Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
My hands shake as I read my father’s note for the third time.
The ink has bled through the parchment. His fury can’t be contained by the page which has been tortured where the quill caught and dragged.
He’s livid I missed the banquet last night.
Furious about yesterday. Anxious that Darian might have lost interest.
The servant who brought the message is pale, trembling, eyes flickering between the note and me as though he expects my rage too.
“Tell my father,” I say, folding the letter, “that Darian wants a chase, so I’m giving him one. I’ll meet the prince this afternoon. No sooner.”
The boy bows and leaves like he’s been unshackled. Mallen closes the door behind him with a soft thud that sounds heavier than it should.
The silence isn’t peaceful—it’s taut.
It’s the quiet before the first drop of rain falls.
I reach for a book, hoping he’ll give me space, but his presence is like a night that summons the tide toward the shore. Heavy. Measured. I can feel him across the room—every inch of him—like heat from a fire I don’t dare get too close to.
I feel him watching. Too contained. Wanting.
I want him too.
I ache to let his arms wrap around me, to know the strength of his body as he closes off the world.
There’s comfort in his control, in how completely he commands danger away.
But yesterday, that control slipped. I saw what he keeps beneath the surface—jealousy so sharp it cut through the room—and it shook me.
It wasn’t the aftermath. It was the hunger in his voice, the shadow in his eyes when he thought Darian might take me from him.
I know the heat of that possessiveness. The lengths men will go to when it consumes them.
The terrifying certainty of it. And I’ve seen what that kind of obsession becomes if no one stops it.
“We should talk about yesterday,” he says, voice lower than usual. Too careful.
My eyes stay on the page.
He walks closer, slow enough that tremors roll up the base of my spine. One hand slides over mine, light as breath, and only when I don’t pull away does he gently press the book shut. I don’t flinch, but I don’t look at him either.
“I made a mistake,” he murmurs. “You did too.”
My gaze lifts. Slowly.
“I promised to give you time. To win your affection—and to let you breathe. To let you feel whatever this is. I meant it.” His jaw tenses. “But I didn’t know how much it would cost me.”
“You broke your word. Gods, that fight…my room…my mother’s chair…”
He flinches. Just a flicker of pain in his eyes, so raw and human that I almost forget how furious I am. But he doesn’t defend himself.
“It shouldn’t have happened,” he says. “None of it. You have every right to be angry.”
I set the book down with care. “You think I’m angry?”
He breathes in like he’s bracing himself for impact.
“I’m not angry. I’m afraid.”
That gets his full attention. The heat drains from his face.
“I won’t live like this,” I add, voice flat.
There it is. So simple. So ordinary. But it breaks something between us.
“I would never hurt you,” he says quietly. “Not now. Not ever. But I know how it looked. I know what I sounded like. That wasn’t the man I want to be for you.”
I don’t speak. I can’t.
“I am not my jealousy,” he adds. “But I carry it. I carry it every time he looks at you like you’re already his. Every time he dances with you, while I stand in the shadows. Every time he makes you laugh like I don’t exist.”
His control is starting to fray. He takes a breath and his shoulders tighten, as though physically restraining the urge to reach for me.
“Don’t run from me because I failed once,” he says. “Don’t throw yourself at Darian because I lost control. That boy will use this. I know his kind. I’ve seen it before. He’ll smile at you while he locks you in chains and takes what he wants while pretending it was always yours to give.”
There’s no venom in his tone. Only knowing. And something like fear.
“I’m not throwing myself at anyone,” I say.
He exhales sharply. Relief.
“Least of all you.”
His knuckles whiten as they grip the edge of a table that survived the carnage like he’s grounding himself in the wood.
Evie arrives before either of us can say another word.
She gives me a knowing look and helps me dress, her movements brisk but gentle.
Mallen doesn’t speak and doesn’t watch as I dress, but his gaze burns anyway—like a low flame flickering through the quiet hours of the night—especially when Evie chooses the emerald green gown.
It matches his eyes. But it’s not for him.
“Darian will like this,” Evie murmurs as she fastens the gold bangle around my wrist. It sits too tight, and I wince, and Mallen shifts, his attention fixed on me.
The heat of his gaze is unmistakable, but he doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t explode. He looks like a man teetering on the edge of reason, as if it’s taking every ounce of restraint he has not to act on the fire burning beneath his skin.
His fingers cling to the table, and he stays there, immobile, while I glide to the door.
I stop and turn.
“Are you coming?”
He looks up. The air is still. His nod is a single movement, tight and wordless. He follows me two steps behind, silent until we reach the edge of the garden path.
Then, just before the gate, he catches my wrist.
“Please,” he says. “Don’t give him ground because I lost mine.”
I lift my brows slowly and then glance down at his fingers still curled around my arm.
“I’m not giving anyone anything.”
I shake his hand off and step into the light, toward the prince waiting among the flowers.
He’s waiting in a patch of pale light, bathed in gold and the faint perfume of roses.
Up close I see the stiffness in his right shoulder, linen peeking under his collar where a bandage sits, and the purple bloom along his throat.
He still looks almost too perfect to be real—like someone conjured him from a dream I once had and barely remember.
Not like the man who was shouting yesterday.
Not like someone who stormed into my room, hands clenched and voice shaking.
“Azhara,” he says, soft as silk.
“Darian,” I reply, holding his gaze but not stepping any closer.
His smile falters. “You’re not alright.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
He nods, hearing the edge in my voice without flinching. “I owe you an apology. For yesterday. For how I acted when I thought—” He breaks off, lips pressing tight. “I thought he was hurting you. And I snapped.”
His voice cracks, just faintly. He shifts his stance as if he’s suddenly uncertain. I don’t feel like I’m standing in the shadow of royalty anymore. Just that of a man who made a mistake and regrets it.
There’s a flicker of boyish charm in the way his weight alters—uncertainty or shame or both—but it makes him real. Fallible. Not a prince out of reach, but a person I might be able to trust, one careful step at a time.
“I’ll never forgive myself for it—but I will make it right. If you let me.”
His tone is even.
His words are what I needed to hear.
It sounds so easy. And tempting.
I nod, but I don’t say anything. My silence is an answer.
Darian watches me for a long moment before asking, quieter this time, “Did he hurt you? Last night. After I left?”
“No,” I say quickly, maybe too quickly.
His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion but in sorrow.
He steps closer, slow enough to make sure I’ll allow it.
“You don’t have to protect him. Or explain him.”
“I’m not.”
“Alright.” He dips his head, brushing a hand through his hair. “But I saw your face. You were scared. Not startled. Not overwhelmed. Frightened. And you were asking him to let you go.”
I close my eyes, and the image of the shattered mural returns.
“I’m not here to turn you against him. I’m not going to paint him as a monster. Maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s just...dangerous in ways he doesn’t see yet.”
I open my eyes and immediately look away. He doesn’t push.
“And maybe,” he adds gently, “you’re not ready to walk away from him.”
My gaze snaps back. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his lips. “Good. Keep it that way.”
I almost laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I drift toward a tall stem of midnight-purple blossoms nestled between some white roses and let my fingers trail their petals. They’re cool against my skin. Velvety. Fragile.
“Did you want me to pick them for you?”
I shake my head. “My father dislikes it if the garden looks untidy.”
Darian steps beside me. “Then we won’t pick them. Just admire.”
A pause.
Then, quieter, “You don’t have to stay here, Azhara. Whatever he says, whatever your father insists—this doesn’t have to be your life. I know how tightly they’ve wound you into this cage, but cages can be broken.”
“You think it’s that easy?”
“No,” he says simply. “I think it’ll be hell. But I also think it’ll be worth it.”
My heart lurches.
He turns toward me, eyes open and honest. “I’m not asking for anything now. I’m not expecting a decision. But when you’re ready—when you decide—Larksbind is yours. You’d be free there. Not hidden. Not claimed. Protected, yes. But never controlled. Not by me. Not by anyone.”
“Even if I never…?”
“If you never love me?” He smiles faintly. “Then I’ll still be proud to stand beside you.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes. I blink them away, stunned by the gentleness in his voice. I didn’t know how much I needed that softness until he gave it without asking. It slides into a part of me still raw, still trying to mend itself beneath old wounds I no longer bother naming.
“I’ll wait,” he says. “Not because I expect anything from you, but because I believe in you. I’ve seen the woman that you are, and the one you’re trying to become. She’s there. Still fighting. Even when they try to bury her beneath obedience and silence.”
My throat tightens. I think of my father’s hand on my shoulder. Mallen’s voice rasping my name like a possession. The loneliness left by my mother’s death.
“Why?” I ask. “Why would you wait?”
“Because you’re worth it.”
I stare at him, stunned by the calm certainty of it. There’s no hunger in his gaze, no claiming. Just truth. Just light.
It’s so simple. So disarming.
And gods help me, I want to believe him.
His fingers brush mine—not pressing, just there. Offering.
“I won’t crowd you,” he adds. “I won’t push. You’ve had too much of that already. I know what men like your father do. What men like him can become. But I’m not your jailer. And I’m not in competition.”
He nods toward the far side of the garden. I don’t have to look to know who he means.
“I’m just here,” he finishes. “If you want me.”
My breath catches.
He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t even try to kiss me.
He just waits.
After a long moment, I let my hand curl around his.
Not a promise. Not a choice. Just a thread of connection in a life where most have snapped. His touch lingers like he doesn’t want to let go. Like he wants me to know that there’s a shoreline in the distance, even if I can’t see it yet.
His expression softens. He squeezes gently and then lets go.
We stand like that for a while—side by side, not touching, just breathing in the scent of the flowers and the coming dusk. The wind brushes past like a memory half-remembered. Somewhere, a bird calls, and it sounds like hope.
And for once, I’m not watched. I’m not judged. I’m not afraid.
The shadows stretch longer across the stones.
A guard’s voice cuts the silence. “Princess. It’s time.”
Darian turns toward the sound and then glances at me. “May I walk you back?”
I hesitate. Then nod.
He rests his hand in the small of my back, just warm and steady.
I walk beside him, step for step, wondering if it’s possible—really possible—to begin again.
To choose something different. Someone different.
Not because he’s perfect. But because he’s kind. Because he waits. Because he doesn’t ask me to be anything except myself.
And for the first time, I wonder if that might be enough.