Vale guides me across the threshold and toward the bed. “You are safe. I will return to you soon. For now, rest my flame.”
The moment my hand brushes the coverlet, the strength bleeds from me. I sink into the bed, exhaustion claiming me whole.
The last thing I feel is the weight of his gaze lingering at the door before duty pulls him away.
Chapter Eleven
It’s impossible to gauge how much time has passed since I collapsed on the bed. I wake to a flurry of activity, my body aching as I shift against the coverlet, struggling to make sense of all that has happened.
“Go on now—shoo. Out with you.”
The first words I recognize cut through the haze. A tall woman, striking though touched with years of grace, ushers a gaggle of attendants out of the room. She closes the doors softly behind them before turning to me.
“So sorry, dear. I told them to be quiet as mice so as not to wake you.” Her tone shifts from authority toward the others to a gentler kindness as her hazel eyes meet mine.
“I’m Soria, milady.” She crosses to my bedside with measured poise, each step assured. “And I’ll see you fit as a fiddle.” Her gaze softens as she takes in my state, ragged and weary. “Oh, my dear—you’ve been through quite the ordeal, haven’t you?”
Her hands come to rest at her hips before she moves briskly toward the hearth. “We’ve set a piping-hot bath for you. Food has been laid out.” She gestures toward the spread I had hardly noticed. Half listening,my eyes wander across the chamber. I had been too exhausted to properly see the space when we arrived in the early dawn, fear clinging to me even as I stumbled into sleep.
Now I take it in: high arching walls draped in tapestries, polished stone, and carved wood more ornate than the wealthiest homes of the village. It’s more than I could have ever dreamed.
“…and after, we’ll have you fitted for proper attire before supper.”
I blink, realizing I’ve lost her words somewhere between the firelight and the vaulted ceiling. She seems to notice as she comes to take my hands gently in her own. “One step at a time, dear. I’ll be here through it all. You have nothing to fear.”
I linger a moment, unable to will myself to rise.
“Strength isn’t found in refusing care, milady. It’s found in knowing when to let someone tend to you.”
Something in her presence—those soft hazel eyes, the way they hold me as tenderly as her hands—anchors me for the first time since I left the cottage.
“Right this way.”
The bath could be mistaken for an offering from the gods themselves: a tub vast enough for me to sink in whole, steam rising from its surface, fragrant with milk and honey poured into the waters. Primrose lingers in the air, delicate and heady.
I’ve never known such excess. Never imagined anyone would bathe me. That had always been a private act, one I guarded. Now my bare skin prickles in the open air, vulnerable under another’s eyes.
I sink in and feel as though I might melt from heat and indulgence alike. The warmth tears at the ache in my limbs, coaxing my body to let go. I will myself to surrender as sweat beads across my brow, damp strands clinging to my temples. My cheeks flush—whether from the heat or the strangeness of it all, I cannot say.
“It’s already doing you a world of good,” Soria’s voice chimes as she reenters, a towel in her hands.
I reach for it, an instinctive protest rising in my chest, but she only lifts it higher, inviting me into its folds. Too weary to resist, I let myself be wrapped. Not embarrassed, but vulnerable—bared in a way I’ve never allowed before.
I carry that same foreign compliance as she dresses me, her hands deft and sure. The gown, though tightened, slips loose down along my shoulders.
“The tailor will see to you tomorrow. Tonight, comfort will do. After all—you are the guest of honor.”
I nearly choke on the bite of food I force myself to take. “Guest of honor?”
She tilts her head, surprise flickering across her composed features. “From what I hear, Lord Vale may not have survived without your aid.” Even the thought seems to shake her.
The man I found bleeding out on my floor—the man who kissed me with passion that silenced the storm—is… a lord… Lord Vale.
“You poor thing,” Soria murmurs, her hand brushing mine. “I’m sure this is all too much. Don’t fret, dear. Tonight he’s insisted on a quiet dinner, just the two of you. The real celebration will be tomorrow. You’ll have plenty of time to find your bearings here in the High Hold.”
I’m grateful I’m already seated; if not, my legs might give way beneath me.
He hadn’t shared much detail of this life. I’d assumed it was due to the secretive nature of his realm, the hush that seems to cloak all of them. But this—this is more than mere detail. This palace, this keep, the authority stitched into every stone and every whisper of his name… it’s his.
