Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
I toy with a scallop on my plate, barely tasting the food.
The feast was well underway by the time I’d taken my seat, and now the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine lingers.
Music drifts from the dais, dancers swaying in flickers of gold.
My shoulders ache beneath the weight of jewelry and expectation.
My father is currently conversing with some of the nobles and basking in their regard.
When his gaze brushes me, I smooth my face.
He saw Darian, and he will count it as a success if I look the part.
The two men who sit beside me have haunted my thoughts for most of the night—and neither of them seems interested in food.
To my right, Darian lounges with the easy arrogance of someone born into power and used to charm doing half his work. His attention lingers on me like a brand, unapologetic and bold. To my left, Mallen is still—a tightly coiled spring—and the tension in his jaw could cleave stone.
The Reaping has begun.
I press my fingers to the stem of my goblet, ignoring the delicate fare in front of me. There’s a coil tightening in my stomach that makes it impossible to eat. Harp strings and jewel-toned candlelight can’t mask the tension.
“Still not hungry?” Darian asks, his voice pitched low enough that only I hear. There’s a smile in it, a private joke I don’t understand. “I thought you might have worked up an appetite admiring your gifts.”
“I thought they weren’t gifts,” I sigh. “And I prefer not to eat when I’m being watched.”
My gaze slips sideways to meet his.
He grins, unabashed. “You’ll get used to my attention.”
A muscle ticks in Mallen’s cheek.
Darian lifts his goblet and takes a sip, unconcerned. “The Commander doesn’t seem to be enjoying my company.”
“I wonder why,” I say, and this time, it’s me who smiles.
Mallen doesn’t speak, but his silence is anything but passive.
There’s a kind of storm to it—contained only by discipline.
One elbow rests on the table, the other arm slung behind me, hand braced against the back of my chair.
A casual pose, but I know him well enough to feel the promise of violence underneath it.
“I’ve already explained the seating arrangements to the Prince,” he says coldly, addressing no one and both of us at once. “I don’t enjoy repeating myself.”
“It’s almost charming,” Darian replies, undeterred. “The way you pretend this is still your decision.”
My breath catches, and Mallen’s eyes sharpen to ice.
“Mallen,” I warn quietly.
The hand behind me doesn’t move, but I feel it—like a sharpened blade waiting for instruction. Not touching me—yet. A line of heat against my back that says he’s barely holding on.
Darian smiles like he hasn’t just taunted a viper. “Relax, Commander. I’m here to win hearts, not start fights. Though if it comes to that…” He lets the words hang, one brow arched as he tips his glass in mock salute. “I don’t mind a bit of sport.”
“I don’t think you understand who you’re playing with,” Mallen says softly.
He doesn’t raise his voice.
He doesn’t need to.
Even Darian pauses for a heartbeat.
I draw in a stuttered breath and force my attention forward, toward the dancers and the display of opulence unfolding around us.
Sashes move like swallows caught mid-flight, the fabric cascading in jewel-toned ribbons—amber, emerald, wine-dark velvet.
They flutter and dip, gliding wherever the music takes them, unbound.
I envy that. My limbs stay heavy, carved from stone, while theirs fly free.
The current pulls beneath my skin.
And gods help me, part of me wants the storm.
These men couldn’t be more different.
Darian—bold and beautiful, unfiltered, gleaming with the confidence of a man who’s never heard the word no.
Mallen is cold fire wrapped in duty and control.
There’s a dark storm contained beneath his skin and a fury that he keeps leashed for me.
Where Darian dazzles, Mallen unsettles. Where Darian leads by charm, Mallen commands with gravity.
Now, there’s no pretending that they aren’t circling each other.
Or that I’m not the center of the storm.
I reach for a piece of seared fish and force myself to take a bite.
It tastes of nothing. The musicians change tempo, and the next course is brought on silver trays.
Conversation hums around us—nobles laughing, ladies flirting, courtiers whispering—but our table is a battlefield wreathed in candlelight and good manners.
And then my father leans forward in his chair and flicks two fingers, beckoning Mallen with the kind of imperious gesture that draws no attention but demands obedience. The kind that says he expects to be obeyed.
The kind that comes with consequences if he’s disappointed.
Mallen rises, jaw locked, and for a moment—just a moment—his eyes linger on Darian with the quiet intensity of a man memorizing a fault line. Then he steps away from the table with deliberate calm, his sword hanging at his side like a threat left unfinished.
“The Commander of the Royal Guards is a little overbearing, don’t you think?”
I glance at Darian. He’s draped in the chair like this is a lovers’ quarrel and not a political war.
“He’s protective,” I say. “And rarely wrong.”
“I wonder if that makes two of you,” Darian murmurs, and his smile turns strange—softer than I expect.
I’m more off balance than ever. I glance at Mallen, looking for reassurance.
He’s too busy talking to my father. So I speak and let the lie come easily—we’ve woven its threads with just enough truth to make it gleam.
The story unspools. The woods and the thieves.
The kidnapping. The too-quiet shadow from Moonrise.
Darian listens with one brow raised, half-amused, half-intrigued.
Everything I say is a deception. Lies, polished and practiced, thread through truth so seamlessly they cannot be untangled.
Darian’s hand brushes mine—barely a touch. I freeze but let it linger. His voice drops. “You should have told me sooner.”
“Why?”
His fingers glide around the rim of his goblet. “Because I could have helped.”
“It’s a bit late to stop—”
“I meant tonight, Princess.”
There’s a flicker of something different in his voice now. A gentler note, almost rueful.
“Between the pageant and the politics, I haven’t made it easier for you.”
His voice is quiet now, no trace of mockery.
I don’t answer. Just breathe in and out. The candlelight flickers. The dancers pirouette in their jeweled blur. And for a moment—we’re no longer sparring. We’re just tired.
But somewhere behind the smiles and performance, we’ve stopped playing at opposition. The lines between ally, adversary, and suitor blur with every flicker of his lashes.
Then Mallen returns.
The heat of him reaches me before I see him—the shift in air, the way the tension in my spine draws tight as a bowstring. His palm finds the curve of my back, steady and warm through the chiffon, and I turn toward him. A quiet check, a question without words.
“Are you all right?”
His voice is low, too low for anyone but me. It curls under my skin like a promise, and I nod. The glance we share is brief, but it roots me more than any reassurance could. His eyes are darker than they were when he left—still storm-lit, but quieter now. Focused.
“I told Darian about the attempt a few days ago,” I say, keeping my voice level.
Mallen’s gaze shifts past me toward Darian.
He wears his restraint like armor, and our lie is his weapon. “This stays between us. For her safety.”
A command concealed in velvet.
Darian raises both brows, unoffended. “Naturally. I had no idea she was in danger, or I never would have been so frivolous. I only want to help.”
He even leans slightly closer, and now I’m bracketed between them again—heat and shadow, crown and blade. Darian’s voice lowers, threading through the air between us.
“If you need anything, Princess, you only have to ask.”
The next course arrives in a swirl of citrus and roasted herbs.
I manage a few more bites, more out of duty than desire.
My stomach knots too tightly to enjoy anything, but I chew, swallow, pretend.
Around us, celebration spins—laughter, glass, the clamor of pageantry.
Women gaze at Darian like he’s divine. The tributes from Larksbind shine with wine and emptiness.
Mallen and I hold steady—quiet islands in a sea of revelry.
And Darian watches us both, calculating.
“This year will be different,” he says suddenly. His tone is too light. “You’ll gain a husband. And you’ll come with me to Larksbind. You’ll be safe.” He lets his gaze skim me, from crown to collarbone. “It’s a beautiful kingdom, you know. Almost as beautiful as you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “That’s a bold comparison.”
“I won’t apologize.” He smiles. “You deserve boldness.”
“It hasn’t happened in nine years, Darian.”
He laughs, quiet and rich, like the Reaping is a game he’s already won. “I wasn’t here then.”
Before I can answer, he rises—graceful, princely—and drifts to my father’s side. They speak in hushes meant to exclude. I don’t try to listen, and focus on my breath, on the faint tremor in my hands. On trying to understand why Darian left so abruptly.
Mallen hasn’t moved. But I feel him. His stillness, like the weight before a blade falls.
When Darian returns, his emotions are concealed behind a mask he wears well. I wonder what he bartered in that hush: a favor, a rumor, my standing. If my father thinks I misstepped, his disappointment will sharpen into anger. Or is this a move, and I am the piece Darian’s playing with?
“Your father agreed you should leave early,” Darian says when he returns. “I offered the apology. He offered the solution. Mallen will take you back.”
The words don’t land right away. I blink, slow, processing.
Another decision made without me.
Another man who’s chosen for me.
But I’m not a pawn to be ushered offstage.
A sharpness unfurls beneath my ribs—not gratitude, not deference. Resolve.
I want more. Gods, I deserve more.
“I see,” I murmur, and my gaze slides to Mallen.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t urge or direct. He simply rises, gaze on mine, waiting.
Not commanding. Waiting.
I rise—not for them. For the air. For the space to breathe again. To be away from the shift of fabric, the hush of movement around us. The scent of smoke and fruit and wine that never appealed. I step away from the table, and Mallen follows without a word.
Before I go, I turn back.
“Thank you, Darian,” I say, and my voice is clear. “For your concern.”
His gaze flickers. Just briefly. “Of course.”
I don’t look back again.
Not until the crowd fades does my breath return. Mallen beside me—no longer a shadow, but an anchor.
We walk in silence, but it’s not empty. Not cold.
He doesn’t ask what I’m thinking. He already knows.
It’s only when we reach my bedroom that he asks the question that’s been torturing him all evening.
“Do you like him?”
Mallen’s voice is low. Unbothered. The kind of calm that tried to pretend he already knew the answer—and just wanted to hear it from me.
“No.”
He steps in, slow and deliberate, until the wall is at my back and he’s close enough that I forget how to breathe.
“Then why,” he murmurs, lips brushing my cheek, “did it look like you were fawning over him?”
I swallow hard. His hands don’t force, they frame. His body is all restraint.
“I was stopping you from starting a war,” I say.
His jaw tightens. But he doesn’t pull away.
“I thought you trusted me,” I add, softer now. “You said you’d give me time.”
His eyes are as dark as a forest covered by a midnight shroud. I reach up, my palm resting lightly against his chest. Not to push him away—just to feel his heart stuttering under my touch.
“I need you to keep trusting me,” I whisper. “Even when it’s not easy. Especially then.”
He searches my face, like he’s searching for something to believe in.
“I can’t do this,” he says quietly, “if you don’t let me in.”
“I am. But it has to be when I’m ready.”
And I kiss him.
It’s not impulsive. It’s not delicate.
It’s slow and deliberate, and it’s mine.
My choice.
He doesn’t move for a breathless second, as if he’s stunned I crossed the line first. Then his hand cups the back of my neck.
He kisses me back with the quiet devastation of a man who’s waited too long and wanted too much—but still holds himself back, just enough, as if he fears breaking what is sacred.
When we part, I keep my forehead against his, our breaths shared in the silence between us.
His hand slides down to my waist. He doesn’t pull me closer, but he doesn’t let go.
We stay like that for a long moment. The void between us is laden with everything we’ve said and everything we haven’t.
“I’ll be yours,” I say, barely louder than a breath. “But only if you believe I still get to be mine, too.”
He breathes out, almost a laugh, and kisses my neck. It’s a promise, not a claim. There’s no anger in it. No heat. Only patience at its limit as the waiting between us begs to break.