a physician from the city, a solemn man who came to ”assess neurological function” and administer various tonics and mild electrical therapies that left Abel quiet and headachey for hours afterwards.

He was very sad before leaving. He clung to Orion in the doorway of their chambers, his big body slumped with reluctance.

”You’ll be here when I get back?” Abel asked, for the third time.

”I’ll be right here,” Orion promised, smoothing down a stray piece of Abel’s hair. ”I have nowhere else to go.”

Abel nodded, but his lower lip jutted out in a pout. He leaned down and pressed a firm kiss to Orion’s mouth. Then another on his cheek. Then his forehead. He was making up for lost time, stockpiling kisses like a squirrel with nuts, as if to fortify Orion against loneliness in his absence.

”Okay,” Abel sighed finally, releasing him. ”I have to go. Don’t be lonely.”

”I won’t,” Orion said, though the empty rooms already felt too large.

He watched Abel walk down the corridor with the physician’s assistant, his shoulders hunched, until he turned a corner and was gone.

Silence settled over the suite. Heavy, expectant silence.

Orion tidied up. He read a few pages of a book but couldn’t concentrate. The walls felt like they were closing in. The memory of the Duchess’s icy words in the solar seemed to stain the very air. He needed to get out. To breathe air that wasn’t perfumed with lavender and dread.

He didn’t want to stroll the manicured gardens where the Duchess might see him. He wanted to be somewhere untamed.

On a whim, he went to the wardrobe. He bypassed his formal consort’s wear and found a set of soft, practical clothes meant for walking—brown trousers, a loose cream-colored linen shirt, a comfortable waistcoat. Over it, he threw on a long, dove-grey wool robe that fastened at the throat. It was simple and warm. He found a wide-brimmed hat to shield his eyes and, seeing a slim, elegant folding umbrella in the corner (a gift from some distant relative), he took that too. It felt like a walking stick more than a shield from rain.

Dressed like this, he felt less like Consort Valerian and more like just... Orion. He slipped out through a side door used by the gardeners, avoiding the main halls.

The kitchen gardens gave way to a wilder, wooded area at the edge of the estate grounds. It wasn’t the deep forest where the waterfall was, but a lighter patch of old trees and tangled undergrowth, crisscrossed with deer paths. The air was cool and damp, smelling of moss and decaying leaves. Sunlight filtered down in dusty shafts.

It was glorious.

Orion walked, the crunch of his boots on twigs the only sound. He watched birds flit between branches. He stopped to examine a cluster of strange, red-capped mushrooms. For the first time in weeks, the tight knot of anxiety in his chest began to loosen. Here, there were no duties, no heirs, no Ashfords. Just quiet.

A flash of movement caught his eye—a small, brown rabbit, frozen for a second before bolting. A silly, childish impulse took hold. Orion grinned and gave a half-hearted chase, not really hoping to catch it, just enjoying the motion, the silliness of it. He ducked under a low branch, pushed through a thicket of ferns, his hat tipping precariously.

The rabbit zigzagged and disappeared into a hole. Orion, looking up from where it vanished, took two more steps forward—and stumbled right out of the tree line into a wide, sun-baked clearing.

The change was abrupt. Dappled shadow gave way to harsh, open sunlight. The soft rustle of leaves was replaced by the grunt of effort, the thud of impacts, and the sharp ring of metal on metal.

Orion froze, blinking against the light.

He was in a training yard. A large, sandy circle ringed with straw targets, wooden posts, and weapon racks. And it was full of men.

Dozens of them. Alphas and Betas, mostly young, all in varying states of undress due to the exertion. Many were shirtless, their bodies gleaming with sweat under the noon sun. They held practice swords of heavy wood, or were grappling hand-to-hand, or drawing bows toward distant targets. The air smelled of leather, sweat, and dust.

His sudden appearance from the woods, dressed in soft grey robes and holding a ridiculous folded umbrella, was so utterly out of place that for a moment, nobody noticed him.

Then one man, spinning after deflecting a blow, caught sight of the figure at the tree line. He lowered his sword, squinting. Then another turned. And another.

A ripple of awareness passed through the yard. The clashes and grunts died down one by one, replaced by a low murmur.

*Who is that?*

*An Omega? Out here?*

*Look at his clothes...*

Orion felt heat flood his face. He took an instinctive step back towards the trees, but his foot caught on an exposed root. He wobbled, arms pinwheeling for balance, the umbrella clattering to the ground. He would have fallen if a hand hadn’t shot out and steadied him by the elbow.

”Easy there.”

Orion looked up. The man holding his arm was tall and well-built, with sun-bleached brown hair tied back at the nape of his neck and kind, weathered brown eyes. He was shirtless, his chest and arms corded with muscle and mapped with old, pale scars. He had the easy stance of someone completely at home in his own skin.

”Are you alright?” the man asked, his voice a pleasant, gravelly baritone. He didn’t let go until Orion had found his footing.

Orion nodded, mortified. ”Y-yes. Thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, I was just walking and—”

”Who are you?” another voice called, laced with playful curiosity. A younger man with a mop of curly black hair and a cocky grin stepped closer, wiping sweat from his brow. He gave Orion an appreciative once-over. ”Lost little lamb wandered far from the pasture?”

The taller man shot the younger one a warning look. ”Shut up, Loren.”

”Ow, come on, Aster, I’m just being friendly!”

The tall man—Aster—ignored him. He bent and picked up Orion’s fallen umbrella, handing it back to him with a slight, courteous bow of his head. His eyes were curious but not unkind. ”This is the guards’ training ground. Civilians don’t usually come through the west wood. Are you a guest of the house?”

Orion clutched the umbrella like a lifeline. He drew himself up, trying to summon some dignity despite his flushed cheeks and leafy attire. ”I am Orion,” he said, then, remembering his new and still-unfamiliar title, he added firmly, ”Orion Valerian.”

The name landed in the quiet yard like a stone in a pond.

*Orion Valerian?*

Aster’s eyebrows shot up. The cocky grin vanished from Loren’s face. All around, men straightened up, exchanged glances.

From the back of the group, a lean, sharp-faced man with close-cropped hair—an Omega, Orion realized, from the slightly softer line of his jaw and the subtle, clean scent of pine—stepped forward. His eyes were shrewd. ”Wait a minute,” he said slowly, looking Orion up and down with new intensity. ”Valerian. Does that mean... you’re our captain’s mate?”

A collective intake of breath swept the yard.

*What?!*

*Lord Abel’s mate?*

*That’s him?*

*The one who got pushed down the stairs?*

The murmurs exploded into a wave of excited chatter. In an instant, the ring of curious, semi-naked men closed in around Orion. But it wasn’t threatening. It was... eager.

”Sir! I’m Jax, I served with Lord Abel at the Southern Pass!”

”M’lord, I’m Corin! He saved my hide from a bandit arrow, he did!”

”Is it true you tamed that devil horse Angel?”

”How is he? We heard about the... the accident.”

”Do you like it here? The food’s better in the mess hall, I tell you that much!”

Questions and introductions came at him from all sides. Rough, smiling faces surrounded him. They were all sizes, all ages, but their expressions held a common thread: a genuine, fierce loyalty to Abel and a burning curiosity about the man he’d married.

Orion was utterly overwhelmed. He looked to Aster, who had been pushed slightly aside by the press of men.

Aster pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed a deep, long-suffering sigh. He shoved a particularly enthusiastic young recruit back gently. ”All right, you pack of hounds, give him some air! You’re scaring the poor man.” His voice carried easy authority, and the men grumbled but took a half-step back.

Aster moved to stand beside Orion, a protective bulk between him and the most enthusiastic well-wishers. He gave Orion an apologetic, wry smile.

”Forgive them,” Aster said, his voice low. ”They have the manners of excited puppies. Abel—Lord Abel—was our captain. For years. We’ve been in battles, through multiple layers of shit together. They adore him. And anyone connected to him is...” He gestured at the still-chattering crowd. ”...of immediate and intense interest.”

Orion looked out at the sea of faces. These weren’t the sneering aristocrats from the reception. These were soldiers. Abel’s soldiers. And they weren’t looking at him with pity or contempt. They were looking at him with hope, with camaraderie, as if he were a missing piece of a puzzle they cared about.

The tight, lonely feeling that had driven him into the woods began to dissolve, replaced by something warm and entirely unexpected.

He was Abel’s mate. And to these men, that meant he was one of theirs.