3. 2 #2
Mabel nodded, her feet already moving, eager to escape the weight of his presence. She slipped past him, heart pounding, breath shallow.
Door by door, she wandered, fingers trembling as they brushed against cool handles. Most didn’t budge. Until one did.
It opened with a soft groan.
Inside, firelight flickered against stone, casting long shadows across the room. A bucket of fresh water sat near the hearth, mist and dust curling into the air and catching the light. The space felt untouched, waiting—private, still.
As though it had been expecting her.
She stepped inside and closed the door, letting the silence hold her.
The stool groaned as Mabel sank down; the firelight casting restless shadows across the cold stone floor. A mirror leaned against the wall, plain and unremarkable, yet the reflection staring back stole the breath from her lungs.
She looked undone.
Strands of hair clung to her damp temples; the elegant waves Ada had styled now wilted and forgotten. Her cheeks burned with a deep, uneven flush—not from joy, but from the echo of her father’s hand.
The sight hollowed her.
Tears threatened, rising fast, but she blinked hard, forcing them back. If she didn’t cry, it hadn’t happened. If she stayed still, stayed quiet, maybe she could hold the pieces of the moment together.
She straightened just slightly, and stared herself down, as if daring the girl in the glass to break.
Reaching for the bucket beside her, she dipped her fingers into the cool water. The sensation grounded her for a moment. She pressed her hands to her face, letting the chill sink through her skin, clearing the fog—just a little. Droplets clung to her lashes. Her breath slowed.
For a moment, it was just her and the silence. No music, no voices. Only the sound of water settling in the basin and her heartbeat, steadying itself in the quiet.
Mabel leaned back, letting the hearth’s heat brush against her skin, a balm to the sting still blooming across her cheek. The fire crackled softly, but the silence pressed heavier than the warmth.
She should’ve known better than to test her father’s temper. That’s what she told herself—what she’d been taught to believe.
But it still hurt.
Not just the sharp bloom of pain on her face, but the deeper ache that never seemed to fade.
The ache of being unseen. Of being useful but never cherished.
If her parents could look at her—truly look—and see something more than leverage, more than a pawn.
If they could just reach for her with kindness. Just once.
Her hands rose, covering her face, fingers trembling against her skin. She inhaled slowly, trying to steady herself, trying to summon something softer.
She pictured Theodore’s smile. It had seemed real. Unforced. Like he’d seen her. Not just the princess but the girl beneath it all.
Maybe, just maybe, she’d impressed him.
And maybe that mattered more than she was ready to admit.
She hadn’t planned on enjoying Theodore’s company—not like this. Yet he’d surprised her. Beneath his princely confidence, there was ease in the way he laughed, sincerity in the way he looked at her, like the rest of the hall faded when she spoke.
He was playful, effortlessly charming—and, above all, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he truly liked her. And that realization nestled deeper than she expected, blooming slowly behind her ribs.
The pins slipped from her hair one by one, clinking softly against the wooden table as Mabel tugged them free. She combed her fingers through the copper strands, easing the knots with determination, unraveling the remnants of revelry and mead-soaked chaos.
In the mirror’s flickering reflection, she sighed, watching the halo of curls resist every effort to tame them.
With resolve, she dipped her fingers into the cooled water and pressed them into her hair, smoothing the curls until they fell with some semblance of order. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Enough to look less like an unruly child.
Mabel’s cheeks still burned, refusing to settle. It would take more than a wash—it would take sleep, maybe forgiveness. She rose from the stool, smoothed her skirt, and took a steadying breath before slipping back into the corridor.
The moment she stepped out, she collided hard into someone’s chest. She stumbled back, but a steady hand caught her waist.
A glass tilted—too quickly to catch—and its contents splashed across the front of her dress in a vivid rush of red.
Mabel gasped. “Oh. I-I’m so sorry,” she stammered, reaching instinctively for the man until she felt the cool wine soak through the wool of her dress. Her eyes dropped, horror blooming at the sight of the dark stain spreading across her bodice.
“No, no, no—” Her voice cracked, panic tightening her chest.
The man stepped back, tall and composed. His hair fell past his shoulders in long, inky locs, framing his dark ebony complexion. Golden clasps decorated the lengths. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he studied her. “There’s no need for panic,” he said, smooth as satin.
He lifted his hand casually and flicked his fingers. A shimmer scattered through the air and swept across her front. In seconds, the stain vanished—so completely it looked as if the spill had been a dream.
Mabel blinked, stunned. The man tilted his head with an amused glint in his eyes.
“You’re welcome,” he said, like he’d just plucked a leaf from her shoulder. He adjusted the bottle of wine in his hand and looked over her.
When she met his gaze, she faltered. He was gorgeous. Curling stubble framed his jaw; his soft lips curved into a devilishly handsome smirk.
The words left Mabel in a rush. “Thank you,” she said, flustered. “You—can use magic?” Her head tilted as she studied him, curiosity overtaking embarrassment.
The man gave a slow nod, intrigue flickering in his eyes as he looked her over with measured interest. “You can’t?” he asked, voice smooth but pointed.
“What? No.” She shook her head as if it were scandalous.
“Strange.” He cocked his head, brows furrowing as his eyes traced the length of her frame unapologetically. “Are you sure?”
Mabel stilled, blinking up at the man. “What?”
His serious expression melted into a perplexed smile. “Is it not you enchanting my dreams?”
She blinked up at him. “Are-are you … flirting with me?” She breathed out. Who is this man? Dressed in fine clothing, maroon and gold, Aurevyn colors, stealing bottles of wine like it wouldn’t cost him a hand.
He ignored her question. “Who are you?”
Mabel opened her mouth. “I—”
“Mabel!” Theodore’s voice rang through the corridor, the sound lifting her gaze instantly. Relief flooded her features as she turned toward him, a smile blooming wide.
“Mabel,” Lance muttered to himself quietly. But he took a step back as Theodore closed the distance between them.
“Sorry,” she called back with a hint of sheepishness. “I needed a moment to freshen up.”
Theodore approached, eyes catching on the loose waves of her now-unpinned hair. “I like it,” he said, the corner of his mouth tugging up in that signature smile.
Heat flared across Mabel’s cheeks again, and she tucked a strand behind her ear, helpless to hide it.
Then Theodore’s gaze shifted—subtle but sharp—toward the man behind her. His easy expression quieted, coolness settling behind his eyes like steel.
The air seemed to shrink between them as tension snapped like a pulled thread.
“I see you’ve met Lance,” Theodore said, clearing his throat, his voice clipped, laced with unspoken irritation.
Mabel glanced at the tall man beside her, then back to Theodore, catching the shift in atmosphere like storm clouds rolling in. “Yes,” she replied carefully, her voice quiet. “I bumped into him.”
Lance’s smirk curled upward, cruel and calculating. “I see you’ve found yourself a new whore,” he said, eyes gleaming as they danced between the two.
The word hit the corridor like a dropped blade.
Mabel’s breath caught, her body tensing, blood rushing loud in her ears. “Excuse me?” she barked, drunken fury flaring behind her eyes. A flush rose beneath her skin—indignation so sharp it nearly lifted her off the ground.
Theodore’s hand clamped gently around her arm and pulled her back, steady and firm. Not out of control, but caution. The look in his eyes said he understood exactly what she was about to do.
And she very nearly did.
Mabel’s voice cracked through the corridor like a whip. “I am not a whore,” she snarled, each word laced with venom. Her fists clenched as she tried to pull from his grip.
Lance barely flinched, the cruel curl of amusement never leaving his face. “Whatever you say, Mabel,” he said with a lazy shrug, lifting the wine bottle in mock salute before turning his back on them, striding down the corridor with arrogant ease.
“I am a princess!” she scoffed, her arm jerking free from Theodore’s grip—ready to storm after him, fury hot and reckless. But Theodore caught her again, faster this time, arms wrapping securely around her waist.
“Easy,” he whispered with a quiet laugh, more warning than teasing in his voice. His grip held her steady, but it was his gaze, soft and grounding, that kept her from flying too close to the flames.
Her shoulders remained tense, eyes following Lance’s silhouette as he disappeared around a corner. She turned on her heel.
They walked side by side, the muffled sounds of music and laughter pulling them gently back toward the feast hall.
“So, was that all bark,” Theodore began with a sly grin, “or is there some bite I haven’t seen yet?”
Mabel smirked, eyes still bright with lingering fire. “Hard to say,” she mused. “But if you’re curious, we could turn back around.”
Theodore laughed, the sound echoing lightly off the stone walls. “Tempting,” he chuckled, “though preferably not directed at Lance. My brother is not worth the energy.”
Mabel froze mid-step, brow furrowed. “Brother?”
“Adopted,” Theodore said, the word slipping from his lips with a mix of dismissal and dry amusement. “Not by my choosing, I assure you.”