Chapter 4
four
. . .
Dain
I stay two steps behind her as we wind through the crowded streets, close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to maintain the illusion of her independence. My blood still simmers from our encounter in the tavern. She recognized me—not immediately, but faster than I expected. Those green eyes widened with shock, then narrowed with anger, but beneath both, I caught something else. Something that makes keeping my distance a special kind of torture.
She moves through the night market with undisguised wonder, stopping to examine trinkets and taste exotic foods. The copper-gold strands of her hair escape her hood as she leans over a jewelry display, and I have to clench my fists against the urge to tuck them back, to feel their softness between my fingers.
"Look at these," she calls over her shoulder, forgetting momentarily that she's supposed to be angry with me. She holds up a pair of simple wooden earrings, carved with delicate leaves. Nothing like the priceless gems that adorn her at court, yet she looks at them as if they're treasures.
"Pretty," I manage, the word inadequate for what I really want to say.
She replaces them carefully and continues her exploration, shoulders relaxed, steps lighter than I've ever seen at the palace. Out here, away from duty and expectation, she's transformed. The weight of the crown lifts from her, and I glimpse the woman she might have been in another life—carefree, curious, unbound by protocol.
It's dangerous, how much I prefer this version of her.
"Are you hungry?" she asks, pausing at a stall selling skewered meat that fills the air with spicy fragrance.
I nod, reaching for my coin pouch, but she's already handing over money, proud of this small act of self-sufficiency. I accept the food she offers, our fingers brushing in the exchange. She doesn't pull away immediately, and for one reckless moment, I imagine trapping those delicate fingers against the rough skin of my palm.
The spell breaks when she steps away, continuing her tour of the market. I follow, tasting nothing of the food, aware only of her and the potential threats surrounding us.
And there are threats. I catch the appreciative glances from men we pass, the way eyes linger on the curve of her hip, the slender column of her neck when she tilts her head back to laugh at something. She doesn't notice, or perhaps chooses not to, but I catalog each look, each potential danger.
She leads us toward the sound of music drifting from further down the street. A tavern—more raucous than the Crown and Sheaf, spilling light and noise into the night. The Drunken Sailor, according to the weathered sign swinging above the door.
"No," I say, stepping closer to block her path. "Not this one."
Her chin lifts in that stubborn way I know too well. "You promised not to interfere."
"I promised to keep you safe. That place isn't safe."
"How would you know?" Challenge flashes in her eyes. "Have you spent many nights in taverns like this, Captain Vorex?"
The formal title is a reminder of our respective positions, a barrier she throws between us when she feels cornered. But tonight I'm not her captain, not her guard. I'm simply a man following a woman who owns his soul without knowing it.
"Enough to know it's no place for you," I growl, stepping closer. "Choose another."
For a moment I think she'll argue, but then she shrugs, a casual gesture that doesn't match the mulish set of her mouth. "Fine. That one, then." She points to another tavern across the street—slightly less rowdy, but still not what I'd choose.
Before I can object, she's already moving toward it, leaving me to follow or lose sight of her in the crowd. I swallow a curse and lengthen my stride to catch up.
Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the smell of bodies pressed too close together. A small space has been cleared for dancing, and several couples twirl to the lively music of a three-piece band. The rest crowd around tables or the long bar that spans one wall.
Lirien weaves through the press of people to secure a small table in the corner, looking pleased with herself as she claims a seat. I remain standing, scanning the room for threats, positioning myself so my back is to the wall and my eyes can track every movement.
"Sit down," she says, patting the stool beside her. "You look like you're about to murder someone."
"That remains to be seen," I mutter, but I take the seat, my thigh brushing against hers in the cramped space.
A serving girl appears with remarkable speed. "What'll it be?"
"Ale," Lirien says confidently, as if she orders it every day instead of the watered wine she's served at court.
"Two," I amend, not trusting the quality of anything stronger in a place like this.
When the drinks arrive, I watch her take a tentative sip, then a longer one, licking foam from her upper lip in a way that makes heat pool in my gut. She grimaces slightly at the bitter taste but takes another drink, determined to embrace the experience.
"Well?" she asks, setting down her mug. "Aren't you going to lecture me about royal dignity and proper behavior?"
"Would it make any difference?"
A small smile tugs at her lips. "No."
"Then I'll save my breath." I scan the room again, noting a group of sailors getting progressively louder at a nearby table. "Drink your ale, Princess. Dawn comes sooner than you think."
She follows my gaze to the sailors, then turns back to me. "Have you ever wanted something you couldn't have, Dain?"
The question catches me off guard. We don't have personal conversations. We don't discuss wants or desires. We exist in carefully delineated spaces that never intersect, except in my darkest dreams.
"Yes," I answer finally, because tonight is already so far beyond the boundaries of what's allowed.
"What did you do about it?" Her eyes hold mine, searching for something I can't afford to give her.
I take a long drink of ale to avoid answering immediately. "I learned to live with the wanting."
"That's very noble of you." There's a hint of mockery in her tone, but something else beneath it—disappointment, perhaps.
"There's nothing noble about it." My voice is rougher than intended. "It's survival."
She opens her mouth to respond, but the music changes to something faster, more insistent, and her attention shifts to the dancers. I see the longing in her face as she watches them, free and uninhibited.
"I've never danced like that," she says softly. "Only formal court dances with appropriate partners and appropriate distance."
I should discourage her. I should remind her of the risk, of her position, of the dawn deadline that looms closer with each passing minute.
Instead, I hear myself ask, "Would you like to?"
Her eyes widen in surprise, then crinkle with delight. "Yes. Very much."
I stand, extending my hand in a gesture that mimics court formality but feels entirely different in this smoke-filled tavern. She places her fingers in mine, and I lead her to the edge of the dancing area.
I'm not a dancer. The movements I know best involve weapons and combat. But I've observed enough to fake my way through, and the steps are simple enough—a spin, a stomp, a clap, bodies moving in rhythm with the pounding drums and wailing fiddle.
Lirien picks it up quickly, laughing as I twirl her, her hair coming fully loose from its constraints. She's radiant in her joy, and for a few precious minutes, I allow myself to simply exist in this moment with her. Not guard and princess, not servant and royal, just man and woman moving together to primal rhythms.
It's a mistake. I know it as soon as I see the drunken sailor watching her from the edge of the dance floor, his eyes fixed on the way her body moves. He's tall, younger than me, with the muscled build of someone who hauls ropes for a living. And he's decided he wants what I can never have.
The dance ends, and before I can lead Lirien back to our table, he's there, inserting himself between us with alcoholic confidence.
"Dance with me, pretty girl," he slurs, reaching for her hand.
She steps back, her smile fading. "No, thank you. I'm with someone."
He glances at me dismissively. "Him? Old enough to be your father, ain't he? Come on, one dance."
"I said no." Her voice carries the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
It's the wrong tone to take with a man too drunk to recognize danger. He grabs her wrist, yanking her toward him. "Don't be like that. Just one?—"
I move without conscious thought, my hand closing around his throat before he can finish his sentence. I drive him backward until his spine hits the wall, lifting him slightly so he's forced to stand on tiptoes.
"She said no." My voice is barely human, a guttural snarl that silences the nearby conversations.
His eyes bulge, hands scrabbling ineffectually at my forearm. I tighten my grip fractionally, feeling the satisfying give of his windpipe under my thumb.
"Dain." Lirien's voice reaches me through a red haze. "Dain, let him go. Please."
The please does it. I release my hold, stepping back as the sailor collapses, gasping and clutching his throat.
"If you touch her again," I say quietly, "I will break every bone in your body, starting with the small ones in your hands. Do you understand?"
He nods frantically, scrambling away on all fours like a beaten dog.
The tavern has gone silent, all eyes on us. On me. On the violence that simmers just beneath my skin, visible now for all to see.
"We're leaving." I grab Lirien's arm, not gently, and steer her toward the door.
She doesn't resist, allowing me to guide her through the crowd that parts without a word. Only when we're outside in the relative quiet of the street does she pull away.
"You didn't have to do that," she says, rubbing her wrist where the sailor grabbed her. "I could have handled it."
"Like you handled getting out of the palace undetected?" The fear and rage of the past hour converge, making my words sharper than intended. "Or perhaps how you would have handled all the vagrants who would have cornered you had you gone into that first tavern alone?”
Her eyes flash. "I didn't ask you to follow me. I didn't ask you to protect me. I just wanted one night—one night—to be normal."
"You're not normal!" I step closer, backing her into the shadows of an alley beside the tavern. "You're the crown princess, the heir to the throne, the most valuable person in this kingdom. And you're out here playing commoner like it's a game."
"It's not a game to me." Her voice breaks slightly. "It's the only time I've ever felt real."
"This isn't real." I gesture to the street, the tavern, the city around us. "This is a fantasy. A dangerous one."
"Then what is real, Dain?" She doesn't back down, even with my body caging hers against the rough brick wall. "The palace? The endless duties? The marriage to a stranger that my father is arranging even now?"
Her words hit me like physical blows. So she knows about the marriage plans. Of course she does—little happens in the palace without her knowledge, just as little happens around her without mine.
"That's your reality, Princess." The title is deliberate, a reminder of what separates us. "That's your duty."
"And what about what I want?" Her chin lifts, eyes bright with unshed tears. "Does that matter to anyone?"
"What do you want?" The question tears itself from my throat, raw and desperate.
She stares at me for a long moment, something shifting in her gaze. Then she reaches up, her fingers brushing the scar on my jaw with a gentleness that undoes me.
"This," she whispers.
The last thread of my control snaps. I surge forward, capturing her mouth with mine, swallowing her gasp of surprise. She stiffens for half a heartbeat, then melts against me, her lips parting beneath the onslaught of my hunger.
I kiss her like a drowning man finding air, like a starving man finding sustenance. My hands frame her face, then slide into her hair, angling her head to deepen the connection. Her fingers clutch at my shoulders, nails digging through the fabric of my shirt to the skin beneath.
She tastes of ale and sweetness and forbidden fruit. I press her harder against the wall, my body flush against hers, letting her feel exactly what she does to me, what she's been doing to me for years.
A small sound escapes her—half moan, half whimper—and it pierces the haze of desire clouding my judgment. I tear my mouth from hers, breathing hard, forcing myself to step back.
Her hair is a wild tangle around her flushed face, her lips swollen from my kiss. She stares at me with dazed eyes, confusion and desire warring in her expression.
"Dain?" Her voice is husky, uncertain.
"I shouldn't have done that." The words taste like ashes. "Forgive me, Your Highness."
Her face crumples at the formal address, at the distance I'm desperately trying to reinstate between us. "Don't. Don't pretend this didn't happen."
"It can't happen." I rake a hand through my hair, trying to regain some semblance of control. "You know that as well as I do."
"Because you're my guard? Because of duty?" She steps toward me, and I force myself not to retreat. "Or because you're afraid?"
"Because you are the future queen," I growl, "and I am nothing."
The hurt that flashes across her face is almost worse than the kiss was forbidden. But it's necessary—this line between us must be redrawn, the boundaries reinforced.
Even if it kills me to do it.
"We need to go." I glance at the sky, where the first hint of pre-dawn gray is becoming visible. "Dawn approaches, and I promised to return you by then."
She doesn't move. "And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll carry you, as promised." My voice softens despite my best efforts. "Please don't make me do that, Lirien."
The use of her name without title is a concession, a plea. She studies me for a long moment, then nods once, her face settling into the composed mask I recognize from court functions.
"Take me home, Captain Vorex."
The formality stings, but I deserve it. I betrayed her trust and my duty in one moment of weakness. I'm lucky she's agreeing to return at all.
As we begin the long walk back to the palace, I keep a careful distance between us. But I can still taste her on my lips, still feel the imprint of her body against mine.
And I know, with soul-deep certainty, that this night has changed everything.