Chapter 16 Braxton
Braxton
I adjust my shirt for the hundredth time, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles my eyes can’t seem to stop finding.
“Where is she?” I grind out, my eyes pinned to the only door leading into the garden.
“Perhaps she’s taking her time to get ready,” Gravesley offers, his voice sounding hoarse.
“Did you catch a cold?” My nose crinkles. “What’s with the tone in your voice?”
“Just not feeling quite like myself, Your Highness.”
I pause upon hearing his answer. Gravesley has never once gotten sick the entire time we’ve been here. I believe it’s part of the curse. Nothing can come in or go out: animals, people, diseases. Almost as if we’re sanctuaried in a bubble.
My mind ceases its pondering when I see the door leading into the garden creak open.
Azalea bounds out, her lavender skirts fisted in her hands, no doubt to keep herself from tripping on the flowing fabric.
When she catches sight of me standing under the domed roof of the pavilion, she hastily drops her skirts and slows her steps to a leisurely pace, as if to keep me from noticing how she’d been rushing.
Rushing to get to me. A sense of pride swells in my chest at the realization, but true to her nature, Azalea quickly squanders it.
“Well, if I knew we were dressing so casually, I would have been here earlier,” she huffs, still trying to catch her breath.
I know she’s saying it to get a rise out of me.
I’m many things, but sloppy is not one of them, especially when it comes to my appearance.
My hair is expertly combed and styled to look tousled without looking messy, my black shirt is pristine and paired with my black leather trousers and boots.
I even wore a couple of thick silver rings on my hand to match the silver gleaming in my belt buckle.
It isn’t my fanciest outfit, but it’s far from casual.
Ignoring her slight at my appearance, I simply respond with, “You look lovely.”
“I’m aware.” She smiles at me, and I can hear my knuckles pop as I clench my fist at my side.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you are trying to rile me up, Wildflower.”
“Do you really need me to accomplish that task?” She looks up at me sweetly, feign innocence morphing her features.
A muscle in my jaw feathers. “Well, I hope you’re hungry,” I quip, knowing full well I ordered the kitchen not to deliver her breakfast this morning.
“Yes, well, I didn’t know when I agreed to this picnic, I somehow also agreed to being starved before it.”
I smile to myself. I had heard a slight commotion in the kitchen when Azalea went down to try and gather some food for herself but was refused.
“How else could I ensure you would actually come?” I match her mawkish smile with my own.
“Clever.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I am. Who knew there was some brain with all that brawn after all.”
I offer her my arm. “You know, that’s dangerously close to a compliment, Azalea.” Sacred Sky I loved saying her name. The feel of each letter as it rolled off my tongue was nothing short of euphoric.
“It’s probably because I’m becoming delirious from the hunger pains.” She shrugs before stepping past me without taking my arm. “Now, let’s get this over with.”
“I would like to escort you there,” I insist, pushing my arm toward her again. Why did she have to make it so damned hard to be a gentleman?
“I’m perfectly capable of walking myself.” She picks up her skirts with an over-exaggerated swish as if she’s trying to give her hands a task to keep from having to grab my arm.
“Take my fucking arm or I’ll make sure you don’t get a scrap of food until dinner,” I growl, my patience past its point.
Her nostrils flare from the livid breath she puffs through them.
Running her tongue along her teeth, she drops her skirts before reluctantly linking her arm through mine.
Her fingers wrap around my bicep, and it’s pathetic how much that touch does to me.
It’s like my entire body hums to life from the slightest bit of contact with her.
I can only imagine how it would feel to press my lips to hers, to dig my fingers into her luscious curls, to mold her body to mine as I claim every inch of her.
“I believe you have three questions for today,” I choke out, needing to pull my mind from its lustful web of thoughts.
Azalea tilts her head to one side as she considers what her first question of the day to be.
“Out of questions for me already?” I prod curiously. I imagined she would be bursting with questions, especially after yesterday.
She shakes her head. “No. I’m simply being careful with my words.”
“Scared of hurting my feelings?”
“Scared you’ll cheat like you did yesterday and take my questions away from me.”
I push my tongue against the inside of my cheek. I deserve that. “I’ll play fair. After all, I let you have three questions instead of two even after I answered your extra question yesterday.” I reply watching as she rolls her lips together. Clearly, she thought I’d forgotten.
“There weren’t any flowers in my room this morning.”
I winced. I couldn’t believe she’d noticed that. With my pounding headache this morning, I didn’t get up in time to pick them and bring them to her room before she woke.
I look ahead, not able to meet her curious amber eyes.
I didn’t think she’d care this much that there weren’t flowers in her room this morning.
Part of me wondered if she would even notice, and now that I knew she had, I couldn’t help but feel some sense of victory in the fact that an action I did meant something to her.
“I woke up too late to bring them to your room,” I admit.
Her feet pause in their movements, and I feel a slight tug on my arm as she remains momentarily frozen in place.
“Wait. You bring me my flowers?” She doesn’t even try to hide the incredulous look on her face.
“Do you want that to be your second question of the day?” I’m partially giving her an out with my question, but I also selfishly don’t want to answer her.
“That would only be my first question.”
I blink at her. “No, you—”
“I made a statement that there weren’t any flowers in my room. How you chose to continue the conversation was of your own accord.”
My mouth momentarily hangs agape as I replay our conversation in my head.
“Sneaky,” I grumble under my breath, but I can’t hide my admiration in her ability to trick me.
“Strategic,” she states, and for a brief moment a smile curves up her face wide enough to showcase her dimple. I want to bottle this moment in my memory, if only to have something to hold onto when it all inevitably slips away from me.
After a momentary pause, she rephrases her first question of the day. “Why do you bring me flowers every morning?”
I wish I’d never given her the opportunity to rephrase her question because this is the first question she’s asked me that I truly do not want to answer.
I clear my throat, trying to buy myself time.
“Someone I once knew believed that flowers held much more power than people gave them credit for, which is why they’re often used in accordance with magic.
” I pull my lips inward, running my tongue along them as I contemplate how much I can say.
“I guess I bring them to you every morning hoping they can instill some of that power into you.”
Her brow furrows as she studies me. “And why would you want me to have power?”
“More-so, I want to restore the power that was taken from you.”
“Because of the curse.” She nibbles her lip pensively. “You know that won’t make up for the fact that you’re the reason I lost that power in the first place.” The typical bite in her tone is absent, making her words sound almost careful, like she really wants me to hear what she’s saying.
I’m saved from having to respond as we come up to the picnic spot.
There’s a clearing in the grass with a quilted blanket spread out across it.
Thanks to the perpetual sunny days that cover the castle due to the curse, we’re blessed with a golden glow beaming across the field.
Over top of the blanket, is a basket filled with the food I specifically requested in accordance with my knowledge of what Azalea loves.
There’s fresh bread, sliced meats and cheeses, a variety of fruits, some of her favorite roasted potatoes, and lastly, two slices of butter cake that were carefully packed to keep from getting squashed.
Striding over, I let Azalea’s grip slip from my arm as I take my seat on the blanket.
I purposefully picked a quilt that was smaller in size, so if Azalea wanted to avoid sitting on the grass, she would have to involuntarily sit somewhat close to me.
I pat the blanket, beckoning for her to take a seat as I begin to take the food out of the basket.
After placing the pieces of a cake on the blanket, I pull out two bowls, one with whipped cream and one with strawberries.
I scoop some of the toppings onto each piece of cake before sitting back on my haunches and admiring my work.
Once the food is laid out, Azalea begins to look it all over while she takes her seat next to me.
I reach back into the basket to pull out the two forks at the bottom of it, and before I can place them down, I feel Azalea snatch one of the utensils out of my hand.
She skips past all of the other food meticulously laid before her and goes directly for the cake. I should’ve guessed that’s what she would go for, even though she hasn’t had anything of substance in her stomach since the previous night.
Wasting no time, she digs her fork into the soft dessert and quickly brings a heaping bite into her mouth.
She practically moans as she wraps her lips around the fork before slowly pulling it out of her mouth, leaving a couple of smears of whipped cream on her lips.
The combination of that sound with that visual sends my blood rushing south. Fuck. Keep it together.
“This is delicious,” she manages to say around a mouthful of cake.
I smile. “I’m glad you think so. It’s the cake you made.”
“What?” Her head snaps up, surprise shaping her features.
“The cake you made the other night. I had the baker prepare the whipped cream and strawberries to top it off, but it’s your cake.”
She turns her attention back to the food in her bowl, not saying anything, but as she takes another bite, she lets out a giggle so quiet I would have missed it if not for the stillness of the day.
“What’s funny?”
“It’s not funny.” She shakes her head, but she can’t rid herself of the smile on her face.
“Say it anyway,” I push, taking my own hefty bite of her cake. Her smile widens, and for a moment I think she might laugh. I hope she might laugh. She scoots closer, closing some of the distance between us, her face going serious as if ready to confess her worst sins.
“I may have contemplated slipping some hemlock into the cake while baking it and then serving it to you.”
My fork stops halfway to my mouth, and my eyes drift to hers, trying to decipher whether she decided to follow through with that thought or not.
Surely she wouldn’t be giggling if she had accidentally poisoned the two of us.
Or have I driven her that mad? She tucks her lips together, no doubt trying to conceal the smile that wants to break free.
I pause. It would be ludicrous for Azalea to poison me, but still I can’t stop myself from asking, “Did you?”
“No.” She shakes her head and releases a humored breath. “I realized that I wouldn’t be able to escape this curse if you died.”
“Glad that’s the reason you decided to keep me alive.”
Her shoulders bob casually as if she didn’t just admit to her contemplations of my murder.
“It’s funny, though. If I had. Then, you would have accidentally killed us both in an attempt to be thoughtful.
” This time, she claps her hand over her mouth to try to conceal the sound that is begging to break free.
“And that’s amusing to you?”
“A little,” she says, her voice strained.
“It would be poetic in a way.” At this, she finally lets out the laugh that had been building in her chest, and it’s the equivalent of hearing the world come alive after a lifetime of living in silence.
“Don’t worry, though. I’m glad I didn’t kill you.
Then, we wouldn’t have been able to have this picnic. ”
Her tone is friendly as she says this, as if her words are meant for someone else.
She lets out another laugh. A true, genuine laugh.
The musical sound wraps around my heart and squeezes to the point of suffocation.
And as much as I want to capture that sound, so I can listen to it over and over again every night before I fall asleep, I falter.
Deep down, I know I can’t trust it. That laugh isn’t for me, yet I want to claim it as my own.
I yearn to claim every part of her, and for that reason alone, I don’t trust it.
Perhaps it’s myself I don’t trust when I heart it.
Either way, I know I can’t allow myself to get used to it.
Because if I do that, then when she decides to hate me again, when she decides to take it away, as she always does, as she always will, it will only be that much harder to let her go… again.