Chapter 20
NATALIE
Pushing the thick wool blanket aside, I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress.
My bare feet met the freezing wooden floorboards.
The chill seeped directly into my skin, sending a sharp shock up my calves.
I gripped the edge of the wooden bed frame.
My knuckles turned white with the sheer effort of grounding myself in the present moment.
I sat in the dim light of the bedroom and listened to the absolute silence.
The relentless pounding of the rain against the roof had finally stopped.
For three solid days, the storm had battered the coastline, rattling the thin windowpanes and threatening to tear the roof completely from the rafters.
I stood up and walked toward the small wooden wardrobe in the corner of the room.
The iron hinges groaned loudly as I pulled the door open.
The sound was harsh in the stillness. I reached inside and grabbed my thickest woolen cardigan.
The coarse fabric scratched against my fingers, a grounding sensation after the numbness of the night.
I pulled it over my shoulders and fastened the bone buttons one by one.
I took a deep breath. The air in the room held the stark scent of cold ash, damp wool, and old pine.
It was a comforting smell, one that belonged entirely to me.
I walked into the main living space. The fire in the stone hearth had died hours ago, leaving only a few gray embers sitting in a bed of white dust. I did not have the energy to rebuild the fire.
I walked into the small kitchen area and grabbed a ceramic mug from the counter.
My fingers traced a small crack near the handle.
It was a cheap, fragile thing, chipped from months of use.
It was so entirely different from the gilded porcelain and crystal I had left behind at the palace.
Those flawless items had always felt cold in my hands.
This cracked mug felt real. I set it down and turned my attention outward.
My chest tightened as I thought of the seawall.
The barrier protected my small sanctuary from the crushing power of the ocean.
I had hired Bram and his crew of local workers to reinforce the stones weeks ago.
They had labored in the mud and the freezing coastal air to build a defense against the unpredictable tides.
Bram was a gruff, practical man who did not care about titles or royal bloodlines.
He only cared about hard work and strong stone.
The storm had tested their work. The howling wind and the massive swells had hammered the coast without mercy.
I needed to see the damage. I needed to know if the stones held. The cottage was my only refuge.
I walked to the front window and wiped away the thick condensation with my sleeve.
The morning light was gray and thin. The world outside looked entirely battered.
Huge branches lay strewn across the yard, snapped from the old cedar trees by the gale.
Puddles of muddy water reflected the dull, overcast sky.
I grabbed my tall rubber boots from the corner and pulled them on over my thick socks.
The brass doorknob was freezing against my bare palm.
I turned it and shoved the solid wooden door open.
The air outside smelled of salt, crushed cedar needles, and raw, wet earth.
It was a sharp, physical scent that cleared my head.
I stepped onto the front porch. The wooden planks groaned loudly under my boots, a familiar complaint from the old house.
I zipped my waterproof coat up to my chin, pulled the collar tight against my neck, and stepped down into the thick mud.
The ground squelched under my boots with every step.
The mud sucked at the rubber, trying to pull the boots from my feet.
I walked down the winding dirt path toward the cliff edge.
I kept my eyes fixed on the horizon. The ocean was a dark, churning mass of gray foam.
The waves still crashed against the jagged rocks below, spraying salt water high into the morning air.
The path grew steeper and more treacherous as I descended.
Small stones slid under my boots, sending cascades of loose gravel down the slope.
I gripped the slick trunk of an old pine tree to keep my balance.
The scent of brine and wet sand grew stronger as I neared the beach.
The descent was dangerous, demanding all my physical concentration.
My calves burned with the effort of keeping myself upright.
I remembered the endless, flat corridors of the royal residence.
I had walked miles in perfectly tailored shoes, surrounded by guards and aides who smoothed every obstacle from my path.
Here, I was entirely alone, fighting the rugged terrain just to see the shoreline. I preferred the fight.
I reached the edge of the embankment and looked down at the seawall.
The massive gray stones were black with seawater.
Tangled piles of green kelp, shattered driftwood, and dead sea grass lay piled against the base of the structure.
The wall had held its ground, but the storm had torn away a large section of the upper parapet.
The damage was extensive. It would take weeks to repair.
And then I saw him.
He stood knee-deep in the freezing mud at the base of the wall.
His broad shoulders were hunched forward.
He was lifting a massive gray stone with his bare hands.
He wore a simple laborer’s coat, soaked entirely through and plastered to his back.
His dark hair clung to his forehead in wet, chaotic strands.
He grunted as he shoved the stone into a wide gap in the wall.
My breath hitched in my throat. I froze, my boots sinking slightly into the soft earth at the edge of the cliff.
Henrik. The Prince. My husband of three years. He was here, standing in the mud at the edge of the cliffs, laboring like a common mason. My mind struggled to process the sight, the absolute impossibility of his presence in this raw, weathered sanctuary.
He did not look like a prince now. He looked like a desperate, broken man.
He reached into the dark mud and grabbed another massive stone.
His movements were frantic and rushed. He hauled the rock up to his chest. His boots sank deeper into the muck.
The ocean surged behind him, threatening to pull him under with the next large wave.
He ignored the freezing water rushing around his calves.
He focused only on the stones. He strained his muscles, lifting a rock that should have required two men to move.
He slammed it into place, his chest heaving with exertion.
He wiped his face with the back of his arm, leaving a streak of dark mud across his cheek.
I scrambled down the rocky path to the beach.
The loose gravel gave way beneath my boots.
I stumbled, caught myself on a jagged boulder, and kept moving.
The sharp edges of the rocks scraped against my palms, but I ignored the sting.
The coastal wind whipped my hair across my face, blinding me for a second.
I reached the flat expanse of the beach and broke into a run.
The wet sand slowed my progress, dragging at my boots like thick glue. The salt spray coated my skin.
“Henrik,” I yelled.
He didn’t hear me over the deafening roar of the crashing waves.
He shoved another stone into place. He leaned his entire body weight against it to secure it in the mud.
He was pushing himself past the point of human exhaustion.
His body was running on pure adrenaline and sheer, stubborn will.
He reached for another rock, his back arching with the effort.
I closed the distance between us. The freezing water splashed against my knees. I reached out and grabbed his arm. The thick canvas of his coat was freezing and soaked with seawater. It felt like grabbing a block of ice.
“Stop,” I demanded. My voice was sharp, cutting through the noise of the surf.
He spun around. His eyes widened in absolute shock.
He looked entirely exhausted. Dark, bruised circles ringed the pale skin under his eyes.
His jaw was tight with tension. The sharp angles of his face were drawn and hollow.
He stared at me with a wild, feral desperation.
The composed, untouchable mask of the Crown Prince had completely shattered.
The man standing before me was raw and unraveling.
He looked nothing like the sovereign who commanded armies and dictated treaties.
I looked down at his hands. My stomach plummeted. The breath left my lungs in a sharp gasp.
His thick leather work gloves were torn to absolute shreds.
Flaps of ruined material hung uselessly from his knuckles.
The tough hide had been worn away by the brutal friction of the jagged stones.
Beneath the ruined leather, his skin was a complete mess of raw blisters and deep, open cuts.
Blood oozed freely from his palms. The bright crimson fluid mixed with the dark mud and the salt water.
His knuckles were bruised purple and split open. Dirt was ground deep into the wounds.
“What are you doing?” I asked. My voice shook with horror.
He stared at me. He opened his mouth, closed it, and looked down at the mud. “The wall,” he rasped. His voice sounded like cracked glass scraping against stone. It was a raw, ruined sound. “I had to fix the wall.”
“Your hands,” I said. I reached out and grabbed his wrists. His skin was like solid ice. The cold radiated into my own palms. “You are bleeding.”