Cedric stepped back, sheathing his sword. “Take him away.”
As the guards dragged him out, stumbling and smiling like a fool, Nin wrapped her arms around herself, her hands shaking. A chill raced through her spine as a thought crossed her mind.
The lie Otto had sown about Adelina had worked on her, too. It had been too easy, and that’s what frightened her most.
Chapter twenty-eight
Order had been restored.
Otto was in chains, Princess Adelina’s name had been cleared, and Princess Marianne had returned to her rightful place three days after the arrest. For the first time in weeks, the shackling weight of dread loosened from Cedric’s shoulders, replaced by a quiet sense of accomplishment.
Moving with a newfound lightness, he went to Nin’s newly assigned room close to the servants’ dormitory. He no longer had to sneak into secret corridors to reach her, a freedom he relished with every step. The door, tucked in the corner by the service stairwell, was slightly ajar when he approached, but he rapped on the wood three times before entering.
The walls were bare stone instead of decorated with painted murals, golden decals, and velvet curtains. A narrow bed sat against the wall by a small window looking out over the stables instead of the gardens, a simple quilt folded neatly over a single pillow. The scent of lye and damp wool replaced the floral perfumed airs. It was clean and quiet, nothing like the decadent chambers she had slept in for the past month and a half.
Cedric’s hand lingered on the door handle. Nin folded a familiar, tattered coat, a stained men’s shirt, and ratty trousers into a small bag—the very outfit she had first arrived in. As Nin fastened the bag, Bijou lay on the bed, her big, brown eyes fixed on her new mistress.
A lump formed in Cedric’s throat as he took a step closer.
Nin turned, meeting his confused stare, and shrugged. “I don’t know how Bijou found me, but she did. Don’t tell the princess I kidnapped her, because I didn’t.” She reached over to pat the dog’s head. “She just… showed up.”
“I won’t tell on you,” Cedric said softly.
He had been too busy with his duties since Otto’s arrest to see her for the past three days, yet the emptiness of her absence weighed on him more than he cared to admit.
“Good, because I was going to fetch someone to return her to her rightful owner. I couldn’t well leave her here after I left.” She spoke nonchalantly, but her eyes darted away.
An unexpected pang pricked in his chest. “You’re leaving.”
“Yes,” she said, her grip tightening over the bag. “I figured my job here was done. The princess has returned, and my brother awaits me.”
“But the king and queen wish to have an audience with you,” he said, daring to step closer to bridge the gap between them.
“They’ve rewarded me plenty,” she said, folding her arms around herself—like a shield.
“But—”
“I just wish to see my brother. That’s all I ask,” she said quickly, cutting off the words he wished to reassure her.
Cedric caught the urgency beneath it—the longing for familiarity she’d been denied for too long. He couldn’t blame her, not when she wasn’t allowed to visit her brother during their facade, but the realization settled heavily in his chest.
After everything they had been through, the fear, the close calls with death, and all the vulnerable moments when the world had narrowed to just the two of them, he had thought perhaps…
“You don’t wish to hear them out?” he asked, but the question sat weak on his tongue.
“I don’t need praise,” she said, her mouth pinching.
He swallowed, trying to catch the unspoken message she wouldn’t say out loud. He studied her face, the way she still refused to meet his gaze. This wasn't pride—it was something more visceral.
“You feel you don’t deserve it,” he murmured.
Her frown tightened, her eyes fixed on the floor. The silence that followed was confirmation enough.
“Why?” he asked, taking another step. Close enough to see her shoulders stiffen—but not too close.
His pocket watch ticked down the tentative silence, marking seconds slipping through his fingers.
“I fell for the lie,” she said.
