Page 62 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

Benevolent gods, please help me get through this without crying.

I’d known he was someone far above me. That he wasn’t truly Rowan. But the true distance between us was so wide I couldn’t see the other side of the chasm.

The man before me wore Rowan’s face. The same eyes that had looked at me like I meant something. Those were even the same lips that had kissed me—something my body wouldn’t let me forget. But this wasn’t the wounded stranger who’d trusted me with his pain, who’d set himself free in my arms and convinced me that falling apart together would be worth the risk to my heart.

The hints had been there about who he was underneath the warmth he radiated so freely. His ramrod-straight back during dinner, the armor, his icy countenance during our disagreement, his way of speaking.

Now Owain, Prince of Larethia, stood where my patient had been. And I was still a simple mountain healer, living on bartered food, wearing patched clothing.

I pulled my shawl tighter around myself as if wool could shield me from banners and armor and the expectations of an entire kingdom standing at my doorstep. I still felt exposed. Measured. Like I was a secret dragged into daylight, already halfway to becoming a liability.

Owain’s eyes found mine again and softened. The traitorous part of my heart lifted when his expression shifted into the naked vulnerability that reminded me of waking up next to him. Then he’d been surprised to see me. Now, the control was back in place, and it was as though he were bracing for my reaction.

I didn’t know what to think. That uncertainty rooted me in place, even as part of me rebelled against not being at his side.

He stopped an arm’s length away. Close enough that I could feel his warmth, reach out if I wanted to.

Up close, the transformation was sharper. He held himself as though Larethia would fall apart if he relaxed his shoulders or loosened his jaw a fraction. And he limped—only slightly, but I saw it. Seeing him hide his pain sparked my healer’s drive to close the gap between us and help.

But now that I knew, I couldn’t. There were strict boundaries between royalty and the rest of us.

Owain’s hands lifted, just a fraction. They trembled. For a foolish, aching moment, I thought he might reach for me.

But his hands fell.

The restraint stung more than the deception because now it felt like a choice.

“Can we speak inside?” he asked quietly.

So close to Rowan’s voice. But not quite the soft cadence I’d grown used to. This was Owain’s voice—measured, controlled, constructed for command even when he was asking for something.

Behind him, warhorses shifted and snorted. Leather creaked and torches flashed to life with the waning sun. Rows of armed men from two kingdoms watched us with open curiosity. His world was pressing into mine, taking it over.

So many eyes on me made me want to run, so I nodded.

I started walking before I could change my mind. Each step toward the cabin felt strangely exposed. I was aware of everything—the sway of my skirts, my rapid breathing, the fact that my home had no true defenses against the outside world.

Just like I had no defenses against him.

The shattered front door hung open on broken hinges. But that was a problem for later. I stepped inside and moved aside so he could follow.

The space felt smaller, like the walls were closing in and the air growing tighter, the instant a prince entered my world.

Some self-protective instinct within me reached for cruelty before grief could get there first. I turned to face him and dipped into a curtsy that was shallow enough to insult, quick and mocking enough to wound. He’d already had one foot out the door; now I knew he could never have been mine.

“Your Highness,” I said, honey-sweet.

For one fierce, petty second, it was worth it. Then he flinched, and the satisfaction curdled. It was low of me, but I’d wanted it to hurt, for him to feel even a fraction of what I did.

Hairline cracks formed across the careful mask he’d worn outside. Owain dragged a hand through his dark brown hair, frustration written plain across his face. “I’m sorry I lied to you, Lunette,” he said. “But let’s be honest—you knew I wasn’t Rowan.”

I made a low sound in my throat and crossed the room, collapsing onto the edge of my bed. The familiar sag of the mattress steadied me more than I liked to admit.

“Yes,” I said after a moment. “I did.” I looked up at him, letting the truth rest between us. “But that doesn’t make it any easier, Owain.”

His true name hit him like a verbal punch to the gut. He opened his mouth then closed it. A grimace twisted his expression. “I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter this time, as if repetition might make a difference.

His fingers flexed and stilled at his sides, restless. He shifted on his feet. Shadows formed near his boots, tendrils of darkness emerging and retreating from him as if testing the air. I’d watched those shadows for days, categorized their moods the way I catalogued symptoms. That was anxiety.