16. Ash
Ash
Claire stayed in her tent most of the evening.
The clearing had settled into the quiet rhythm I knew well, the kind that came after a long day on the road and when the world finally stopped demanding something from you.
Caspian built the fire with practiced ease, coaxing flame from ember until it caught, warm light pushing back the shadows creeping in from the trees.
I handled the food, cooking skewered game meat over open flame, the fat dripping and hissing as it hit the fire below, sending up bursts of smoke.
I turned the spits slowly, watching the edges char just enough.
Nearby, flatbread warmed on heated stones, the surface bubbling and beginning to crisp at the edges. We ate without much conversation.
The sun dipped low, stretching gold and amber across the horizon before fading into deeper shades of blue and violet. The trees darkened into silhouettes; the firelight became the only real source of color in the clearing.
Caspian finished his meal first, wiping his hands on a cloth before standing.
“Night,” he said simply. I nodded once. He disappeared into his tent, the flap falling shut behind him.
I leaned back, resting my forearms on my knees, staring into the flames as they twisted and shifted. My thoughts drifted, following the movement of the fire as it consumed everything it touched.
I reached for my satchel and pulled out my sketchbook, the worn leather familiar beneath my fingers.
I turned it over in my hands for a moment before setting it across my lap.
Then, one by one, I began to remove my rings.
The first slid free easily. The second caught for just a moment before slipping loose.
The others followed, each placed carefully beside me on the floor, lined in a deliberate row.
I flexed my fingers once, then reached for the charcoal tucked into the spine of the book and flipped it open to a blank page. The first lines came slow. A curve here, a shadow there—nothing intentional, just movement and form. The kind of idle sketching that came when I let my mind wander.
I didn’t think about what I was drawing. But the lines began to take shape beneath my hand. A figure—no, two. Movement caught mid-motion. The suggestion of a turn, a tilt of the head, the lift of a hand caught in laughter.
Claire.
Even in charcoal, there was no mistaking her. She was caught in the middle of a laugh, head tipped back, one hand lifted as though she had just made a clever quip and knew it. And beside her was Caspian; they were mid-dance.
My hand tightened around the charcoal. I hadn’t meant to draw them. Hadn’t meant to draw her.
And yet, I couldn’t seem to stop.
The fall of her dress, the motion of it mid-spin. The way her hair framed her face. The brightness I couldn’t quite capture, no matter how many times I tried to mark it down. I dragged the charcoal harder than necessary.
I looked back down at the page, thumb brushing against the edge of the charcoal lines, careful not to smudge them.
For a moment, I considered closing the book and letting the image remain unfinished.
Instead, I adjusted my grip and added one final detail.
The curve of Claire’s smile, softer this time.
With her dimples.
My hand stilled. I stared at it for a long moment before exhaling quietly, leaning back again, the sketchbook still open across my lap.
Then, I registered movement. I glanced up and quickly shut my book.
A fur blanket was wrapped around Claire’s shoulders swallowing her frame, the edges brushing against the ground as she approached and sat down beside me.
I studied her for a moment, taking in her appearance. The flush in her cheeks had faded to a softer, more natural pink. The sickly pallor from earlier was gone.
“Your color’s coming back,” I noted.
She glanced at me, offering a small, tired smile. “The worst has gone,” she murmured. “Thank you, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For tending to me.”
I shrugged, looking back toward the fire. “Cheap rum always exacts a heavy toll.”
“So, that’s what happens when you drink?”
“When you drink too much,” I corrected, reaching forward to nudge one of the logs deeper into the flames. Sparks lifted, dancing upward before fading into the dark. “What helps is drinking plenty of water before you sleep.”
She went still beside me. I could feel her thinking. When I glanced over, her brows were drawn together, like she was turning the information over in her head.
“Interesting,” she breathed.
For a while, neither of us spoke. I watched her from the corner of my eye. Then, before I could stop myself—
“Why were you so happy?”
She turned her head toward me. “What?”
“When we came for you, for the betrothal. You looked like someone had just handed you everything you ever wanted.”
Claire shifted beside me, the blanket rustling as she tucked it closer around herself. “I have always wanted to be married.”
“But to a stranger?”
“Thistlebrook is small. Everyone knows everything about everyone. Every story, every mistake… every little thing that might matter to someone.” She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes this time.
She went quiet after that. Her shoulders drew in just slightly, like she was deciding whether to say more or leave it there. Her cheeks had colored again.
“And…” she added, her voice smaller now, almost careful, “I suppose…” She faltered, her gaze dropping to her hands, smoothing the blanket over her lap as if it gave her something to do. “I would like…a person’s affection.”
That made me still.
“To be…” she hesitated, the flush deepening across her cheeks. “To be kissed.”
The fire crackled between us, the only thing filling the space where my response should have been.
She shifted again, clearly aware now of what she’d said, but she didn’t take it back—just sat there, cheeks warm, eyes lowered, like she’d handed me a delicate treasure and wasn’t sure what I would do with it.
I tilted my head, considering her. “That’s why you want marriage so badly?”
She turned to me fully now, her brows knitting together in confusion. “Yes?” she said, like the answer should’ve been obvious.
“No, I mean—why marriage? Why do you want it so much?”
She blinked like the question itself didn’t make sense. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because it’s permanent,” I deadpanned. “Marriage is a commitment. It isn’t some storybook ending you can abandon when reality sets in.”
Claire’s expression softened, but her voice didn’t waver. “I don’t want something I can walk away from. I want something worth staying for.”
I looked away, jaw shifting as I tried to make sense of her. Why would she risk everything for someone she had never met? Money. It had to be. People didn’t do things like this without a reason.
Or without a price.
We really were from two completely different worlds. I dragged my gaze back to the fire, but it didn’t settle me the way it usually did. What she’d said lingered, caught somewhere under my skin.
Affection.
Kissed.
Looked after.
I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek, then absently dragged my teeth over my lower lip. I caught Claire watching me. When I turned, Claire’s eyes flicked away immediately, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. The flush on her cheeks deepened, spreading down her neck.
Huh.
“Have you ever kissed anyone?”
Slowly, she shook her head. “No,” she murmured.
I raised my brow. “Never?”
She hesitated, her fingers tightening in the blanket again. “When I was younger,” she admitted after a moment, her voice soft, almost reluctant. “Some of the children dared me to kiss a boy. That was all,” she added quickly. “Nothing more than that.”
“You’re serious.”
She nodded, not meeting my eyes.
Something in my chest did a strange sort of twist—half disbelief, half something sharper. I dragged a hand down my face before letting out a short, incredulous breath.
“That’s—” I shook my head, letting out a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “That’s wild.”
“What is?”
“You’re about to be married to a man you’ve never met, and you don’t even know what you actually want.”
The words weren’t meant to be cruel but they landed. I could see it in the way her expression shifted, like something had been nudged out of place. I held her gaze for a moment longer, then leaned forward again, elbows resting on my knees as I stared back into the fire.
“That’s dangerous,” I muttered under my breath.
“That isn’t true,” she quipped, the softness in her voice tightening in defense. “I do know what I want. I was waiting for the right person. That matters to me. A kiss should mean something. I mean.”
“A kiss is a kiss. It’s not some grand, life-altering thing.”
Her brows drew together, confusion flickering across her face. “You make it sound like it’s nothing.”
“It is nothing,” I countered, my voice steady, though there was an edge creeping into it now. “At least, at first.” I leaned forward again, resting my forearms on my knees, my gaze locking onto hers. “But you still deserve to know what it feels like.”
She stilled.
“To be touched,” I added, quieter this time. “To figure out what you like, and what you don’t like. For your own sake.”
The fire cracked between us, the sound crisper in the silence that followed.
“Before you tie yourself to someone, before you’re locked into a life with a man you’ve never even met.”
Her breath hitched. Just barely.
I noticed.
I leaned in then, enough to close the space between us. “Do you even know if you’d want to be kissed by a woman?”
Claire went completely still. The firelight flickered across her face, catching in her wide eyes.
“Tell me, Princess…would you want to kiss me?”