36. Princess Davina
Chapter 36
Princess Davina
“Love is the only force capable of
transforming an enemy into friend.”
— Martin Luther King Jr.
A loud crash jolts me awake from a fitful sleep. My heart races as I sit up, trying to make sense of the noise. Is Cole having a tantrum? Is he fighting with Rafe?
For heaven’s sake, he is absolutely maddening.
I fling the covers off and tiptoe out of my room, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet.
I strain to catch any voices, although I know I shouldn’t bother and go back to sleep. But what if something happened to Juliet?
Another deafening crash follows.
As I descend the stairs, I find Cole in the hallway, surrounded by a mess of shattered glass on the floor. His fists are clenched, his eyes wild with anger, and I can see a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
He doesn’t even notice me, as if he’s trapped in a nightmare.
Despite every instinct urging me to back away, I inch closer, cautiously trying to gauge his mood. “Are you alright?”
He doesn’t respond.
His breathing is heavy and ragged, like a wounded animal.
I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do. I should leave him alone, but the unfamiliar vulnerability in his eyes is concerning. I’ve never seen him like this before.
Something is definitely wrong.
Trying to force him to talk to me when he’s in a state like this would only make things worse, so I do the only thing I can think of—I step closer and reach out to place a gentle hand on his arm.
He stiffens violently, but to my surprise, his breathing slows. He turns to look at me, his eyes softening for the briefest moment before clouding over again.
“Go,” he says, his voice raw with emotion.
“What?” I ask in disbelief. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”
He rubs his face with a trembling hand, as though trying to erase the torment from his expression. “Just get out of here.”
“But—”
“I said,” he interrupts, his voice a desperate plea, “get out of here.”
“Alright,” I say placatingly, hands raised. “I’ll go.”
The rejection stings, and I should have known better. I curse myself for letting him get under my skin.
“I can’t believe I care about you,” I mutter, feeling a headache blooming behind my temples.
He doesn’t look my way, and he doesn’t stop me as I turn and head for my bathroom to take a bath, hoping the sound of running water will drown out the intensifying pounding in my temples.
I let out a shuddering breath as I sink into the warm water, feeling utterly drained and exhausted from the last couple of days. I lean my head back against the edge of the tub, starting to feel the tension in my muscles begin to melt away.
Just as I’m starting to drift off, I hear a knock on the door.
I stiffen.
“Davina, are you in there?”
The audacity.
“Are you in there?” He slams against the door, panic in his voice. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, just a headache,” I call out, not trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
A heavy sigh follows. “I’m coming in.”
I sit abruptly, pulling my knees to my chest as I wait for him to barge in. To my surprise and relief, he doesn’t. Instead, I hear the faint sound of him leaning against it.
“I’m fine,” I call out again, my voice firmer this time.
There’s a moment of silence before the door creaks open, and Cole peeks his head in. He stands there for a moment, clearly debating whether to retreat or to intrude.
“Let me help you,” he says, his voice soft, surprisingly gentle.
I can hardly believe my ears, raising my brows in disbelief. The nerve he has to waltz in here and offer help after just telling me to leave him alone.
“Help with what?”
“Let me help you wash your hair,” he offers. “It might help with the headache.”
I hesitate. He has a way of getting under my skin that makes it hard to think straight .
“I can manage on my own,” I say, stubbornly.
“I’m well aware. I want to help you, regardless.”
“Do you even know how to wash long hair?” It’s a dumb question. It doesn’t take a genius to know how to wash hair, but maybe it’s enough to make him reconsider and walk away.
“When I’m washing your hair—when I do it for you — I’ll make sure I know exactly how.”
With a resigned sigh, I nod. “Fine,” I mutter, giving in. “But leave your cocky attitude at the door. I don’t want to hear anything inappropriate.”
I expect to see a smirk—his usual smugness on his face—but it doesn’t come.
Instead, he gives a faint, almost anxious smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Princess.”
His footsteps falter, and his usual confidence seems to waver, as if he’s restlessly waiting for me to say something.
I simply nod, giving permission to go ahead.
He reaches for the bottle of shampoo, then settles on the edge of the tub. This feels way to imitate, and I realize I’ll need a generous amount of foamto cover me up.
Then, with a tenderness I hadn’t anticipated after what happened downstairs, he begins to wash my hair, his hands gently massaging my scalp. A soft sigh escapes me as the tension in my head begins to ease, and I’m allowing myself to relax into his touch.
“Feels good,” I admit, eyes fluttering closed.
After a few moments of silence, he says, “I’m sorry for earlier. I freaked out.”
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Just a nightmare.”
“Do you have them often?”
As he rinses the shampoo from my hair, I feel a sense of peace wash over me. Without a word, he begins to rub my back, his touch firm yet gentle, as if he’s trying to soothe away all the frustration that plagues me.
“Talk to me,” I urge softly.
“Only once before,” he finally responds. “Before my father died. I’ve had this dream about his dead body…” He pauses. “And then it happened. Lorelda murdered him.”
It takes a moment for his words to sink in. My body goes rigid as I turn to face him. “You’re saying…”
“Turns out I had a prophecy.” He sighs, heavy and full of despair. “I had no idea it was actually about to happen. It’s my fault he’s dead.”
My stomach churns, and I instinctively reach out and place my hand over his. “No,” I insist, shaking my head. “You believed it was just a nightmare. It’s not your fault.”
The smile he offers me is half-hearted. “It doesn’t change the outcome. He’s dead, and I failed to save him.”
The raw vulnerability in his eyes tugs at my heartstrings.
I’ve never seen him so exposed, so broken.
“You miss him.”
A sad laugh escapes him. “More than you can imagine.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say softly.
His fingers caress my back, tracing soothing patterns. “If he could see me now,” he says so quietly I think he’s more talking to himself than me, “he would be utterly disappointed.”
My throat feels tight, and my heart aches for him.
“I’m Lorelda’s lapdog. I serve the woman who took my father’s life. I just realize how fucked up this is. How fucked up I am.”
“Then why do you continue to serve her, allowing her to torment you?”
“I deserve it,” he says, his voice tinged with a hollow acceptance. “And it makes me feel something.”
Tears well up in my eyes, stinging with the realization that he wants to feel pain.
“You’re telling me you’re punishing yourself because you couldn’t save him, Cole. That’s?—”
“I know.”
I let out a sigh, the silence between us stretching. For several minutes, there’s just the quiet rhythm of our breathing and the gentle touch of his hands on my skin.
He begins massaging my shoulders, and I lean against his lap. In this moment, I’m just like him—completely and utterly vulnerable. And yet I wouldn’t want it any other way.
As I am rinsed off, he reaches for a towel, his hands gentle and careful as he dries my hair.
I hesitate before saying, “You haven’t told me about the nightmare you had earlier.”
He stiffens, his hands faltering. Without a word, he wraps the towel around my shoulders and guides me out of the tub with care.
I stand before him, naked, but his eyes remain locked on mine as he carefully helps me into my silky robe and ties it with deliberate precision.
We stand in silence, locked in a gaze that seems to stretch on forever. My hand reaches out almost instinctively, brushing against his face. His jaw tightens ever so slightly as my fingers trace the line beneath his eye. It’s faint but unmistakable, holding a story I’ve never asked about until now.
“Does it hurt?” I ask quietly.
A fleeting, unreadable emotion crosses his face before he shakes his head. “No.”
“Won’t you tell me about the nightmare?” I press, my voice tinged with a pleading note.
His hand reaches up to cover mine, pressing it gently against his face before guiding it away. He leans in, his lips brushing my temple. “Sleep tight,” he murmurs and smiles, but it’s a sad, resigned smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
I don’t miss the pained expression on his face when he lets go of me, as if he doesn’t want to—as if parting from me physically hurts him.