Chapter 6
six
. . .
Dain
I return her to the palace the way a thief returns stolen goods—furtively, with constant vigilance, my nerves stretched taut as bowstrings. We slip through the servants' entrance as the kitchen staff begins their day, her once-immaculate disguise now replaced with the modest dress from the safehouse. To anyone who notices, she could be a lady's maid returning from an assignation, head bowed appropriately. Not the crown princess. Certainly not my princess, though my treacherous mind persists in thinking of her that way after last night.
"This way," I murmur, guiding her through back corridors I've memorized over years of service. My hand hovers near the small of her back, not quite touching. Even this close to safety, I can't risk anyone seeing such familiarity.
We haven't spoken since leaving the safehouse. The silence between us pulses with unresolved tension, with words unsaid, with the ghost of that kiss still haunting us both. I tell myself it's better this way. Silence can't be used against us. Silence can't become evidence of treason.
Because that's what this is—what I've done, what I've allowed, what I've wanted. Treason against the crown. Against my oath. Against every principle that has defined my existence for the past fifteen years.
We reach the servants' staircase that leads directly to the royal apartments. No guards are posted here—a security oversight I've reported multiple times without result, but one I'm grateful for now. Lirien pauses at the foot of the stairs, turning to face me.
"Thank you," she says quietly, "for my night of freedom."
The formal words feel like a wall erected between us, but I recognize the necessity. We are returning to our roles now, inch by painful inch.
"It was my duty," I respond, the lie bitter on my tongue.
Something flickers in her eyes—hurt, perhaps disappointment. "Of course. Duty above all else."
"Always."
She studies my face for a moment longer, as if searching for some sign of the man who kissed her in that alley, who confessed forbidden desires in a safehouse. I keep my expression impassive, though it costs me more than she can know.
"Goodbye, Captain Vorex." She turns and ascends the stairs, her borrowed dress whispering against the stone steps.
I remain at the bottom until she disappears from view, then force myself to walk away. By now, my absence will have been noted. Questions will be asked. I need to fabricate explanations, resume my post, pretend nothing has changed while everything has.
My quarters are spartan, as befits a soldier. I change quickly into my uniform, the familiar weight of it settling on my shoulders like a sentence. The sword at my hip, the dagger in my boot, the insignia of the royal guard on my breast—all symbols of my sworn oath to protect.
An oath I betrayed the moment I followed her instead of reporting her absence. The moment I kissed her instead of maintaining professional distance. The moment I took her to the safehouse instead of returning her directly to the palace.
I examine my reflection in the small mirror above my washing basin. The same scarred face stares back at me, unchanged by the night's events. Only my eyes betray me—something haunted lurks there now, something hungry and desperate that I must control at all costs.
By the time I report for duty, the palace is fully awake. Captain Merritt raises an eyebrow at my appearance.
"Late night, Vorex?"
"Patrol duty," I lie smoothly. "Eastern quarter had reports of suspicious activity."
He nods, accepting the explanation without question. My reputation serves me well—Dain Vorex, the taciturn, dutiful captain who volunteers for extra shifts, who has no life beyond service to the crown.
If only he knew.
"You're assigned to the princess today. Council meeting this morning, then private audience with the king." He hands me the duty roster, already moving on to other matters.
I scan the schedule, noting with grim resignation that I'll be in Lirien's presence almost continuously today. A test of my resolve, of my ability to stand silent and unaffected while remembering the taste of her lips, the softness of her skin beneath my calloused fingers.
The morning passes in a blur of rigid professionalism. I escort Lirien to the council meeting, standing at attention behind her chair, eyes focused on a point above the councilors' heads. She plays her part perfectly—the dutiful princess, attentive and composed, offering insights when appropriate. No one looking at her would guess she spent the night wandering city streets, dancing in taverns, challenging her bodyguard's control in a safehouse.
No one except me.
I notice the small signs of fatigue—the slight shadows beneath her eyes, carefully concealed with powder; the way she stifles a yawn behind her hand; the extra cup of strong tea she requests midway through the meeting. I notice, too, the distance she maintains, never once glancing in my direction, never acknowledging my presence.
As we should be. As we must be.
The council meeting concludes, and I follow her to the private audience with the king. Outside his study, she pauses, squaring her shoulders like a soldier preparing for battle.
"Wait here, Captain," she says, voice formal and distant. "I'll call if I need you."
I bow slightly, eyes downcast. "Yes, Your Highness."
The doors close behind her, leaving me alone in the corridor with my thoughts—dangerous companions after last night. I force myself to focus on my surroundings, on potential threats, on anything but the memory of her pressed against me in that alley.
I'm so intent on my mental discipline that I almost miss the hushed conversation between two passing courtiers.
"—announcement at midday. The foreign delegation arrived last night?—"
"—Prince Aldric himself? How fortunate?—"
"—such a handsome match for our princess?—"
Their voices fade as they turn the corner, but their words remain, settling like lead in my stomach. So it's happening already. The betrothal Lirien mentioned, the duty she can't escape.
The foreign prince who will claim what I can never have.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, nails digging half-moons into my palms. The pain helps center me, reminds me of my place. I am her protector, not her lover. Her guard, not her choice.
The doors to the king's study open, and Lirien emerges. Her face is pale, her expression carefully blank, but I see the slight tremor in her hands, the rigid set of her spine. Whatever passed between her and her father has left its mark.
"The King requests your presence, Captain," she says, not meeting my eyes.
I bow and enter the study, finding the king at his desk, expression grave.
"Vorex." He doesn't look up from the document he's signing. "There will be a formal announcement at midday. Double the guard presence in the great hall."
"Yes, Your Majesty." I keep my voice neutral. "May I ask the nature of the announcement?"
Now he does look up, one eyebrow raised at my presumption. After a moment, he sighs. "Princess Lirien's betrothal to Prince Aldric of Westland. The marriage will secure our eastern border and bring significant trade benefits."
I bow again, hiding the rage that flares at his clinical assessment. "I'll see to the security arrangements immediately, Your Majesty."
"Good." He returns to his papers, a clear dismissal. "And Vorex? The princess seems...unsettled today. Keep a close eye on her."
"Always, Your Majesty."
I exit the study to find Lirien waiting, her face a portrait of composed resignation. We walk in silence to her chambers, where her ladies-in-waiting descend upon her like bright birds, chattering about the proper attire for such an important announcement.
I position myself outside her door, statue-still, as protocol demands. But inside, I'm anything but still. Inside, I'm a storm of rage and possessiveness and helpless fury.
She is to be given to a stranger. A political bargaining chip, wrapped in silk and jewels, presented on the altar of diplomacy. And I must stand by and watch it happen, must protect the very arrangement that will take her from me.
By midday, the great hall is packed with nobility and foreign dignitaries. The Westland delegation occupies a place of honor near the throne, their formal attire marking them as men of importance. I study them from my post near the dais, assessing threats out of habit.
Prince Aldric stands at the center of the delegation—young, perhaps thirty, with the polished good looks of nobility who have never known hardship. His smile comes easily as he converses with courtiers, his manner charming and confident. The perfect prince for the perfect political alliance.
I hate him with a visceral intensity that surprises even me.
The trumpets sound, announcing the royal entrance. The king appears first, followed by Lirien. A collective murmur of appreciation ripples through the crowd as she takes her place beside her father. She wears a gown of deep emerald that matches her eyes, her hair arranged in an elaborate style that emphasizes the elegant line of her neck. Diamonds glitter at her throat and ears—royal jewels befitting a royal announcement.
She is breathtaking. And she looks utterly miserable to the trained eye—to my eye.
The king raises his hand for silence, and the hall quiets immediately.
"Esteemed nobles, honored guests, loyal subjects," he begins, voice carrying to every corner of the vast space. "Today marks a momentous occasion for our kingdom and for the royal house."
I watch Lirien as her father speaks. She maintains perfect posture, perfect composure, the picture of regal dignity. Only I notice the slight whitening of her knuckles where her hands are clasped before her, the almost imperceptible tightening of her jaw when the king mentions "securing our future through alliance."
"It is my great pleasure," the king continues, "to announce the betrothal of Crown Princess Lirien Vellara to His Highness Prince Aldric of Westland. Their union will bring prosperity and security to both our realms."
Polite applause fills the hall. Prince Aldric steps forward, bowing deeply to the king, then turning to Lirien with a practiced smile.
"I am honored beyond words, Your Majesty," he says, voice carrying clearly. "And I vow to be worthy of the princess's hand."
He approaches the dais, taking Lirien's hand in his. Even from my position, I can see how she stiffens at his touch, though her smile never wavers.
Prince Aldric raises her hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to her skin—her skin, which hours ago trembled beneath my touch, which bears the invisible imprint of my fingers.
My vision blurs red at the edges. My hand moves unconsciously to my sword hilt, fingers tightening around it. For one insane moment, I imagine drawing the blade, cutting down everyone who stands between us, taking her away from this charade.
The fantasy is so vivid that I actually feel the cool metal of the hilt against my palm before I realize what I'm doing. Horror washes over me. This is madness. Treason. The kind of thinking that ends with my head on a spike and her reputation in tatters.
I force my hand to release the sword, to hang empty at my side. Force my breathing to steady, my face to remain impassive as the ceremony continues.
The king invites Prince Aldric to join them on the dais—a symbolic welcoming into the royal family. The prince stands next to Lirien, close enough that their shoulders almost touch. He leans in to whisper something in her ear, and though she smiles politely, I see her nearly imperceptible recoil.
Court protocol keeps me rooted to my post as nobility file past to offer congratulations. I watch as men who have never spoken to Lirien beyond formal pleasantries kiss her hand and wish her happiness. I watch as women who have gossiped about her behind their fans embrace her with false sincerity. I watch as Prince Aldric plays the role of devoted betrothed, his hand occasionally resting on the small of her back in a gesture of possession.
Each touch is a knife between my ribs. Each smile she forces is a wound that will not heal.
The formal receiving line seems endless. Through it all, Lirien performs her role perfectly, the consummate princess accepting felicitations for a match she never chose, never wanted.
Only once does she glance in my direction, a fleeting moment when the press of well-wishers briefly recedes. Our eyes lock across the crowded hall, and in that instant, all pretense falls away. I see the desperation in her gaze, the silent plea for...what? Rescue? Understanding? Permission to accept her fate?
Whatever she seeks, I cannot provide it. Not here, not now, not as Captain Vorex of the royal guard.
But later, when the crowds disperse, when night falls and the palace sleeps...
The thought forms unbidden, dangerous in its allure. My duty is to accept this arrangement, to continue protecting her as she transitions to her new role, to eventually watch her leave with her prince.
Instead, for the first time in my career, I find myself planning treason.
Because I cannot—will not—watch her be given to another man. Not after last night. Not after tasting what could be.
My hands are numb, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as rage, as possessiveness, as a decision taking shape that will either damn us both or save us.
Let them have their betrothal ceremony. Let them plan their political alliance.
They do not know what I am capable of when it comes to her. They have no idea what lines I am prepared to cross.
And neither, God help me, does she.