And she would never be quite the same.
Chapter Eleven
Later that night,Maddie lay curled beneath the counterpane, her room lit only by the faint orange glow from the hearth, the fire reduced to embers now, whispering softly to the silence. She’d taken down her hair. Her skin still felt warm from the heat of the kitchen, but it wasn’t just the fire or the drink that clung to her now.
It was him.
Sebastian.
She remembered the first time he’d let her feel his forehead for fever. The way he hadn’t flinched, even when her fingers brushed his hair.
Or how he’d once fallen asleep mid-sentence, mouth slightly parted, lashes resting on his cheeks like shadows. That had been the night she stayed an extra half hour, just watching him breathe. And the day he made her laugh when she was meant to scold him for not drinking his tincture. Every moment had chipped away at her resolve until she didn’t know where admiration ended and infatuation began.
Her hands were restless beneath the covers, one curled around the other. Her thoughts wouldn’t stop tumbling. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his. That amused tilt in his smile. The warmth in his voice when he said, “Please join me, Maddie.”
He’d called her Maddie again.
And somehow it had sounded more intimate than… a kiss?
She sat up, pushing the counterpane aside, and reached for the small wooden box she kept tucked inside her nightstand. Her fingers brushed over the worn leather as she lifted the lid.
Her etui.
Inside, nestled in velvet-lined compartments, sat her small brown vials—glass glinting like amber in the firelight. She touched each gently, familiar with the feel and weight of every one. The eucalyptus bottle rolled beneath her fingers. Almost empty. She uncorked it, inhaled—sharp, cool, comforting.
But somehow, her support, her medicines, her oils and ointments didn’t hold the same comfort as his smile. His attention.
His touch.
The chamomile was nearly gone too. That soft, honey-sweet scent lingered on the air, reminding her of warm clothes and quiet evenings and the comfort of a hand held just a little longer than necessary.
Except that it struck her: Sebastian hadn’t needed her oils today.
He was almost entirely well.
Which meant…
No more excuses.
No reason for her to knock on his door with a prepared tincture or a satchel of remedies. No reason to linger in his room under the guise of care. No reason to touch his hand or hear the deep rumble of his thanks or… No reason to see him alone.
She was not the sort of woman men pursued.
She wasn’t the kind they ruined or even risked for. And yet, when he looked at her like that, like she was the only thing in the world holding his gaze together, it felt… possible. That was the trouble with longing. It turned sense into fog and temptation into poetry. She had always lived carefully. Quietly. She had been told her heart was too soft, her mind too fanciful. But Sebastian… he made her feel like softness could be strength. Like her wildest thoughts might not be foolish at all.
She gripped the sides of the box, the leather cold beneath her palms.
It’s not proper.
Of course it wasn’t. She should never have spent so much time by his bedside. She should not have gone to the kitchen, alone, late at night. She should not have laughed with him. Let him touch her. Let him look at her like that.
But she hadn’t been able to help it.
She’d forgotten propriety.
She’d forgotten everything when he looked at her. The castle, the staff, the very air around them—it had disappeared. The world had narrowed to the glow of the fire, the scent of nutmeg, the sound of his voice.
And his eyes. So brilliant. So alive. So focused on her.
