“I see.” He leans back in his chair. “Ashford has done much for the cause. He is a man I value highly. But, Fastrada, you must be careful. No deals. No promises you cannot control. You understand?”
“I do, Father,” I assure him quickly. “You have nothing to worry about.”
At that moment, the quiet rustle of boots on the floor alerts me. Ashford appears in the doorway, his presence calm and measured. My pulse quickens, but he gives nothing away—no hint of the chaos or tension of last night, no shadow of mischief. He is…perfectly collected, almost impossibly poised. How can he be so composed, so effortlessly self-possessed, after everything?
“Good morning, Your Majesty. I will return to my estate briefly,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “Then I depart for the capital.”
My father nods, straightening. “Farewell, Ashford. And Fastrada, I will see you when Charles returns from the Avars.” We hug, and he makes for the door.
Ashford bows slightly, then slides a small envelope across the table with a precise, practiced motion. Before I can speak, he turns and leaves, his departure punctuated by a courteous, “Goodbye, Your Majesty.”
The envelope rests on the polished wood. I stare at it, heart thudding. Inside, surely, lies something meant only for me—yet in that quiet moment, I am strangely scared to open it.
Meet me at the stables when your father has left.
Malric
I let my fingers glide over the parchment, excitement bubbling up inside of me.
Have I ever felt this way?
I get up quickly and make sure my father has left the estate.
Then I practically run through the kitchen, past the cook and the help, and stumble out the back door. The stable doors stand half open. He is inside, one shoulder braced against the wood, sleeves rolled to his forearms, sunlight slicing across his face in narrow bands.
He does not smile.
He watches me run toward him—and something in his gaze makes me slow, suddenly self-conscious about my joy. DidI misread the note? I look past him toward his horse. It’s already saddled. He is leaving.
“Why did you ask me to come?” I ask, trying to steady my breath.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
“I wanted to see you,” he says evenly.
“That is all?”
He pushes away from the door then, but instead of closing the distance, he takes a step back, away from me.
The movement stings.
“You should not have come running like that,” he says quietly. “Not where anyone might see.”
“I thought that was the point,” I reply, confusion flaring into irritation. “You send me a note telling me to meet you here, and then you stand there as though I’ve inconvenienced you?”
His eyes darken. “That is not what I meant.”
“Then whatdidyou mean?” I press. “Because it feels very much like a game.”
I walk toward him, needing to look into his eyes properly when he inevitably breaks my heart.
His hand drags over his face. He looks at the ground briefly, then back at me. “It is not a game,” he says, lower now. “It is precisely the opposite.”
A gust of wind slips through the stable doors, lifting stray strands of my hair. The horses shift in their stalls.
“You kissed me last night,” I say. “And now you look as though you regret it.”
He steps closer then—but only one step. Close enough that I feel the heat of him. Not close enough to touch.
