Chapter 42: Ch 42: eh? why?

Ch 42:

The main square of Valerius Crossing was a riot of color and sound after the dim, medicinal silence of the apothecary’s alley. Orion stood for a moment on the edge of the bustling market, letting the noise wash over him—the shouts of fishmongers, the clatter of cart wheels, the laughter of children chasing a dog. It felt normal. Mundane. A world away from carriages that induced terror and secret vials tucked against his heart.

He took a deep breath, pushing the weight of his errand down, locking it away. First, the promise.

He found a haberdasher’s stall near the clock tower, its awning striped in cheerful yellow and white. Ribbons of every hue hung in lush coils from hooks. Silk, satin, velvet. He scanned them until he saw it: a perfect sky-blue satin ribbon, the color of a clear morning. It shimmered softly in the sun.

"How much for this one?" Orion asked the stallkeeper, a plump woman with a kind face.

"For you, young sir? Three copper bits."

Orion paid, watching as she carefully wound the length of blue satin into a neat coil and tied it with a piece of plain string. He tucked the small package into his tunic pocket, next to the cold glass vials. The contrast was stark—a secret weapon and a simple gift, both for the same man.

Next, the clothes.

The tailor recommended to him was named Master Ferron, and his shop occupied a respectable storefront on a quieter lane off the square. A bell chimed as Orion entered.

The shop was quiet, smelling of clean wool, sizing starch, and the faint, sweet scent of cedar from the measuring sticks. Bolts of fabric lined the walls—rich wools, crisp linens, delicate silks. A few finished garments were displayed on wooden forms.

Master Ferron himself emerged from a back room, a tape measure draped around his neck like a scarf. He was a slight, precise man with quick eyes that immediately assessed Orion’s stature and the quality of his current tunic.

"My lord," Ferron said with a polite bow. "You are from the Valerian estate?"

"I am. I require some new daywear. Simple, well-made. In my own measurements."

"Of course, of course." Ferron ushered him toward a raised dais in the center of the room. "Let us see what we have."

For the next half hour, Orion was measured, poked, and draped with various fabrics. He chose practical items: two more tunics in dark, serviceable colors, another pair of trousers, a warmer cloak for the coming autumn. He avoided anything ornate, anything that reminded him of Elian’s rejected silks. These would be *his* clothes.

As Ferron noted down the order, Orion’s gaze wandered around the shop. It landed on a dress form tucked in a corner, partially hidden by a curtain.

It was a gown. Not a lady’s ballgown, but something simpler, more elegant. A day dress in a soft, dove-grey wool, with long sleeves and a high neckline. What caught his eye was the embroidery: delicate silver thread tracing patterns like frost ferns along the cuffs and hem. It was understated, beautiful, and spoke of a quiet, refined taste. It was exactly the sort of thing he imagined his mother might have worn.

A pang of longing hit him, sharp and sudden. Not for the dress itself, but for the normalcy it represented. For a life where one could admire a beautiful garment simply for its craft, not as a symbol of status or a tool for presentation.

He glanced at the price tag dangling from the sleeve. His heart sank. It was more than he had left after paying the apothecary. The Valerian allowance was meager—Ashford saw to that—and his own dowry money was a tiny, guarded reserve, saved for true emergencies. This was not an emergency. It was a frivolous, impossible want.

He looked away, focusing back on Ferron’s list.

The shop bell chimed again, announcing another customer.

Orion turned slightly and saw an Omega man sweep in. He was perhaps a few years older than Orion, dressed in expensive, fashionably cut clothes of russet and gold. His hair was artfully arranged, and he wore a subtle, sweet perfume that clashed with the shop’s natural scents. A mating bite, neat and proud, adorned the side of his neck.

The Omega’s eyes swept the shop and immediately landed on Orion. They traveled up and down, a quick, dismissive inventory. They took in Orion’s simple, travel-dusted boots, his practical dark tunic, the lack of any jewelry or adornment. They lingered for a fraction too long on Orion’s face, noting the absence of a bite.

A faint, condescending smile touched the man’s lips. He walked past Orion toward the back of the shop, directly to the dove-grey dress.

"Master Ferron!" he called, his voice bright and carrying. "Is this the piece you wrote to me about? It’s exquisite."

Ferron looked momentarily flustered. "Ah, Lord Pellerin. Yes, that is the one. Just arrived."

Lord Pellerin ran a possessive hand over the grey wool. "The embroidery is divine. It will be perfect for the autumn gatherings." He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes cutting back to Orion. "One does need to stand out, after all. To be seen in the *right* things. Especially when one’s... situation... might otherwise go unnoticed."

The barb was clear, deliberate. Orion felt his cheeks grow warm. He was an unbitten Omega in simple clothes, shopping alone. In this man’s eyes, he was either a servant overreaching or a noble failure.

Orion kept his face neutral, turning back to Ferron as if he hadn’t heard. "The grey broadcloth for the second tunic, please. And the buttons in horn, not silver."

But Pellerin wasn’t finished. He lifted the dress from the form, holding it up against himself as he approached a large mirror near Orion. "Yes, this will do nicely. It’s a pity some can’t appreciate true craftsmanship. They must make do with... utility." He smirked at Orion’s reflection in the glass.

Anger, hot and humiliated, coiled in Orion’s stomach. He opened his mouth, a sharp retort on his tongue, but before he could speak, a shadow fell across him.

A large, warm hand settled possessively on the small of his back. A strong arm slid around his waist, pulling him back against a solid, familiar wall of muscle and worn leather.

Orion’s mind short-circuited. The scent hit him first—sweat, steel oil, and the crisp, clean smell of open air. Not Abel’s cedar and amber, but something just as reassuringly masculine.

He looked up, his head tilting back.

Aster Vance looked down at him, his weathered face set in an expression of mild, affectionate exasperation. His kind brown eyes held a glint of something dangerous, something playful.

"My love," Aster said, his deep voice a low rumble that filled the quiet shop. "Didn’t I say I don’t like you wearing clothes like this?"

Orion could only stare, his brain utterly blank. *My love? Aster? Why? What?*

Aster’s thumb stroked a slow circle on Orion’s back through the fabric of his tunic. His gaze shifted from Orion’s stunned face to Lord Pellerin, who had frozen, the dress half-held against his chest.

Aster’s smile was easy, but his eyes were hard as flint. "It makes you look far too pretty. Leads to misunderstandings." He nodded toward Pellerin, his tone conversational, as if they were all just chatting about the weather. "See? Already attracting attention."

Lord Pellerin flushed, his earlier smugness evaporating. He quickly lowered the dress. "I... I meant no offense. I didn’t realize..."

"Of course you didn’t," Aster said amiably, but the dismissal in his voice was complete. He looked back down at Orion, his expression softening into something that looked, to anyone watching, like doting concern. "You promised you’d wait for me at the tavern, you minx. Couldn’t resist the fabrics, could you?"

Orion’s instincts screamed at him to play along. He swallowed, finding his voice. It came out softer than he intended, breathless with shock. "I... I was just ordering some daywear. You said I needed new tunics."

"And so you do." Aster’s arm tightened around him, pulling him even closer. He addressed Ferron, who was watching the scene with wide-eyed fascination. "Master Tailor, put whatever my husband has selected on my account. The Valerian guard tab. And add..." He glanced at the dove-grey dress still in Pellerin’s slackened grip. "...that one as well. In his measurements." He gave Orion a squeeze. "Grey suits you. Like a winter sky."

Lord Pellerin looked as if he’d been slapped. He hastily thrust the dress toward Ferron. "My apologies. I seem to have... mistaken the situation." He didn’t look at Orion again. He gave a stiff, shallow bow toward Aster and practically fled the shop, the bell jangling wildly behind him.

Silence descended, thick and awkward.

Aster’s arm didn’t move from Orion’s waist.

Orion looked up at him, his mind reeling. "Aster... what... why did you...?"

Aster finally released him, stepping back. The easy, possessive affection vanished from his face, replaced by his usual calm, pragmatic expression. Only a faint trace of amusement remained in his eyes.

"Saw you come out of the apothecary’s alley looking like you’d seen a ghost," Aster said quietly, his voice now just for Orion. "Followed you. Saw that preening peacock start in on you." He shrugged one broad shoulder. "Seemed like you could use a taller friend with a meaner glare."

"You called me ’my love,’" Orion whispered, his face burning.

Aster had the decency to look slightly abashed. "Apologies, my lord. It was the first story that came to mind. A bonded Beta soldier and his pretty Omega husband shopping for clothes. Explains the lack of a bite, explains me, and puts any other interested parties firmly in their place." He glanced toward the door. "It worked."

Master Ferron was staring at them, utterly confused. "So... the dress... and the order... on the guard tab, Captain Vance?"

"Yes," Aster said firmly. "All of it. Have it sent to the estate. For Lord Orion." He emphasized the title.

"Of course, Captain. At once."

Aster guided Orion gently but firmly toward the door. "Come on. Let’s get some air. And maybe some lunch. You look like you haven’t eaten."

Outside, the sun was bright. Orion blinked, feeling unmoored. The confrontation, the rescue, the sudden, shocking warmth of Aster’s arm around him—it was all too much.

"Why do you have a tab here?" Orion managed to ask as they walked.

"The unit gets its uniforms and gear from Ferron. He does good, hard-wearing work. We have an arrangement."

They walked in silence for a minute, heading away from the square toward a quieter lane.

"Thank you," Orion said finally, the words inadequate.

"Don’t mention it." Aster looked at him, his gaze knowing. "The world is full of Lord Pellerins. They see a lone Omega without a visible Alpha and think they see weakness. Sometimes, you just need to borrow a bigger stick."

Orion thought of the vials in his pocket, of Abel’s trusting smile, of the Duke and Duchess’s cold expectations. He had never felt more alone, and yet, in this strange, dusty town, he had found an unexpected ally.

"You didn’t have to buy the dress," he murmured.

Aster stopped walking. He turned to face Orion, his expression serious. "My lord... Orion. That man was trying to shame you for admiring something beautiful. He was using that dress as a weapon to make you feel small. So yes, I did have to buy the dress. Because now, when you wear it, you won’t think of him. You’ll think of the day a soldier saw you being picked on and decided to be your bigger stick." A faint, genuine smile touched his lips. "Besides, he was right about one thing. Grey will suit you. Now, about that lunch. I know a place that doesn’t mind a bit of sand on the boots."

Orion looked at Aster—this steady, kind, fiercely loyal man who served the ghost of the captain Abel used to be—and felt a knot of tension he hadn’t known he was carrying begin to loosen.

He nodded. "Lunch sounds good."