The fear stayed with her long after she left the border market. It felt like a cold stone lodged in her chest, heavy and impossible to swallow.
Back in the hut, Seraphine spent the rest of the day in a state of frantic fortification. She moved the heavy wooden chest in front of the window-slit. She re-checked the latch on her door five times. She even sharpened her silver dagger until the edge was so keen it could split a hair in the wind.
He is a Prince, her mind whispered in a ceaseless loop. A Prince of Valenor. The jewel of a rival throne.
In the Empire of Aethelgard, Seraphine had been taught that the Valenorian royals were savages—golden-haired barbarians who lived by the sword and the sun. But the man she had healed didn't smell of blood and iron; he smelled of pine needles and reckless kindness. He had looked at her not with the cold calculation of a politician, but with the bewildered awe of a man seeing a miracle for the first time.
And that was exactly why he was dangerous.
"He won't come back," she muttered to herself as she sat by the dying embers of her hearth. She clutched the battered book of Master Thorne's poetry to her chest as if it were a shield. "He is back in his palace. He has a kingdom to rule, a fiancée to wed, and a world that loves him. Why would he ever return to a monster in a hole in the ground?"
But the universe, it seemed, had a cruel sense of irony.
The knock came just as the moon reached its zenith, casting skeletal shadows of the trees across her floor. It wasn't the frantic scratching of a beast or the heavy, rhythmic thud of a soldier's gauntlet.
It was three polite, confident, and maddeningly cheerful raps. Knock. Knock-knock.
Seraphine bolted upright, the book sliding from her lap. Her hand flew to the silver dagger in her boot. She didn't breathe. She didn't move.
"I know you're in there, spirit," a familiar, rich baritone echoed through the thick oak of the door. "I can see the smoke from your chimney. And unless you've started entertaining mountain trolls, I assume you're the one stirring the fire."
Seraphine felt a jolt of lightning-hot frustration. He's back.
She lunged for her cloak, throwing it over her shoulders and pulling her chestnut hair forward with a frantic, trembling hand. She ensured the left side of her face was a dark curtain of waves before she marched to the door. She didn't unlock it.
"Go away," she hissed, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. "I told you never to return. The debt is paid. The sugar is eaten. Go back to your sun-drenched world, stranger."
There was a brief silence on the other side of the door. Then, a low, soft chuckle that made the ink on Seraphine's neck throb.
"I tried," Kael's voice said, sounding closer now, as if he had leaned his forehead against the wood. "I really did. I made it all the way back to the border camp. I sat in a tent. I ate a meal that tasted like cardboard. And all I could think about was a certain green-eyed forest spirit who told me I had a cracked rib and then threatened to feed me to the wolves."
"Kael—"
"I'm not a stranger anymore, Seraphine. I know your name. And you know mine."
Seraphine's heart hammered a frantic rhythm. "I saw the posters," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I saw the Sun-Crest. I know who you are, Prince Kaelen. And that is exactly why you need to leave. If my people find you here—if they find out I touched you—"
"They won't," he interrupted, his tone shifting from playful to a startling, grounded seriousness. "I came alone. No guards. No trail for them to follow. I told my brother I was going on a private hunt to clear my head. And I didn't come back as a Prince."
She heard a rustle of fabric, and then a heavy thud as something was placed on the doorstep.
"I brought blackberry preserves," he said, and she could almost hear the crooked smile on his face. "And bread from the southern baker. It's still warm, Seraphine. It would be a crime against the Goddess to let it get cold in the mist."
Seraphine stared at the door. She should stay silent. She should let him freeze in the night until he grew bored and went home. But the memory of the sugar cube—the way it had tasted like hope—was a physical ache in her throat.
With a curse that would have made her etiquette tutors faint, she threw the latch and pulled the door open.
Kael stood there, framed by the silvery moonlight. He wasn't wearing the blood-stained charcoal wool of a dying man. He wore a sturdy, elegant hunting tunic of deep forest blue, accented with supple leather and silver buckles. A bow was slung over his shoulder, but he held no weapon. Instead, he held a linen sack that smelled so heavenly Seraphine's stomach let out a treacherous growl.
His amber eyes locked onto her visible emerald one, and the warmth in them was so intense she had to resist the urge to step back.
"You look well," Kael murmured, his gaze tracing the way she huddled in her cloak. "The forest suits you, though I still think you're too small for these giant trees."
"And you look like a man who wants to get a woman executed," Seraphine retorted, though her voice lacked its usual bite. She stepped aside, a silent, begrudging invitation. "One meal. And then you are gone. Do you understand? I will not have a royal shadow lingering at my door."
Kael stepped inside, the heat of his presence immediately filling the small room. He didn't look like a Prince in a palace; he looked like a man who had finally come home. He placed the sack on her scarred wooden table and began to pull out the contents with the enthusiasm of a child.
"Blackberry preserves, fresh butter, three kinds of cheese, and—" he stopped, pulling out a small, delicately wrapped bundle of dried flowers. "I saw these near the path. They reminded me of the color of your cloak."
Seraphine looked at the flowers, then at the Prince. The black rose on her collarbone began to itch—a stinging, pulsing heat that spread up her neck. It wasn't the burn of shame. It was the terrifying, long-forgotten sensation of being cherished.
"Why are you doing this, Kael?" she asked, her voice a hollow whisper. "You could have any woman in the world. You could have a Saintess or a Queen. Why come back to a hole in the dirt to feed a monster?"
Kael stopped what he was doing. He turned to her, the playfulness vanishing from his face. He stepped closer, and for the first time, Seraphine didn't pull away.
"Because," Kael said, his voice dropping into a register that made the very air in the hut feel heavy. "The Saintesses and the Queens only see the crown. You saw the man bleeding in the dirt. And I've decided I much prefer the spirit who bites to the ladies who bow."
He reached out, his hand stopping just inches from her chestnut hair. "Now, sit. The bread is getting cold, and I believe I was promised a meal."
Seraphine sat, her heart a whirlwind of emerald and amber. As the Prince of Valenor began to spread blackberry preserves on a piece of warm bread, she realized that the Forbidden Forest had never been truly dangerous. The danger was the man sitting across from her, because he was making her want to be a masterpiece again.
Coming Up in Chapter 8: A Meal Without Masks
As they share a meal, Kael's observations become sharper. He starts to realize that Seraphine's 'monster' act is a shield, and a slip of the tongue reveals more about her past than she intended. The slow-burn is officially heating up!