Mated to Her Alpha Instructor Chapter 84

Eileen

The rhythmic sway of the carriage had lulled me into an exhausted sleep against Regis's chest sometime during the journey back, my body finally surrendering to the toll of the morning's confrontation and the cathartic violence of my tears. I didn't dream—or if I did, the memories dissolved the moment consciousness crept back in, leaving only the sensation of warmth and the steady thrum of a heartbeat that wasn't my own.

When I woke, we had stopped moving, and through the small gap where I'd pressed my face against Regis's shirt, I could see the familiar stone archway of our—*his*—no, *our* home framed in the carriage window. The late morning sun painted everything in soft gold, making the climbing roses along the gate seem to glow with gentle welcome, and for a disorienting moment I couldn't quite reconcile this quiet beauty with the cold brutality of the house we'd just left behind.

My eyes felt swollen and raw, my throat scratchy from crying, and when I tried to speak, my voice came out as little more than a hoarse rasp. "We're home?"

The question emerged uncertain, almost childlike, as if I needed his confirmation that this place—this warmth and safety—was real and not some fever dream conjured by my desperate mind. Through our bond I felt his immediate response, a surge of relief and tenderness so acute it made my chest ache.

"We're home, love," Regis murmured against my hair, his arms tightening fractionally around me as though he feared I might dissolve if he loosened his hold. "You're safe now. You're home."

The carriage door opened, and Kieran's concerned face appeared in the gap, his usual irreverence tempered by obvious worry as his gaze swept over my tear-stained face and the protective way Regis held me. He said nothing—just stepped back to give us space, his silence somehow more comforting than empty platitudes would have been.

Regis moved with careful deliberation, gathering me against his chest as he descended from the carriage, and I didn't protest this time, too wrung out to do anything but rest my cheek against his shoulder and let him carry me. Kieran murmured something too low for me to catch, received an equally quiet response from Regis, and then I heard the soft creak of leather and the retreat of hoofbeats as he drove the carriage away, leaving us alone in the morning stillness.

The front door clicked shut behind us with a sound of such finality that I felt something in my chest simultaneously tighten and release—as though that simple noise had sealed off everything that came before and opened the possibility of everything that might come after. Inside, the house smelled of herbs and bread and the faint woody notes of Regis's scent, familiar and grounding in a way that made my swollen eyes prickle with fresh tears.

"I'm going to draw you a bath," Regis said quietly, already moving toward the stairs with me still cradled in his arms. "Something warm. You need to rest and let the day wash off."

I wanted to argue that I could walk, that I wasn't so fragile that I needed to be carried like a child, but the words wouldn't come—and truthfully, I wasn't sure my legs would hold me if I tried. The confrontation with my parents, the blood oath, the casual cruelty of watching them choose gold over their daughter—it had all left me feeling hollowed out and impossibly heavy at once, as though my bones had turned to lead while my insides had been scooped clean.

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The bathroom was dim and warm when he pushed the door open with his shoulder. He crossed to the large copper tub and turned on the taps; water rushed in, the sound low and steady. Steam began to rise almost at once, curling upward until it blurred my vision, softening the edges of the room—and, slowly, the jagged edges of my grief.

A fresh, earthy scent drifted through the haze as he sprinkled herbs into the water. The fragrance spread, weaving itself into the steam, until every breath I took carried a trace of it, grounding me in something gentler than the thoughts I’d been drowning in.

Regis set me carefully on my feet beside the tub, his hands steadying me when I swayed slightly, and then he began working at the ties of my cloak with practiced gentleness. I stood passive under his attention, watching his face rather than his hands, seeing the tight set of his jaw and the careful way he avoided meeting my eyes, as though he feared what he might find there.

"I can—" I started, but my voice cracked, and I had to swallow hard before trying again. "I can manage."

"I know you can." His response was immediate and firm, but not unkind. "Humor me anyway."

My cloak fell away, then the outer layers of my dress, and when his fingers brushed the bare skin of my shoulders to ease the fabric down, I flinched—not from fear but from the sudden overwhelming sensation of being seen, being touched, being *cared for* in the aftermath of being so thoroughly rejected. His hands stilled instantly.

"Eileen." My name was barely a whisper. "Look at me, love."

I forced my gaze up to meet his, expecting to see pity or perhaps anger on my behalf, but instead found only an aching tenderness that made my throat close up completely. Slowly, giving me every chance to refuse, he cupped my face in both hands and pressed his forehead to mine, letting me feel the steadiness of his breathing, the solid warmth of his presence.

"You're safe," he repeated, and through our bond I felt the absolute conviction behind the words—not a hollow reassurance but a sworn truth. "They can't hurt you anymore. You never have to go back to that place. You never have to see them again unless *you* choose to."

The tears came then, hot and silent, tracking down my already tender cheeks to drip off my jaw. I didn't sob—I had cried myself empty in the carriage—but I couldn't stop the overflow either, couldn't contain the sheer relief of hearing someone else say what I had been too afraid to even think.

*They can't hurt you anymore.*

Regis held me through it, murmuring soft reassurances in a voice gone rough with his own emotion, and when the tears finally slowed, he eased me the rest of the way out of my clothes and guided me into the bath with a gentleness that bordered on reverent. The hot water was a shock against my chilled skin, and I gasped involuntarily as I sank into it, but then the heat began to seep into my muscles and bones, loosening knots I hadn't known I was carrying.

He knelt beside the tub, heedless of the water soaking into his sleeves, and reached for the soap—but I caught his wrist before he could begin, my fingers closing around the strong bones in a grip that trembled despite my best efforts.

"I want this to be the last time," I said hoarsely, the words scraping out of my raw throat like a confession. "The last time I cry over them. I don't want to—I don't want to give them any more of my tears."

Something fierce and proud flared in Regis's eyes, bright enough to rival the sun streaming through the window, and he turned his hand in my grip to lace our fingers together. "Then this will be the last time," he agreed, his voice carrying the weight of a vow. "Cry now if you need to. Let it all out. And when you're done, we leave them behind."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and released his hand so he could tend to me. He worked in silence, his touch so gentle it made my chest ache—washing away the dust of the road, the salt tracks of tears, the invisible stains of rejection and grief. And as he did, as the warm water and his careful attention combined to slowly thaw the frozen knot in my chest, I felt something inside me begin to shift.

By the time he wrapped me in a soft towel and helped me from the tub, my tears had dried completely, leaving behind not emptiness but a strange, fragile calm—as though some long-festering wound had finally been lanced and cleaned, painful but necessary.

"Better?" Regis asked quietly, and I surprised both of us by nodding.

"Yes," I whispered, and found I meant it. "I think... yes."