Anxiety coils tight in my chest. I push up on one elbow. “I really should go to my room.”
“No.” The word is quiet, final. “Stay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Arianette. I’m sure.”
I nod once, throat tight, then slide out of bed, clutching the sheet around me like a cloak. It drags behind me across the floor as I pad to the bathroom, bare feet silent on the cool stone. The door closes with a soft snick. I let the sheet fall, pooling at my ankles, and stand there naked under the dim sconce light.
His dark gray button-down hangs on the back of the door, sleeves long enough to brush my thighs when I slip it on. The fabric is soft, worn at the cuffs, still carrying the warmth of his body and the faint scent of his cologne. I take my time buttoning it, fingers trembling a little, the hem skimming the tops of my thighs. In the mirror, I look wrecked: black makeup smudged under my eyes like bruises and lips swollen from his kisses. But there’s a hum under my skin, low and steady. He didn’t just fuck me tonight. He cherished me. Held me like I was something breakable and precious. Claimed me in ways that went beyond skin and heat. It’s a side of him I’ve never seen–tender,almost careful–and it terrifies me. Because what if it’s temporary? What if one wrong word, one wrong move, flips him back into the distant, aloof man I’m used to? The one who looks through me like I’m a weight around his shoulders.
I turn on the faucet, splash cold water on my face until the smears lighten, then pat dry with a thick cotton towel that holds the spicy scent of his shaving cream. I stare at myself for one moment longer, then take a breath before stepping back into the bedroom.
He’s sitting in the same high-backed chair he was in earlier–yesterday? Time feels slippery–legs spread, elbows on the armrests, watching me with that unreadable intensity. The mask still hides his eyes but his mouth is set in a thoughtful line, the scruff darker in the low light. His bare chest rises and falls, the fire painting gold across the ridges of muscle.
I hesitate in the doorway, unsure. Stand? Kneel? Curl up on the rug like a pet? My legs still feel shaky, unsteady from everything–panic, pleasure, and the weight of being seen so completely. I climb back into the bed instead, tucking my bare legs under me. His gaze follows the movement–lingering on the exposed skin of my thighs, the way his shirt rides up just enough to tease the curve where thigh meets hip.
He leans back, watching me for a long, quiet moment before he speaks.
“I’d like you to tell me what happened at the solarium.”
I curl tighter, arms wrapping around my drawn-up knees, chin resting on them. “I don’t remember.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” It’s not an accusation. Just a calm fact. He’s right. I do remember–fragments, flashes–but they’re a snarled knot of smells, sounds, voices. “Arianette, you can trust me. I only want to help.”
I take a deep breath that shudders on the exhale. “It was the music.”
“The music?”
I nod, closing my eyes, forcing myself back there. To the firstchord that cut through the air like a blade. “The strains were both new and familiar. The song was different, but everything else…”
“You mean the cello?” he asks quietly.
“Yes. The cello.”
“You’ve heard it before.”
“Not just it,” I whisper, heart starting to pound so hard I feel it in my fingertips. “Him.”
The King’s mouth tightens into a frown. “Whitaker, you mean.”
I close my eyes again. “It’s not the man at the front of the solarium that I see playing. Not the Prince. He’s younger. Cheekbones softer. His hair glimmers under the spotlight like a halo. For a while I thought he was an angel. Not real. Not there. No more than the rest of us.” I open my eyes; the King is silent, listening, utterly still. “He’s dressed in a tuxedo. Shoes shiny. Backstage…” I swallow, afraid to let the words out into the room. “Backstage he makes me laugh. He teaches me the word.”
“Periwinkle,” the King says softly.
I nod, pulse thundering in my ears. “Periwinkle.”
“I heard the music and it all came rushing back.” The late nights. The stage lights hot on my skin. Dancing until my feet ached. Being ushered away by my governess while the others stayed behind.
“There are no other children.”
“Arianette.”
I blink, snapping back. He’s standing over me now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his bare skin. “Arianette, answer me.”
“What?” I swallow. “What was the question?”
His jaw locks; the cords in his forearms stand out as his fists clench at his sides. “Did Whitaker Ashby hurt you?”
