“He called me his temptation,” she purrs, letting the words roll slowly off her tongue. “He said I taste like pomegranate wine. And before you ask—yes. He couldn’t get enough.”
Cassy nearly chokes on her stew. Mariel lifts her cup pointedly.
I stare at my bowl. The stew’s gone cold, and so has my appetite.
Elena preens herself, thriving under the attention. But her eyes keep darting to Seraphina, like she’s trying to one-up her. Like all of this is a game.
And maybe it is.
Maybe that’s all it’s ever meant to be.
That evening, Cassy returns with pink cheeks and a tray of leftover pastries wrapped in a handkerchief embroidered with the royal crest.
“We played cards,” she says with a shy smile. “He let me win the last hand. I think.” She starts nibbling on a cherry tart like she’s not quite sure she’s allowed to enjoy it.
Cassy swallows, a shy smile tugging at her lips.
“He was kind,” she continues, then hesitates, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the handkerchief. “He asked me about my home. About my family.”
Her voice softens. “When I told him about the shortages in the West—the failed harvests, the children going without—he said he’d speak to Arther. That if there was a way to send aid, he would. Then, he gave me some pastries and said our day was up.”
Her words echo in my mind like a note from another song entirely.
Kind.
It doesn’t match the king I met in the garden, nor the one who kissed my cheek like it meant something. The one who nearly stole my breath with a crumb and a gaze and a voice that made my bones forget how to hold me up.
It doesn’t match Seraphina’s version, either. None of it does.
That night, curled up with a book by the fire in my chamber, Vivian speaks for the first time in days.
“He visited me, you know,” she says quietly, not looking up. “When I was recovering. He brought me some tea and a stack of books. He gave me a blanket he said belonged to his mother.”
Mariel arches a brow. “That’s… oddly personal.”
Vivian shrugs. “He didn’t stay long. Just… sat beside me while I read. Didn’t touch me, didn’t even sit on the bed. It was gentle, like an old friend. I didn’t expect that.”
None of us did, especially not after Seraphina’s parade. The king is either playing a very long, very clever game…
Or he’s not who we thought he was.
Each of us seems to have met a different man, a different shade of him. Mariel’s king is quiet and curious. Cassy’s, kind and unassuming. Vivian’s is soft-spoken and strangely tender. Seraphina’s king is indulgent. Elena’s, ravenous.
And mine? I don’t know yet. But I feel him in the walls. In the magic. In the silence he leaves behind when I reach for one of those muffins and realize I’m no longer alone in the kitchen.
And each day that passes peels back another layer of him—and of me.
I don’t know what to believe anymore. But I know one thing.
Tomorrow is Wednesday. My day.
My night.
And despite everything I said—despite the way I looked him in the eye and claimed I didn’t want any of it—I don’t think he’ll force me. Not now.
He waited. He gave me space and honored my refusal. And that frightens me more than anything.
Because I was braced for battle, braced to be claimed, cornered, and conquered. But I wasn’t braced for kindness. For restraint. For the taste of something real.
