I turn slowly, my hand brushing across the bindings nearest me. The sheer vastness, the smell of parchment and ink, the hush of the air—it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known. My pulse quickens as a myriad of ideas seem to light up within me.
“You’ve already claimed it as yours,” Vale says behind me, his voice low, almost reverent.
I turn, startled. “What do you mean?”
He comes closer, his gaze catching mine with the weight of someone who’s been watching far longer than I realized. “In the cottage. I saw it. The books by the hearth, by your bed. The way you kept them near, as though they were your companions.” His smile softens, edged with heat. “I think I knew then this would be the place I’d want to bring you to most.”
Warmth stirs in me, deeper than surprise. He noticed. All of it.
I walk past a long table, one hand still pressed to the polished wood. “It feels like…” My words trail off.
“Like home?” he offers.
My throat tightens, but I nod.
For a while there’s only the sound of our breathing and the faintwhisper of torches along the stone walls. Standing before one of the many shelves, I draw one of the books toward me, its cover worn, the gilt along the edges long since dulled. Before I can open it fully, Vale steps closer, bracing one hand against the shelf above me. His nearness wraps around me like a shield, shutting out the world beyond these walls. Heat radiates from him, and I’m keenly aware of how alone we are here.
Our breaths seem to slow together, a silent wish to draw out the moment and all the intimacy it holds. The first of its kind since we had to leave the forest. The intensity of all that has unfolded, the ease I feel with him so near—I no longer wish to fight against something that feels so right.
“Mira…” The whisper brushes against my back, his breath warm, sparking heat low within me. My chest tightens, my breath catches, and without thinking, I shut the book in my hands, the sound sharp in the hush.
It startles us both. His hand lingers a heartbeat longer before he draws back, as if duty itself has pulled him away. He tilts his head toward the high windows. “The light is shifting.” His voice is softer now, reluctant. “We’ve lost more of the day than I meant to.”
I still, dread twisting in my chest. The banquet. Faces, whispers, the weight of countless eyes.
He must read it in me before I speak. His hand slips down, resting gently over my shoulder. “Mira. You will not stand alone in that hall. I will be there—every step, every breath. Whatever fear you carry, let it rest in me.”
I turn slightly, unable to keep the ache from my voice. “But what if I falter?”
Taking my hand in his, his thumb traces slow circles over my skin, an anchor in the storm building inside me. “Then I will steady you. As you have steadied me.”
The words undo me, as does the way his gaze lingers—not as a king to his subject, but as a man to the woman who’s already unraveled him once.
The air between us thickens. He leans closer, breath stirring against my temple, and a tremor of heat shoots through me, my lips parting though no words come.
His hand rises, brushing a loose strand of hair from my face. His thumb lingers, tracing lightly along my jaw. “Soria will have grand plans for tonight, I’m sure,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “though I cannot imagine you looking more beautiful than you do right now.”
The faintest ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. “But if I keep you here much longer, I may forget what duty demands.”
Chapter Thirteen
Cold water splashes over my face, bracing and bright. It chases away the last of sleep of recent nights, but not the nervous current building low in my chest. I grip the basin’s edge, breath slow, willing myself steady. The memory of the library lingers—the hush of the stacks, the way his nearness wrapped around me like a shield. It hadn’t been a kiss, but something quieter and more dangerous: intimacy steeped in stillness, the promise of heat just beneath restraint. That memory clings to me now, feeding my restless energy as much as the thought of the banquet ahead.
Once again, I long for the cottage. For the safety within its walls. As much as his presence upended things, might it still be easier there?
But the cottage does not wait, not for us, not together. I do not even register the dangers lurking in the forest; in truth, the greatest fear now seems to be in imagining my life without Vale in it. The dread of the night ahead, I push through it. The cost of having my safety ensured within these walls, but also the price of staying near enough to him.
Soria enters with the rustle of skirts, transformed. She’s dressed in a gown of deep wine threaded with gold, her hair braided and pinned with care. Even her presence feels polished for the night to come. “My dear,” she says softly, “they’ll be waiting soon.”
I ground myself as I so often do by getting caught up in the task at hand. It may not be the busywork of the cottage, but I will myself forward much the same.
The tailor follows soon after, all pins and muttering. His fussing barely registers once I see the gown draped across the chair: deep green, rich as pine needles, and laced in the back. When I touch the fabric, a sharp pang strikes. The forest. My forest. Its hush, its shelter, its breath like my own—and the dangers that have driven me from it. The gown carries both homesickness and warning alike, reminding me of what I have lost and what I still stand against.
“Breathe,” Soria murmurs as she draws the laces tight. “The dress fits as if it were made for you.”
I smile faintly, but my chest tightens all the same.
When all is ready, she leads me through torchlit halls until we come to a small chamber off the banquet hall, a place where the swell of music and laughter presses faintly through stone and door.
