Chapter 21 The Things I Don't Say
Dante
I slam the door to my chambers harder than I need to.
The sound cracks through the corridor, rebounds once, then dies. Good. Silence is what I want. Silence and walls thick enough to keep thoughts from bleeding out.
My room smells like iron and leather. Familiar. Honest. I shed the rest of my gear without ceremony. Boots kicked off. Bracers tossed. My sword lands on the table with a dull, irritated thud, the metal ringing like it's just as pissed as I am.
Then I drop onto the bed.
Flat on my back. Arms spread. Staring at the ceiling, as if it might confess something helpful.
It doesn't.
"Are you going to explain," a voice says cheerfully, "why a princess kissed you, and you responded by throwing her across the courtyard?"
I don't move.
I don't even turn my head.
Lucian appears anyway.
He always does.
He bleeds into existence near the foot of my bed like reality forgot to argue with him, boots propped on air, elbows braced behind him, wearing that damned grin like the world exists solely for his entertainment.
"Because," he adds, glancing around my room, "traditionally speaking, attractive women don't respond well to being launched like siege weapons."
I close my eyes.
"If you don't shut up," I say calmly, "I'll find a way to kill you."
Lucian clutches his chest. "Such hostility. Was the kiss really that bad?"
"It wasn't a kiss," I snap, pushing myself upright. "It was an ambush."
"Oh?" He perks up. "I do enjoy a story."
"She cornered me," I growl, pacing now, bare feet hitting stone with sharp, irritated steps. "She keeps inviting herself into my chambers. Again. Poured wine—"
Lucian's brows lift. "Romantic."
"—that was spiked."
That wipes the smile off his face.
"...She drugged you?"
"She tried," I correct coldly. "Sloppy. I could taste it."
Lucian lets out a low whistle. "That's not flirting. That's a crime."
"She's getting bolder," I say, anger tightening my chest. "She doesn't hear 'no.' Doesn't respect it. Today she crossed a line."
Lucian tilts his head, studying me like I'm a problem he's enjoying too much. "You threw her."
"I restrained her."
"You threw her," he repeats.
"She struggled."
"Across. The courtyard."
"She's alive."
He stares at me. "That's your defense?"
I rake a hand through my hair, jaw tight. "I would rather die than touch her."
Lucian hums. "Strong words."
"She disgusts me," I snap. "She thinks persistence will wear me down."
Lucian snorts. "It usually does."
"Not with me."
Silence settles for a beat.
Then Lucian's grin creeps back. "Now, if it had been Isabella—"
I groan and drop back onto the bed, forearm over my eyes.
"Don't," I warn.
"—you'd be too busy being tragically in love to notice attempted poisoning."
"Lucian."
"What?" he says innocently. "Am I wrong?"
I exhale hard. "I just want to protect her."
"Yeah," he says slowly. "Protect. That's definitely all this is."
"It is," I insist. "Mostly."
"Mostly," he echoes.
"Yes," I snap. "Love plays a part. I'm not denying that. But I'm not trying to take anything from her. I know she loves Alexander."
Lucian makes a face. "That's... debatable."
"She wouldn't leave him," I say firmly. "Not for me. Not for a brute king with blood on his hands."
I swallow.
"I've made peace with that."
Lucian watches me for a long moment, eyes softer now.
"That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt," he says quietly.
I laugh once, bitter. "Everything hurts."
"So why not tell her the truth?"
I bark a laugh. "Are you insane?"
"Constantly."
"She'd think I'd lost my mind," I say. "What am I supposed to tell her? That I loved her in another life? That I watched her die? That I burned a kingdom to ash because they executed her and spent years clawing at time itself to undo it?"
Lucian leans back, fingers steepled. "When you say it like that, it does sound unhinged."
"Exactly."
"Still romantic, though."
I glare. "You're not helping."
Lucian shrugs. "You ran after you kissed," he says lightly. "Realized you loved her. Realized she didn't love you back. Spent years breaking the world. Found a magician stupid enough to help you fix it."
He smiles. "Honestly? I've heard worse."
I drag my hands down my face. "What am I supposed to do?"
Lucian sighs, floating down to sit on the edge of the bed. "I'm a powerful, devastatingly attractive magician. I am not a love guru."
"I could kill everyone," I mutter.
"Please don't," he says mildly. "The paperwork alone would be exhausting."
"I could hide her in my kingdom."
"She refused."
"Because she's stubborn," Lucian says. "And brave. And inconveniently principled."
I stare at the floor.
"She deserves peace," I say quietly. "Not my chaos."
Lucian's voice softens. "Then stop trying to control the ending."
I open my mouth to argue—
And he smiles.
"Speaking of Isabella," he says lightly, "your queen is looking for you."
Before I can react, he vanishes.
The air snaps shut.
A knock sounds at the door.
I sit up slowly, heart thudding.
"...Of course she is," I mutter.
I stare at the door longer than necessary.
Lucian's voice still echoes in my skull.
Your queen is looking for you.
I drag a hand down my face, exhale through my nose, and open it.
She's standing there.
Isabella.
Not armored in silk or ceremony. Not shielded by court manners. Just her hair loosened by the wind, cheeks flushed from walking fast, holding my discarded shirt folded neatly against her chest.
The sight of it punches straight through my ribs.
"Um, hi,"
" May I come in?"
She always asks.
Even when she doesn't need to.
"Yes," I say, stepping aside.
She passes me, close enough that I catch her scent: sun-warmed linen, parchment, something faintly floral. The kind of scent that shouldn't belong to palaces or war. I close the door behind her. The latch clicks softly, sealing us inside a space that suddenly feels too small.
She crosses to the bed and lays my shirt down with care, smoothing it once with her palm like it's something precious instead of sweat-soaked cloth.
"You forgot this," she says.
I don't answer.
I lean back against the wall instead, arms crossing over my chest, using stone and distance like armor. It's a habit. A reflex. One I perfected long before I became king.
She turns to face me.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The silence stretches not awkwardly, just heavy. Weighted with everything we don't say.
She inhales deeply, shoulders lifting, steadying herself.
"I came to apologize," she says.
My jaw tightens.
"Not just for today," she continues quickly, like she's afraid I'll cut her off. "Not just for my sister. But for what she represents and what she doesn't understand."
She steps back, giving me space without being asked. Gods, she's always been like that. Thoughtful. Careful with other people's boundaries, even when no one respects hers.
"I know what she did was unacceptable," Isabella says. "Inexcusable. And I want you to know truly that her behavior does not reflect my kingdom. Or my people."
Her voice is steady, but I hear the strain underneath it—the effort it takes to hold herself upright while shielding everyone else.
"They are not entitled," she goes on. "They are not reckless, or cruel, or blind to the word no. My sister is... singular in her failings."
A pause.
"And I will deal with her," she adds. "I promise."
I clench my fists slowly.
She's protecting them.
All of them.
Even now. Even from me.
"I know you have every reason to be angry," she continues. "And if you were to leave my lands tomorrow, or close your borders to us, I would understand."
She lifts her eyes to mine.
"But please do not judge an entire kingdom by the actions of one woman who has never been told she's wrong."
Her gaze doesn't waver.
"If your wrath falls on my people," she finishes quietly, "it will fall on those who have done nothing to deserve it. And I won't allow that if I can stop it."
That's when it hits me harder than any blade ever has.
She isn't here for herself.
She's here for them.
For farmers and children and merchants who will never know how close they came to war because her sister doesn't understand the word no.
I want to grab her.
Not violently. Not selfishly.
I want to pull her into my arms and press my face into her hair and tell her I'm sorry for everything. For the life that I failed her. For the one who I watched her die. For every choice that brought us back here, broken and careful, standing three feet apart like strangers.
Instead, I straighten.
"Keep her away from me," I say flatly.
Her shoulders sag just a fraction.
"And we can call it even," I add.
Silence.
"If that's all," I finish, forcing the words past my teeth, "you can leave."
I hate how cold I sound.
I hate how easy it is to be this version of myself.
From the outside, I know what I look like: harsh, unyielding, heartless—a man who solves problems with steel and fear.
Inside?
I'm fighting myself.
Every instinct screams to step forward. To close the distance. To take her face in my hands and kiss her like I should have years ago, before this, before blood, before she learned how to die with dignity.
Touch is a weakness. Closeness is a liability.
And she looks... defeated.
Not offended. Not angry.
Just tired.
"I understand," she says softly. "I truly am sorry."
She hesitates.
Then she reaches out.
Her fingers brush my arm.
Barely a touch.
Barely anything at all.
My body reacts instantly.
My hand curls into a fist. My eyes close. I draw in a slow breath through my nose, forcing control back into my limbs as memories crash into me without mercy.
Her arms around me, warm and familiar in another life.
The way she hugged me every time she saw me was like it meant nothing.
Like it meant everything.
The way I fell for her was piece by piece.
How she never noticed.
How I loved a woman who belonged to another man.
The kiss.
Gods—the kiss.
The shock on her face. The way the color drained from her skin was as if I'd struck her instead of touched her.
How I ran.
How I came back too late.
How the woman I loved looked unrecognizable, hollow-eyed, exhausted, broken, sitting in a cell that smelled of rot and despair.
How I sat with her for hours, saying nothing, because nothing I could say would ever be enough.
I open my eyes.
Her hand is already gone.
She's misread it, of course. I think I don't like being touched.
That's easier.
"I'll make sure it never happens again," she says quietly.
I push off the wall, needing movement, distance, air.
"Please," I say, my voice rough despite my effort. "Leave."
She nods.
Once.
"I'm sorry," she says again, as it costs her something to say it.
Then she turns, opens the door, and steps out.
The door closes softly behind her.
I don't move.
I stand there long after she's gone, staring at the space she left behind, my shirt still folded neatly on the bed.
And for one unguarded moment
I let myself feel everything I never said.
Everything I never will.