22. 21
The gardens waited in silence, silvered with frost, the air sharp against Mabel’s skin. Her steps were measured, her breath steady, but her thoughts churned.
It hadn’t snowed for weeks. But tonight, the wind had teeth, and the clouds had kept their promise. On the eve of her wedding, the kingdom lay beneath a fresh veil of snow, soft and unbroken, eerily perfect.
She needed the quiet. The cold. The truth that only existed beneath moonlight and sky.
Her eyes flickered toward the stars she’d come to know like the back of her hand. Just a little longer, she reminded herself.
Snow crunched faintly beneath her boots as she walked, the cold nipping at her cheeks but never quite biting through. Here, away from whispered expectations and watchful eyes, the frost-laced air steadied her. The silence of the garden cut through the noise in her mind like a clean breath.
She wandered without aim, letting the skeletal trees and frozen fountains guide her steps, shedding the roles she’d worn with each turn of the path.
Mabel had just rounded a bend in the path, breath curling in the cold, when she saw him.
Lance stood a few paces ahead, half-obscured by a tall juniper, head bowed as he studied the brittle remains of a snow-dusted rose vine. His cloak was dusted white, locs decorated from flurries that had started and stopped without warning.
He looked up at the sound of her approach.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then a small smile flickered across Mabel’s face, quiet and real. “I was beginning to think the garden belonged to me alone,” she said softly.
Lance’s shoulders eased, and he took a step toward her. “If it does, I’ll count myself lucky to trespass.”
She laughed gently, the sound rising with her breath against the winter air. “You always did have a dramatic sense of timing.”
“And you always looked best under gray skies,” he said, not teasing, just honest.
They stood there for a moment, the hush of snow wrapping around them, as if the world was holding its breath to listen.
“I’m glad it’s you,” Mabel said at last, voice barely above a whisper.
He tilted his head. “Me?”
“Here. Now. I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts.” Her gaze met his. “They’ve started to turn on me.”
Lance stepped forward again, close enough now that she could see the trace of worry in his brow. “Then let’s walk,” he offered. “And remind them they’re not the only ones in your head.”
She linked her arm through his without hesitation. And together, they moved through the garden, the snow softly falling around them.
Lance’s eyes lingered on her, quiet and solemn. The pink of her nose from the cold, the way the winter air rouged her cheeks, the curve of her mouth when she smiled at something remembered. He watched her like someone afraid the snow might carry her away.
“I know I hurt you,” Mabel said quietly, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
Lance looked down at her, a closed smile on his lips.
He missed her. Not just her presence, but the closeness that used to feel inevitable.
And now, standing beside her again, he felt the ache of it settle in his chest like a stone.
Lance’s voice broke the quiet, low and unguarded.
“You don’t have to apologize. I understand. ”
Mabel’s hand brushed his, the same spark lighting her skin at his touch. “I just wanted you to know,” she muttered. “You didn’t deserve it.”
“I didn’t deserve you,” he answered, just as softly.
Mabel stopped in her tracks. She looked up at Lance. Her eyes traced the delicate snowfall clinging to his hair, the pained look in his eyes, down to his lips.
“Lance,” she whispered. Her fingers laced with his, more instinct than anything. “You know that’s not true—”
“I’ve missed you.”
For a heartbeat, she searched his face. Then, quietly, honestly, she said, “I’ve missed you too.”
They stood still, eyes locked, silence stretched taut between them. For a moment, neither dared to move until they did, all at once.
Their bodies found each other in a rush, arms wrapping tight, as if the world might pull them apart again. Lips met in a tangle of need, hands rising instinctively, threading through hair, grasping at cloaks, drawing each other closer as if touch alone could undo the ache of distance.
They broke apart just enough to breathe, their foreheads still nearly touching, breath mingling in the cold hush. For a heartbeat, the world held still.
“Choose me,” Lance whispered, pressing his forehead gently to hers. “Please … pick me.”
Mabel’s eyes searched his. Then she pulled back slightly, the space between them colder for it. “I can’t,” she breathed, the words catching on a sigh. “Not now. I must see this through.”
Lance closed his eyes, absorbing the weight of it. Silence crept in again, long and aching.
When he finally spoke, it was soft, fragile beneath the ache. “Then let me have tonight. Just one more night to hold you.”
Mabel lifted her gaze to his, breath trembling as it caught in her throat. His closeness, the softness in his eyes, it cracked something open inside her. Her heart fluttered, and she hated how much she still wanted him.
Maybe she did need this. Maybe the only way to let go was to hold him one last time.
She gave a nod, and in an instant, he was there, closing the space between them and capturing her lips with his own. His kiss was fierce, frantic.
Without breaking contact, he swept one arm behind her knees and the other around her back, lifting her in a single, fluid motion. She gasped, startled by the sudden weightlessness, then melted against him as her arms looped around his shoulders.
Cradled to his chest, she felt the steady thrum of his heart beneath the fabric, the air between them thick with urgency and something far deeper.
Their lips met again, unrestrained, and then they were moving—quick steps through narrow passages, pressing close behind pillars whenever footsteps neared.
Lance would draw her against him with a grin, and Mabel, breathless with laughter, would bury her smile in his shoulder until the danger passed.
They slipped through corridors and winding staircases, trading kisses and glances sharp with stolen joy, until at last they reached his door.
Mabel paused as he opened it, curiosity sparking through her haze of adrenaline. She’d never seen his rooms before.
Inside, the stone walls were draped with deep navy fabrics, lined with shelves sagging under the weight of well-loved books.
A small sitting area was arranged near the hearth, two armchairs surrounded by chaotic piles of novels and folded pages.
A modest chandelier hung above, catching flickers of firelight.
In one corner stood a grand piano, its keys dusty but the bench well-worn.
Beyond the sitting room, an arch framed the entryway to his sleeping quarters.
Mabel stepped in slowly, taking it all in. It was him, completely. Quiet intellect, buried warmth, and a touch of unruly romance. She felt, for the first time that night, not like a secret being hidden, but a guest being welcomed home.
The door clicked shut behind them, Lance’s hand still lingering on the lock. In the next breath, he was with her again, his lips finding hers with a hunger sharpened by weeks of restraint. They moved as one, drawn by a gravity that neither understood nor questioned.
He guided her gently back toward the bed; the world shrinking until it was only the sound of their breath and the whisper of skin against skin. Cloaks slid to the floor in surrender. Fingers fumbled over fastenings.
Mabel sank onto the edge of the bed, her skin prickling in the cool air. Lance hovered over her, his lips tracing slow paths up her legs until her breath hitched and their eyes met again. “Let me taste you.” He caught her by the waist, pulling her closer until a soft laugh escaped her.
“Easy,” she giggled, though her voice trembled with want.
Lance stilled for a heartbeat, his gaze devouring her. “I’m trying,” he said softly. He pressed a kiss to her knee, his gaze searching hers as if trying to memorize every flicker of her face. He moved slowly, his lips tracing along her skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“Lance,” she breathed, his name falling from her lips in a plea. Her eyes met his, wide, unguarded, and desperate.
He drank her in as though this moment could last forever if he just looked hard enough. “You will not rush me,” he rasped. His lips lingered on her thighs, trembling slightly despite their familiarity. His teeth scraped along her skin, slow and steady.
Mabel shivered, biting her lips to stop her pleas. But she couldn’t control her hips from rocking up, or the way her nails dug into his shoulders.
“So needy.” He smirked. He continued with his trail, slowly, savoring every inch of her skin. He delicately traced a finger over her slit, pressing just enough to feel, but not enough to quench.
A gasp tore from her at the flicker of contact. He latched onto the crease of her inner thigh, teeth grazing over her skin. And as much as it thrilled her, she pushed his shoulder. “N-no marks, Lance.”
He swatted her hands away before catching both of her wrists in a single grasp. He pinned them on her stomach. “Mine,” he growled, burying himself against her skin.
Her head fell back with a cry, every inch of her on fire from his achingly slow care.
He pulled back only to examine the mark he’d made. His thumb traced over the reddened, welting skin, sending a jolt through her. His eyes met hers. And slowly, painfully slow, he spread her legs wider and licked a stripe between her. His eyes watched closely for her reaction.
Mabel threw her head back, moaning at the contact. He pressed his tongue against her warmth again, lingering, teasing. His tongue dove in and slipped through her with a pace that felt worshipful.