Chapter 12 Azalea
Azalea
I turn over for what feels like the thousandth time in my bed. My head and my heart are warring with each other, and it’s making sleep practically impossible.
Sitting up, I groan and drop my head in my hands. The sun is beginning to shine across the castle grounds, splashing the vegetation in soft orange hues, and confirming that I did, in fact, have a very sleepless night.
“He’s a cruel, cruel monster, Azalea,” I whisper to myself as I rub my tired eyes.
When he told me the woman he loved died, my stupid heart couldn’t help but crack a little for him.
The mere thought of losing Phillip permanently feels crushing to me, and I can’t promise who I would become on the other side of an experience like that.
But as equally as I feel a sense of sorrow for Braxton, I’m filled with an unbendable fury that he would pull me away from my love when he’s experienced what it feels like to have that torn away from him.
I would think that a person who has had the love of their life ripped away from them wouldn’t do that to someone else.
Then again, it’s a stretch calling Braxton a person. He’s more of a varmint. A brute. The bane of my existence.
So why can’t I help but feel some form of sympathy toward him?
I mentally scold myself. Even worse than the sympathy is the unwanted guilt accompanying it — the slightest sliver of feeling in the wrong that I have to tamper down.
I remind myself that I wouldn’t have to use or trick him if he hadn’t cursed and imprisoned me to begin with.
As I run my hand over my face, I notice the sunlight glinting off of something sitting on my desk.
Focusing my eyes, I see the usual vase of forget-me-nots stationed there.
My brows pull together when I note how early it is, meaning Braxton must get these picked and delivered first thing every morning.
I had never given it much thought when he was getting me these flowers, mostly because I despised the sight of them every morning, but I am shocked to find his dedication in having them delivered to me at such an early hour that no matter when I was to wake they, would be there.
Something is different about the vase of flowers this morning. I see a small piece of parchment sitting next to it, with the corner tucked under the bottom rim of the glass vase.
I leap to my feet, thinking it must be a letter from Phillip. His response letters come in sporadically, which I can only assume is because Braxton hoards them when I’ve pissed him off beyond a reasonable amount. Recently, it’s felt like ages since I’ve received one.
I snatch the paper up from under the vase, my eyes eagerly eating the words on the paper.
Good morning, Wildflower,
Upon realizing the letter is from Braxton, I drop it back on the table as if it scalded me. Braxton has never delivered a handwritten note for me with the flowers before.
Feeling childish for my reaction to a silly note, I pick it back up and continue reading.
Good morning, Wildflower,
I thought we could take that stroll in the gardens, and you could ask me your next three questions that I know you must be practically thrumming to ask.
Be at my study by noon.
Your,
Prince Braxton Carter
“Your?” I scoff at the letter closing.
Not his. I think vehemently shaking my head. Never will be his.
I hate the way his words always weasel themselves into the crevices of my brain. There was nothing sweet or caring about how he decided to sign that letter. It was strategic. He’s playing a game of psychological warfare, and if he thinks he can best me in it, he is sorely mistaken.
I decide I need a distraction. Rhoden won’t be in to get me ready for the day for another few hours, so I flick Braxton’s letter back on the table before getting comfortable at my desk to write Phillip another letter.
Groaning, I realize that if I ask Braxton about whether Phillip has sent any letters through, it will count as one of my three questions for the day.
Moreso, I can’t very well go asking the man I’m fake courting about my very real fiancé.
I find myself sitting with my pen hovering over the paper, and my bottom lip tucking between my teeth before I mentally shake myself.
Clearing my mind of Braxton, I close my eyes and imagine Phillip. The feeling of his hands on my waist, his lips on my neck, his body pressed against mine, and his deep brown eyes—
Wait no. My eyes shoot open, and the wrinkles on my forehead deepen. Phillip doesn’t have brown eyes. Right? How can I not remember my own fiancé’s eyes? I know the ones that infiltrated my mind were far too familiar though. They were eyes I had seen recently. Staring across from me at dinner.
Perhaps Braxton was better at psychological warfare than I gave him credit for.
I smooth the wrinkles in my dress as I wait outside of Braxton’s study. It’s about 15 minutes past noon, but I didn’t want to seem too eager and show up on time.
I have my curls pulled back and out of my face today since we’ll be walking around outside.
I also decided to go with a more practical dress for this kind of activity.
Many would call the dress a provincial dress.
It has an A-line structure that complements my figure, and it’s embellished with an assortment of beaded yellow flowers along the bodice and skirt.
Taking a deep breath, I lift my fist and knock on the door. The knob turns immediately, and I can’t help the smug lift of my lips at thinking that he had been waiting for me.
However, when Braxton opens the door, his features rumple with confusion before his almond eyes widen, and my overexuberant confidence is snuffed out.
“The gardens.” He puffs his cheeks out before slowly releasing a strained breath.
Looking back at the pendulum clock sitting on top of his desk, he rubs the back of his neck stiffly.
“I thought you were Gravesley,” he provides as an explanation, though it does nothing to answer any of the questions I have about his current behavior.
“Is Gravesley joining us in the gardens?” I question, catching his confusion like a virus.
“I can’t join you in the gardens today.” He doesn’t even have the decency to look apologetic as he delivers this news.
“This was your idea,” I say incredulously, feeling foolish. I can’t help but wonder if this is some game he’s playing at. Of course he would call on me, making me seem desperate for his attention, only to shut me down.
“Yes, and I’m canceling them.”
I blink at him, completely at a loss for words. Clamping my mouth shut, I finally find my voice again, and with it the scraps of dignity I am still clinging to.
“If this is some kind of game to you, Braxton, I swear—”
“Nothing like that,” he cuts in, his face still refusing to reveal any hint of emotion. “I have business I need to attend to.”
“Business?”
He nods. “Yes, and it’s time sensitive, so…” Braxton moves to close the door, but I stop him by pressing my palm flatly against the smooth oak.
“What kind of business?” I ask.
“I can’t discuss—”
“I still get three questions, whether you wish to walk me in the garden or not. So what business? You have to answer.”
“I don’t have to answer any of your questions,” he snaps. “And this topic is off limits.”
My eyes narrow as understanding takes over. “So it has to do with the curse you put on me.” His jaw tightens, and I know I’m right. “That’s the only thing we agreed was off limits.
“Azalea.” There’s a warning in his tone, but I’ve reached the end of my patience.
“Fine.” I pull my hand away from the door and step back. “But I still get three questions.”
“Two?”
“Three. We agreed on three.”
“Yes, and you already asked me if Gravesley was joining us in the gardens which I answered. I’ll let the second question you asked pass since it is an off limits topic.”
“Oh, how generous of you,” I mock sarcastically. “So now any question I ask you can count toward my three questions?”
“If I so choose, yes, and now you’re down to one.”
Throwing my hands up, I bark out my next response before I have time to think it through. “Why are you such an asshole?” As soon as the question leaves my lips I pull them together tightly, wishing I could take it back, but knowing I wasted my last question for the day.
“Years of torment,” Braxton deadpans before slamming the door in my face.
“Ugh!” I scream, slapping my palms against the door before turning around and stomping away.
Any sympathetic emotions I once felt have completely disintegrated. I shove open a set of doors and begin pacing.
What business could he possibly be dealing with when it comes to our curse?
My feet stall in their pacing when I realize this is the second time he’s been busy with business in the last few days. Normally, I wouldn’t think anything of this, but Braxton has never been secretive about his business before. In fact, he’s only ever been secretive when it comes to our curse.
I can’t stop my mind from assuming the worst and wondering if he’s trying to alter the parameters of our curse. Even more so, I’m terrified that he might have figured out my ploy and is sealing the language of the curse tightly to keep me from finding any loopholes.
“Eh-hem.”
I look up at the intrusion into my thoughts.
One of the kitchen staff is looking at me with a mixture of concern and annoyance.
My eyes scan the room, realizing I somehow wandered into the scullery connected to the kitchen.
It’s small and mostly meant for washing the dishes and storing dry ingredients, but there’s just enough counter space to do some creating in this room as well.
“May I?” I ask the girl as I reach for a bowl on the shelf above her head.
She waves her hand at me flippantly. “Just don’t git in my way,” the woman grumbles, before returning to the prep work she’d started before I interrupted her with my nervous pacing while my thoughts ran rampant.