“I saw her,” I admitted quietly. “When I was drowning. She spoke to me, told me to listen to you, that the darkness was spreading.” I opened my eyes again, meeting Isabeau’s amber gaze directly. “I thought it was a hallucination, my mind giving me comfort as I died. But maybe... maybe it was real.”
Isabeau studied my face, as if searching for any sign of mockery or disbelief. Finding none, she nodded slowly. “The veil between worlds thins at moments of transition—birth, death. It’s possible she reached through to you.”
“All this time,” I murmured, “I thought I understood the world. Thought I knew what was possible and what wasn’t. But I’ve been blind, haven’t I?”
“We see what we’re taught to see,” she said, surprising me with her compassion. “You were raised to believe in a world where magic is evil, where women with power are witches to be burned. Just as I was raised to believe my only value was in my beauty, in what men desired from me. Though, that was society, not my parents.”
I thought of all the times I’d admired her face, her form, before I’d truly seen her mind, her heart, her courage. Shame burned through me.
“The beasts were the only ones,” she continued softly, “who never locked me in a room. Who never even closed my door. The only ones who saw me as more than a pretty possession to be controlled.”
Until the words left her lips, I hadn’t fully understood the magnitude of what I’d done. Hadn’t seen how my actions—locking her away, posting guards, declaring her mine—had mirrored Gaspard’s abuse. Different methods, perhaps, gentler in execution, but the same fundamental wrong. Taking her choice away.
“I was no better than him,” I said, the words tasting like ashes.
“You didn’t rape me,” she corrected, blunt and unflinching. “You didn’t torture me. But yes, you tried to control me. Just as every man has since my father died.”
“I won’t do it again,” I promised, the words feeling inadequate but necessary. “I don’t know what’s happening in this forest, or what curse holds your beasts, but I’ll help you however I can. Not as your captor or your savior or your prince. Just as someone who wants to make things right.”
Something softened in her expression. “You believe me, then? About everything?”
“Yes.” And I did, with a certainty that should have frightened me but somehow didn’t. “I can’t explain how or why, but I do.”
She held my gaze for a long moment, searching. Then she reached for my wrist, her fingers working at the knot that bound me to the bedframe. “I tied you because I wasn’t sure who would wake up,” she explained as the cloth loosened. “The prince who tried to drag me back to Durand, or the man who rode through the night to warn me about the hunt.”
“And who do you think woke up?” I asked as she freed one wrist, then moved to the other.
“I’m still deciding,” she said, her honesty refreshing after a lifetime of courtly dissembling.
As she leaned over me to untie the second knot, her hair fell forward like a curtain, brushing against my chest. She was so close I could smell the river water still clinging to her skin, mixed with something earthy and distinctly her. Something inside me stirred—not just desire, though that was certainly present, but a deeper yearning for connection. For her to see me as I was trying to see her: fully, honestly, without the filters of expectation or position.
When she’d finished with the knot, she started to move away, but I caught her wrist gently, my thumb brushing over the pulse that fluttered beneath her skin. Her cheeks flushed deeper, the color spreading down her neck in a way that made me wonder just how far it went.
“Isabeau,” I said, my voice rougher than I intended. “Would you... would you lie beside me? Just for a few hours. We could pretend there isn’t a war coming for us both. Pretend we’re just a man and a woman, not a prince and a... whatever you are.”
She stared at me, her beautiful eyes wide and uncertain. “I don’t know what I am,” she whispered.
“You’re Isabeau,” I replied simply. “That’s enough.”
For a moment, I thought she would refuse, pull away, retreat back to the safety of distance. But then she nodded, so slightly I almost missed it. Carefully, mindful of my injuries, she lowered herself onto the bed beside me, her body a line of warmth against my side.
I didn’t try to hold her, didn’t presume to touch her beyond the light contact where our shoulders met. This wasn’t about possession or desire. Well, not only those things. This was about trust, freely given. About two people finding a moment of peace in the eye of a storm.
Gradually, I felt her relax, her head tilting to rest against my shoulder. Her breath evened out, exhaustion clearly overtakingher. I remained still, unwilling to break whatever fragile thing was forming between us.
“They’re suffering,” she murmured, voice thick with impending sleep. “My beasts. I can feel it through the mark. The darkness is consuming them, just like it’s consuming the forest. And I don’t know how to save them.”
“We’ll figure it out,” I promised, allowing myself to gently stroke her hair. “Together.”
She made a small sound, neither agreement nor refusal, before her breathing deepened into sleep. I stayed awake, staring at the stone ceiling above us, listening to the crackle of the fire and the soft rhythm of her breath.
This was what I was fighting for, I realized. Not for duty or crown or kingdom. But for moments like this. For the right of a woman to choose her own path without fear. For a world where magic wasn’t feared but understood. For the chance to be worthy of the trust Isabeau had just shown me.
I closed my eyes, allowing myself to savor the weight of her against me, the quiet intimacy of shared warmth and shared truth. Tomorrow would come with all its dangers. Gaspard’s hunt had already begun, the Dark Lord’s curse, and the corruption spreading through the forest. But for now, in this forgotten castle, we had found a moment of respite.
And I would do whatever it took to earn more such moments in the days to come.
fifty-four
