I Married the 'Mad' Heir

Ch 41: The Apothecary

The carriage ride to Valerius Crossing was smooth, the well-maintained road eating up the miles between the secluded manor and the bustling world. Orion sat in the plush silence, his fingers tracing the spot on his lips where Abel’s last kiss still seemed to linger. The image of him standing frozen in the doorway, then bravely waving, replayed behind Orion’s eyes.

But as the town’s outskirts came into view—first fields giving way to cottages, then shops—a different kind of tension tightened in Orion’s stomach. It wasn’t fear. It was purpose, laced with a deep, private shame.

The carriage rolled to a stop in the town’s central square, a lively space filled with market stalls, shouting vendors, and the rich smell of baking bread and horse dung. The footman opened the door, letting in a wave of noise and sunlight.

”Shall I accompany you, my lord?” the footman asked, eyeing the crowd.

”No,” Orion said, stepping out. His dark blue tunic marked him as nobility, drawing a few curious glances. ”I have personal errands. Return for me at the clock tower in three hours.”

”Very good, my lord.”

The carriage pulled away, leaving Orion alone amidst the flow of townspeople. For a moment, he just stood there, feeling strangely exposed. He was Orion Valen, but here, he was no one. Just another young man in a fine coat.

He turned away from the main square, from the cloth merchants and tailors he was supposedly here to visit. He walked quickly, his boots clicking on the cobblestones, heading down a side street that grew narrower and quieter with each turn. The grand facades gave way to more practical buildings: a blacksmith’s forge ringing with hammer blows, a chandler’s shop smelling of wax, a cooper’s yard stacked with barrels.

Finally, he found what he was looking for. A discreet sign, painted in faded green letters on a dark wooden board: *G. HAVENLOCK, APOTHECARY & PHYSICIAN*.

The shop was nestled in a shadowy alley, away from the main thoroughfares. Its windows were small and dusty, displaying jars of dried herbs and twisted roots. It was a place for private needs, for ailments one didn’t wish to discuss in the open market.

Orion took a deep breath, pulling the hood of his dark cloak—which he’d brought for precisely this reason—up over his head. It obscured his distinctive hair and shaded his face. He pushed the heavy door open, a bell jingling softly above him.

The inside was cool, dim, and smelled overwhelmingly of camphor, mint, and dust. Shelves lined every wall, crammed with bottles, boxes, and bundles. A long counter of dark wood ran the length of the room, behind which an elderly man with spectacles perched on his nose was meticulously grinding something with a mortar and pestle. He looked up, his eyes sharp and assessing behind the thick lenses.

”Good day,” the apothecary said, his voice dry as parchment. ”How may I assist?”

Orion approached the counter, keeping his hood up. He felt his heart beating a rapid rhythm against his ribs. ”I require a... a consultation. And some supplies.”

The old man’s gaze swept over him, noting the quality of the cloak, the fine boots peeking beneath it. He set down his pestle. ”Consultation is through the back. Supplies depend on the consultation.” He gestured with a bony finger toward a curtained doorway behind the counter. ”Through there. I am Master Havenlock.”

Orion nodded, mute with sudden nerves. He moved around the counter and pushed through the heavy curtain.

The back room was even smaller, dominated by a cluttered desk, a single high-backed chair for patients, and a tall cabinet full of medical instruments. A single window let in a shaft of pallid light. It was clean but austere.

Master Havenlock followed him in, closing the curtain firmly. He took his seat behind the desk, steepling his fingers. ”You may lower your hood, young sir. Discretion is the foundation of my practice.”

Slowly, Orion pushed the hood back. The apothecary’s eyes narrowed slightly, taking in his fair skin, his grey-green eyes, his obvious youth. He noted the lack of a mating bite on his neck.

”You are an Omega,” Havenlock stated, not unkindly.

”Yes.”

”Recently bonded, if the scent-marks are any indication. Yet the bond is not... sealed.” The old man’s tone was purely clinical. ”What is the nature of your consultation?”

Orion’s mouth was dry. He forced the words out. ”I need suppressants.”

There was a long pause. The only sound was the distant murmur from the street.

”Suppressants,” Havenlock repeated slowly. ”To delay or prevent a heat cycle. These are powerful tinctures. Not to be used without cause. Is your Alpha aware?”

”No.” The word was sharp, definitive. ”He is not. And he cannot be.”

The apothecary leaned back in his chair, studying him. ”Explain. If I am to provide such things, I must understand the need. I do not cater to whims or youthful fears.”

Orion swallowed. How could he explain? The truth was a tangled mess of duty, pity, and a love that was growing in the dark, fertile soil of shared vulnerability.

”My Alpha,” Orion began, choosing his words with care, ”is... unwell. He has suffered an injury to his mind. He is gentle. Kind. But he is not... he is not in his right mind. Our marriage was arranged. My family... his family... they see me as a vessel. They want an heir. They want me to... to encourage him. To use his condition to produce a child.”

He saw a flicker of understanding in the old man’s eyes. Stories of the ’mad’ Valerian heir had surely reached even this dusty shop.

”But he is a child himself, most days,” Orion continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. ”He trusts me completely. He kisses me because he likes the way I taste, not because he understands what it means. He holds me at night because he’s afraid of the dark.” He looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap. ”How could I? How could I take advantage of that innocence? To bring a child into that... that political game? It would be a violation. Of him. Of whatever... whatever we have.”

Master Havenlock was silent for a long moment. He picked up a quill and tapped it lightly on the desk. ”And your own body? Your own instincts? You are bathed in his pheromones, young man. An Alpha’s claim, even an unsealed one from a dominant, is potent. Your biology will rebel against suppression.”

Orion nodded miserably. He could feel it already. A low, restless hum under his skin whenever Abel was near. A flush of warmth when Abel nuzzled his neck. A dizzying pull when Abel’s cedar-and-amber scent enveloped him after a long hug. His Omega side recognized its Alpha, cried out for completion, for the bite, for the bond. But his mind, his heart, screamed that it was wrong. Not like this. Not while Abel smiled at him with the uncomplicated joy of a puppy, unaware of the storm he was stirring in Orion’s blood.

”I know,” Orion said quietly. ”But I have to try. I need to control it. I cannot... I will not let my biology decide this for us. For him.”

The apothecary sighed, a sound of reluctant respect. ”Very well. A physical examination first. To ensure you are fit for the regimen. Then we will discuss the tinctures.”

The examination was brisk and impersonal. Master Havenlock checked his pulse, listened to his heart and lungs, examined his eyes and tongue. He asked pointed questions about his cycles, their regularity, their intensity.

”You are in good health,” Havenlock concluded, washing his hands in a basin. ”Stronger than many Omegas of your station. The residual stress is evident in your musculature, but it is not detrimental. However,” he fixed Orion with a serious look, ”these tinctures are not a permanent solution. They are a stopgap. They can cause fatigue, nausea, emotional volatility. Prolonged use can damage your fertility. You understand?”

”I understand.”

”And you understand that if you are discovered, the consequences from your family—both families—could be severe?”

”I do.”

The apothecary regarded him for another long moment, then nodded. He went to the tall cabinet, unlocked it with a small key from his pocket, and began selecting bottles. Small, dark glass vials with plain cork stoppers. He placed them on the desk alongside a small, linen-wrapped packet.

”This is a three-month supply,” Havenlock said, pointing to the vials. ”Five drops in a cup of tea or water each morning. It must be consistent. Missing a dose risks a breakthrough. This,” he tapped the packet, ”is a stronger emergency tonic. Only if you feel a heat coming on despite the daily dose. It will knock it back, but it will also knock *you* flat for a day or two. Use it sparingly.”

Orion stared at the innocuous-looking bottles. They represented secrecy, defiance, and a painful kind of loyalty. ”Thank you.”

”Do not thank me yet. The battle is within you now.” The apothecary’s voice softened, just a fraction. ”You are protecting someone who cannot protect himself. It is a noble impulse. But do not forget to protect yourself as well, young lord.”

He named a price. It was steep, but Orion paid without hesitation from the pouch of coins he’d brought for his ”shopping.” He carefully tucked the vials and the packet into the inner pockets of his tunic, where they lay against his chest, cold and heavy.

Master Havenlock saw him to the curtain. ”Remember. Consistency. Secrecy. And reconsider in three months. This path is not sustainable.”

Orion pulled his hood up once more. ”I will.”

He stepped back out into the dim shop, then into the bright, noisy shock of the alley. He blinked, the world seeming too loud, too colorful after the quiet solemnity of the back room.

For a few minutes, he just leaned against the cool stone wall of the alley, catching his breath. The weight of the vials felt like a secret stone in his heart. He had done it. He had taken control of this one thing, this terrifying biological imperative. He had drawn a line: Abel’s innocence would not be a tool for others, and his own body would not become a weapon against him.

The shame was still there, but it was now mixed with a grim sense of resolve.

Pushing off the wall, Orion walked back toward the main square.

He shed the cloak, folding it over his arm. The sun warmed his face. He was Orion Valen again, the young Omega lord visiting the town for new clothes.

And he would carry this secret, this small, chemical shield, to keep them both safe a little while longer.