Return of the General's Daughter-Chapter 226: The Journey: Secrets

The woman surged to her feet, her red gown clinging to her frame, soaked through and dripping onto the floor. Lara doused the woman with water and alcohol. She surmised that mixing a strong scent in the water might change the smell that seemed to cause the men to be under her spell.

"You dare throw that on me?" The woman hissed. Her voice cracked like a whip, a tempest of fury laced with disbelief. Heat radiated from her, not from shame or embarrassment, but from unbridled rage. Her eyes, once sultry and coquettish, now burned with unfiltered wrath as she drew back her hand to strike Lara across the face.

But the blow never landed.

Just as her hand cut through the air with the swiftness of a striking viper, a calloused hand—large, steady, unyielding—caught her wrist mid-air. The contrast was stark: brute strength meeting the weak, delicate hands. Alaric’s grip was like iron, and it held her fast.

"How dare you! Aramis threw her out." His voice was like the snow in winter, cold and commanding. He let go of her wrist and pushed her away.

The woman in red stumbled, but she managed to steady herself. "No! You could not throw me out. I am the owner of this inn. How can you throw me out of my property?" The woman held her chin high and looked at Alaric defiantly.

Aramis was at a loss for what to do. Before he could continue, Lara had already spoken.

"Thank you," Lara said softly, her voice calm as still water. Her gaze was on Alaric, who took a handkerchief and wiped the hand that grasped the woman. Lara was dumbfounded. Alaric could be petty, or was he suffering from obsessive-compulsive behavior?

Lara turned and met the woman’s stare. She didn’t flinch or look away, but faced the furious woman with unwavering resolve.

"But, Miss, you were the one who sought to harm us first," Lara said, her voice steady and unwavering. She gestured around the room, her eyes narrowing as she looked at her brothers, who were still in a daze, watching them.

The woman scoffed. "And what did I do, exactly? Is it my fault men admire me? Adore me?" Her lips curled into a smug smile. "You’re just bitter because their eyes are no longer on you."

Lara sneered. "Are you sure you did not do something underhanded? Look around!"

The woman glanced around the room, and a wave of realization washed over her, causing her eyes to widen in astonishment. The look of reverence that had graced the faces of the men around her was gone like mist disappearing in the morning sun. Their foreheads were creased as confusion danced in their expressions, replacing the admiration that had filled the space just moments before.

"What have you done?" she demanded, panic creeping into her voice. She lifted her sleeve and sniffed, recoiling slightly. The familiar intoxicating scent that had once clung to her dress was gone, buried beneath a stronger, more grounded aroma—one that didn’t seduce but clarified.

She turned her eyes back to Lara, truly seeing her now for the first time. The girl looked ordinary—plain, even—but there was something unsettling in the calm way she stood, something quietly dangerous. She was not someone to underestimate.

If Reya knew that her Miss was considered plain and ordinary, she would be angry and accuse the woman of having a mental problem.

The woman’s tone shifted swiftly, like a mask snapping into place. "Young lady," she said, her voice suddenly sweet and composed. The arrogance was nowhere to be seen. "I’m only here for dinner, and this happens to be the only table with a free seat. I do hope that’s not a problem."

Lara chuckled. The woman sure knew when to flip.

"I am not the one calling the shot. You can ask His Highness," Lara pointed to Alaric, who glared at her.

The woman froze when she heard the address given to Alaric. "Your Highness?" Confusion clouded her eyes as she scanned the men in the room. They did not look like ordinary merchants, nor were they the town’s people. They looked like trained soldiers and guards.

Her legs gave out beneath her, and she staggered, catching herself on the edge of a nearby chair. The color drained from her face.

"Is he... is he ... the prince of Northem?" She stammered. Her voice lacked the earlier charm that she had as she made a couple of steps back, bumping into the chair of the merchant behind her.

Lara arched a brow, unimpressed. "Guess?" she said flatly. How could she not sense the power radiating from Alaric like a storm held barely in check?

" I-I’m sorry, please, forgive my rudeness." The woman blurted, bowing her head slightly. Her demeanor was humble —the seductive arrogance she wore moments ago was replaced by humble deference. Chameleon-like, she slipped into a new role that fit the changing tide. She was clearly someone who survived by knowing how to pivot, no matter how sharp the turn.

Snapping her fingers, she summoned a waiter. "Bring the house specialty, immediately."

"Don’t bother," Alaric interjected, his voice cold. He had his soldiers ask the chefs to cook a simple meal and oversee them. There was no room for argument. He had learned, through bitter experience, not to take chances.

The cost of misplaced trust had been far too high—the loss of an important prisoner. He would not let history repeat itself.

The woman turned back to Lara. She thought it was better to deal with her than the prince.

"My name is Nympha. I am the wife of the owner of this inn." The woman introduced herself. She was smiling, but Lara could tell it did not reach her eyes. Was there a secret she was hiding? Why would she trouble her servant to get a man?

"Lara," she said, extending her hand for a greeting. Nympha hesitated, as if unsure of the gesture, but Lara took the lead and gently clasped the woman’s hand in a brief shake. Her fingers were cold, her skin slightly clammy.

Lara’s eyes flicked downward. Faint but unmistakable, bruises marked Nympha’s forearm, like shadows beneath her skin. Her brows knit, just slightly.

In a blink, Nympha noticed the gaze and flicked the trailing ends of her shawl to cover the marks. The motion was graceful, casual... but a beat too fast—a reflex born from habit, not vanity.

Lara thought something wasn’t right.