Chapter 18
Sia
Forced proximity between her and Lucas resumed but this time without the castle walls or the normal stressed environment between them. Her parents’ house had never seemed so small before.
Her parents, for their part, were beside themselves.
Despite Lucas’s assurances that it was unnecessary, Sia’s mother insisted on preparing the larger guest room for Lucas and Sia, stating her childhood room was far too small. Her father shook Lucas’s hand no fewer than five times in the span of an hour.
“The king under our roof!” her mother whispered loudly, as though the walls themselves needed informing.
Sia hid a smile that her parents weren’t quite as impressed by having a queen under the same roof. A queen who was, in fact, their own daughter. They had been proud of Dian, but as with heirs, the king had always been more valuable on the social scale.
The girls, however, were unimpressed by royalty, but they were very interested by the idea of recruiting him for chores.
“You’ve never fed goats?” Luna demanded as if it were a national scandal.
Lucas, who had faced down enemy battalions without blinking, looked faintly wary. “I can’t say that I have. Horses maybe, but never anything smaller. We have help for that.”
“Then you’re missing out,” Celeste declared solemnly. She grabbed her father’s hand and pulled him out the door followed by her sisters.
“The rooster will chase you if he thinks you’re after the chickens,” Stella warned. “He chased me before.”
Sia followed at a slower pace and her boot thudded against the path as she trailed them to the pen.
“Do you want me to carry you?” he called back.
“I’m fine,” she answered.
He tried to dissuade her. “We’ll be back shortly. No need for you to injure yourself more by following us. You should go rest.”
“Oh, no. Not a chance. There is no way that I’m going to miss this.”
Her parents followed, but they didn’t seem to be as excited at watching their goats get the royal treatment. They knew, as Sia did, that goats were ruthless and rough. They had the innate ability to recognize those unprepared to deal with them.
And she wasn’t wrong. The goats regarded Lucas with curious eyes. They stood together and made their usual bleating sounds while they tried to figure out where the food was going to come from. Celeste, after learning the hard way, handed the feed bucket to her father.
“Here. You do it.”
“They don’t look so bad. They’re kind of cute.”
Sia giggled but kept it quiet. Their cuteness usually caused havoc, and they were watching Lucas with criminal intent.
Lucas regarded them back as Luna pointed out certain ones. “That one is Sage, that one is Jack. The two little ones are Moose and Ginger. They’re brother and sister and Sage is their Mama.”
“They’re called kids because they’re babies,” Celeste explained.
“Do they understand hierarchy?” he asked quietly.
“No,” Sia replied cheerfully. “They do not. But feel free to try and teach them that you require special treatment.” She refrained from issuing the same warnings she had given the girls before they entered the goats’ domain.
He gripped the bucket of feed and stepped through the gate that Luna held for him with cautious dignity. Sage approached him and sniffed his hand.
Lucas patted her head. “I think she likes me. This is a piece of cake.”
Sage rubbed her head against his hand before she promptly pulled back and headbutted his thigh. Hard.
“Owww.” Lucas staggered backward and nearly dropped the bucket. Before he could recover, Jack charged the bucket and feed flew every which way.
The girls dissolved into giggles.
“The goats,” he informed Sia gravely, “have no respect for royalty.”
“You haven’t seen anything yet. That big one over there, under the enclosure? The one watching you with insanity in his eyes? His name is Whiskey,” she said sweetly. “He has no respect for anyone or anything.”
Hearing his name, Whiskey trotted over and attempted to chew the hem of Lucas’s shirt before he promptly knocked the bucket out of his hand.
Lucas stared down at it before he bent to pick it up. “This feels like a coordinated rebellion.”
When Whiskey backed up a few feet, Sia called out a warning. “Watch out. He’s about to charge you and it’s gonna hurt.”
Lucas dropped the bucket as he found the goat aimed at him. He grabbed Whiskey’s horns to stop him and found himself in a battle with the animal. The two kids decided to join in to help their father, and Lucas was soon hopping over the little goats while maintaining his hold on Whiskey
Sia laughed, really laughed, until tears ran down her face. He looked up at her then. Not annoyed or insulted by the situation, but with a smile. By then, everyone was laughing at a king who was failing miserably at controlling the kingdom.
Something warm unfurled inside her chest.
Sia’s father finally rescued Lucas, who swore to the girls that they would never have the beasts at the castle, no matter how cute the babies were.
Later, her parents announced they were taking the girls the following morning on a day trip to a farmer’s market in the neighboring village before they returned to the castle, but it would be too much walking for Sia. Lucas volunteered to remain behind.
She felt a flicker of nerves since that would leave them alone. With Lucas, in this small house filled with old memories and newfound happiness.
The silence that settled after her father’s car disappeared down the road was different from the silence at the castle.
Except here, away from all things royal, it wasn’t oppressive. It was curious and anticipatory.
“Well,” Lucas said with a glance toward the trees. “Shall we avoid further farm animal uprisings?”
She arched her brow. “I was thinking of the clearing. Maybe a quick art lesson for you.”
His mouth curved. “How about just the back yard? My ego can’t take another hit.”
“Agreed.” The meadow felt like old memories, so maybe it was time to make new ones.
She set up her canvas and he lingered nearby with his hands clasped behind his back like a soldier awaiting orders. She recognized the posture.
“You look like you’re going in front of the council again,” she observed.
“I am accustomed to weapons,” he replied. “Not brushes.”
She held one out to him anyway.
“Paint something.”
“What do you think I can paint?”
“Anything.”
He studied the palette as though it were a tactical map. She moved closer to guide his hand and gave a quick explanation about color blending and brush pressure.
His focus was intense. Absurdly intense. A streak of blue ended up far thicker than intended.
She laughed and he glanced at her. “I believe I’ve wounded the sky.”
“Tragically destroyed the target,” she agreed. “Although, luckily for you, there is this thing called abstract art.”
He reached to add another stroke of the brush but instead, his sleeve dragged through a patch of green that ended up smeared on his arm.
She gasped and fought not to burst out laughing again.
He froze.
“Now you’ve attacked the meadow.”
“That was not intentional.”
She dipped her brush and retaliated, dabbing a streak of brown across his forearm. “Let’s add a little of the dirt that you were so fond of rolling around in.”
His eyes widened.
“Was that a declaration of war?”
“Absolutely.”
Before she could move, he dabbed a blob of white paint on her nose. “Now you can look like the clouds.”
The next moment dissolved into color and chaos.
Paint slashed across sleeves, cheeks, and hands as freely as a good old fashioned food fight.
He tried to defend himself with dignity but she had none left to preserve.
Laughter spilled freely between them, light and unguarded, as paint flew through the air, across the canvas, the grass, and the patio.
He caught her wrist mid-retaliation and she felt the paint ooze between his fingers..
They stilled and her heart skipped a beat.
There was a smear of blue along his jaw. Gold streaked across his collarbone. He looked less like a king and more like a man who had fought with a color pallette.
He brushed a thumb gently across her cheek, smearing green.
“Now,” he murmured, “you match the meadow.”
Sia’s heart skipped a beat at his gentleness and she panicked.
She grabbed another brush. “Here. Let me help you.”
She moved Lucas to the easel and stood behind him. She giggled as he held the brush like it might explode.
“Relax,” she said softly.
“I am relaxed,” Lucas muttered as he stared at the canvas like it had personally offended him.
“You’re gripping that brush like it owes you money.”
He huffed under his breath but didn’t argue.
Sia stepped closer behind him, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his back through his shirt. Her heart gave a traitorous flutter. Being this near to him had always done that.
“Okay,” she murmured, gentler now. “Close your eyes.”
Lucas turned his head slightly. “That sounds like the beginning of a bad idea.”
“It’s an art lesson,” she said. “Not a trust fall.”
“I don’t know. You’re suspiciously cheerful.”
She nudged his shoulder. “Lucas.”
He hesitated another second, then sighed. “Fine. But if I end up with a mustache painted on my face, it’s on. Fair warning.”
“Close. Your. Eyes.”
He obeyed.
Immediately the stubborn tension left his shoulders, like the simple act of not having to see the canvas made him less defensive. Sia reached around him slowly, careful, placing her hand over his where he held the brush.
His breath caught.
“Okay,” she said softly and guided his wrist toward the palette. “We’re just going to paint.”
Lucas didn’t open his eyes, but his voice dropped quieter. “You’re very bossy for a teacher.”
“I prefer encouraging.”
Together they dragged the color across the blue he’d painted earlier, the orange bleeding softly into it. The movement was slow, unhurried. Sia adjusted his grip, her thumb brushing against the back of his hand.
“There,” she whispered. “Just like that.”
Lucas exhaled a quiet laugh. “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.”
“That’s the point.” Her cheek nearly brushed his shoulder as she leaned closer. “Feel it instead of thinking about it.”
When she felt him stiffen, she reached up and stroked his hair. Her fingers glided across his forehead and his closed eyes, around to his temples. She repeated this with both hands and felt him relax against her.
“Just feel. Let all of your thoughts just turn off and trust the sensations.”
Instead of extending the brush, he turned toward her. “Well,” he said, “if this is how you teach art, I might need more lessons.”
Sia felt warmth rise to her cheeks as Lucas looked at her and something softer settled in his expression.
“Only for you,” she responded.
Her breath softened as he leaned in slowly. There was no urgency, no fear, and no accident. Only choice.
His lips met hers. Warm and certain. The world narrowed to that point of contact and to the quiet hum beneath her skin as she felt the moment that she had been waiting for.
When he drew back, her eyes fluttered open. “It’s the magic of the meadow,” she whispered, breathless.
His thumb lingered at her jaw. “It’s not the meadow.”
She searched his face. There was no resistance there now. Only honesty.
“I owe you something else,” he said quietly.
Her stomach tightened but not with fear. Only anticipation.
“An explanation about how I acted. It was unfair to you that I was loyal,” he continued, “to a memory.”
Dian.
The name hovered unspoken between them. He didn’t look ashamed. Just honest.
“She was my mate,” he said. “Before… everything. I thought holding onto her meant honoring her. I thought letting anyone else in meant betraying her.”
Understanding dawned slowly and tears pooled in Sia’s eyes. He hadn’t rejected her. He had been protecting a ghost.
“I didn’t realize,” he added, voice roughening slightly, “that in doing so, I was pushing away someone very much alive. I never meant to be cruel.””
Her chest tightened. All the resentment she’d nurtured, the quiet belief that she had been unwanted, evaporated. He hadn’t been cold. He had been grieving.
Her fingers gripped his paint-streaked shirt and she kissed him again.
“You were never cruel,” she said softly. “Just… far away.”
He exhaled. “I don’t want to be far anymore.”
She rested her forehead against his chest. Neither of them was perfect, but neither had they been untouched by loss. But here, together, Sia felt something settle into place.
Not obligation. Not duty.
Just hope.