Chapter Nineteen
Pain raced through Ronan’s muscles. His bones.
In that moment, lacing his boots seemed as impossible to him as climbing a mountain.
His room was quiet. The one small bit of peace he would get before his day began. He sat on his bed, breath heaving more than he would like for the simple task of getting dressed. Continuing training for an extra hour yesterday had been a mistake.
Ronan gritted his teeth, hooked his fingers through the strings, and forced himself to finish the motion.
“Getting an early start today?” Domhnall asked, leaning against Ronan’s doorframe.
Ronan eyed him, sitting up. “My door was locked.”
“And now it’s not.” The prince stepped inside.
He was dressed well despite the early hour, shirt pressed and hair tidy. Maybe he was meeting Niamh.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Domhnall wasn’t wrong. Ronan couldn’t find himself eager to be in his presence these past few weeks. The secrets, his unfair actions toward Clía—Domhnall wasn’t the friend Ronan knew. The prince he respected.
Pain flared in his ankles and knees as Ronan stood up. He didn’t falter. He reached for his belt and sheath.
Domhnall sighed. “Okay, you’re mad. What did I do to deserve your ire this time?”
Ronan’s brow raised. “You can’t guess?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Niamh.
But that was weeks ago!” At Ronan’s glare, Domhnall found a sudden interest in the wall.
“I had hoped my proposal to her would be well received, but I didn’t know.
I thought it would be better to keep it to myself until everything was official.
It wasn’t my intention to keep it from you. ”
He had seen Domhnall manipulate nobles and chiefs; the prince knew how to act to get what he wanted. But truth coated his words now, and a part of Ronan’s anger faded.
“What about Clía?” Ronan asked.
Domhnall’s brow furrowed. “What about her?”
His obliviousness was as infuriating as a confession. Ronan had to bite his cheek to keep from raising his voice. “You seem to go out of your way to ensure she suffers.”
“I’m not—” He paused, considering his words. “I don’t want to hurt her. You know me. Trust that I didn’t lie when I said I cared for her. I’m doing what I must. She shouldn’t be here, and it would be best if she went home. For me and her.”
“How do you know what’s best for her?”
“How do you?” Domhnall countered.
He was right. Ronan had no claim to her, nor a history to call upon. Not like Domhnall. Ronan knew only what she told him. What she said she wanted.
Wasn’t that all that mattered?
“Your work with her is impressive, but why are you bothering?” Domhnall’s voice echoed in the small room. The answer was so obvious to Ronan, he wondered how Domhnall didn’t see it.
It was because someone had bothered for him, once. When he was hurting, struggling to move forward, he was given the help he needed. Clía deserved the same.
She had traveled from her kingdom, thrown herself at the mercy of Kordislaen, and had been bruised and beaten for the chance to get Domhnall back. To save their betrothal.
The prince had a beautiful, smart, stubborn girl chasing him. And he’d thrown her aside and replaced her without a second glance. Domhnall didn’t deserve her.
And you do?
He shook the foolish thought out of his head.
“You’ve written her off, but I won’t.” Placing his blade in its sheath, he looked at his friend, seeing for the first time someone he didn’t know.
Domhnall narrowed his eyes, as if reading Ronan’s thoughts. “Don’t pretend to understand me. To understand this. I’m not the villain here.”
Ronan turned and walked out the door, his knees protesting every move. He heard the prince’s footsteps behind him.
“You’re in pain again.”
Domhnall’s words stopped him in his tracks.
“The slight limp. You struggled with your belt. The pain is bad today, and you’re making it worse with these extra lessons.”
Ronan turned to face him. “I don’t need you to tell me about my body.”
Domhnall raised his hands, desiring a truce. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But no matter what you think of me, no matter how angry you are, I care. I can wrap it, like we used to. It might help.”
The first time the pain had stopped Ronan from training at the palace, he was barely eleven.
No one had known about the aches and sharp jolts that hid beneath his skin, but that day, Domhnall could tell something was wrong.
Without Ronan saying a word, the prince asked the kitchens for boiling water.
He dipped cloth in it, let it cool enough to be handleable but still warm to the touch, then wrapped it tightly around Ronan’s wrists.
It didn’t stop the pain completely, but it eased it enough for him to hold a sword that day.
And soon it became their pattern. Anytime a limb was causing Ronan trouble, they secured it and let the heat work.
Domhnall never asked for an explanation.
But one day, months later, Ronan told him.
About the pain, and the day that it began.
Domhnall was the first person Ronan had let in. And now he had never felt further away from the prince.
“I’m fine,” Ronan said shortly, leaving his friend behind him and heading to the arena.
***
RONAN DIDN’T MAKE IT TO TRAINING. HE GOT AS FAR AS the western gardens, halfway there, before he knew he wouldn’t be going any farther.
He forced himself over to a pale stone bench, surrounded by thinning brown bushes that were broken up by the occasional colorful bloom.
That was where Clía found him several minutes later.
“I never thought I’d see the day you’re late,” she said as she approached him, in full training gear. Ronan raised his head, and the superior smirk on her face softened. He hated to think how bad he must look to stop her from gloating.
“Maybe I wanted to train here today.” It was a pathetic excuse for a joke, but Clía seemed to understand the request behind it. He didn’t want to talk about why he was sitting on a cold bench in the middle of a dying garden.
She sat down next to him, pulling her leather breastplate over her head, the hem of her shirt lifting ever so slightly with the motion. He looked away, staring at the flowers next to him.
“What are those?” she asked, and he realized she had followed his gaze.
“Harebell.” He let a finger run over the purple petals. “These have bloomed a little longer than most.”
“They’re strong,” she said, looking up at him. “Did you ever want to work with plants? Be a farmer, like your father?”
“When I was a kid, I loved it. I thought I would take it over from him one day. And then the raid happened . . . It wasn’t an option for me anymore. I knew my duty, and Kordislaen helped me step into my responsibilities.”
Ronan used to wonder what he would have done if that day had never happened. Maybe he would have followed in his father’s footsteps. But those questions only stirred up pain and guilt, while offering nothing in return.
“Do you miss it?”
Ronan looked back to the harebell. It was a common wildflower, but there was something eye-catching about the color. His father used to always keep a basket of them in the kitchen. “More than I should.”
“I still sew.” The comment seemed to come out of nowhere to Ronan, but she ignored his questioning glance, instead continuing.
“As a princess, I was expected to know fashion, and while participating in the making of it wasn’t encouraged, it was forgiven.
Here, I know I have other things to do. Things people might respect more.
But sewing quiets my mind and makes me feel like I can breathe again.
So I help Sárait with her mending any chance I get. ”
Ronan knew what she was hinting at. “I don’t have the time to waste in gardens.” Or the energy, he thought. Yet the idea settled in the back of his mind, and there was something almost comforting about it.
“It was a just a thought,” she said, shifting to look away from the garden and back to him. “Which plant is your favorite? Do they have it here?”
The early morning sun bathed Clía in an almost divine glow. He couldn’t help but recall their moment in training the day before, when their eyes met as their bodies pressed together. How close they were, and how much closer he wished they could be.
“Firecress.” It was a whisper, barely audible. “For their resilience. And beauty.”
That moment in training yesterday, when the magnetism between them was all but impossible to resist, he had managed to pull back.
At the time, Ronan thought it was the right thing to do.
She was almost betrothed to Domhnall only months ago and was still hoping to win him back.
He owed it to his friend, to her, to keep his distance, despite how much he yearned to do otherwise.
But alone with her in the garden, surrounded by flowers reminding him of home, he was too tired to deny it anymore.
She placed her hand over his. Turning his palm, he closed his fingers around hers. As his gaze traveled to her mouth, there was nothing he wanted more than to chase the electricity that ran between them.
She closed the distance, her lips meeting his in a soft embrace.
He froze. Before he could realize what was happening, she had leaned away, leaving an empty coldness in her place. There was a self-consciousness in the way she sat, a doubt that wasn’t there before.
He hated it.
Fingers still intertwined on the bench, he reached out with his other hand and rested it just above the nape of her neck before lowering his face to hers.
There was no hesitation this time. He pressed against her, channeling everything into the kiss.
Her mouth parted under his, and warmth coursed through him.
He had been waiting for this for longer than he had realized; she had captivated him from the first moment he saw her and surprised him every moment since.
He knew he should slow this down, take his time, but with all her passion focused on him, he couldn’t think.