CHAPTER 9 — PRINCE ROWAN RETURNS
Prince Rowan came back days later.
This time Lord Ashford brought him openly, with guards and ceremony.
It wasn’t a private transaction anymore.
It was a handover.
The sitting room had been rearranged: new flowers, new fruit, a violin placed in the corner like a promise.
Even the air smelled curated.
Rowan entered first, voice already filling space.
“You’ve done up the place,” he said, amused. “Almost convincing.”
Almost.
The word landed like a thumb on a bruise.
Lord Ashford smiled, deferential.
“My prince,” he said, “I wanted you comfortable.”
Rowan’s gaze swept the room and found me.
He didn’t bother hiding pleasure.
He walked close and lifted my chin with the cane again.
The metal was cooler this time.
Or maybe my skin had learned the difference.
“Winter,” he said. “Show me you meant what you said.”
I lowered my eyes.
I stepped forward.
I let my skirt whisper against the floor.
I set my hands lightly on his sleeve, as if I needed balance.
Rowan smiled.
The smile asked for surrender.
I gave him something else.
I let my injured hand brush his wrist deliberately, slow enough to make him notice the bruise.
His eyes flicked to it.
A question formed.
I answered without words: a small wince, quickly masked.
Rowan’s nostrils flared.
He liked proof.
He liked seeing what other men had shaped.
Lord Ashford watched the exchange with a stillness that wasn’t calm.
It was control maintained by force.
Rowan’s eyes returned to my face.
“You were quiet last time,” he said. “Quiet women are usually either broken… or plotting.”
I smiled softly and didn’t deny either.
“If I ever plotted,” I said, “it would be for the survival of those I serve.”
Rowan laughed.
Then he said it again—careless, pleased with himself.
“That’s a good line for a PhD girl.”
Lord Ashford spoke instantly, too smoothly.
“A term of honor,” he said. “From an older system.”
Rowan’s mouth twitched, not convinced.
His gaze stayed on me.
Waiting.
To see if I flinched.
I didn’t.
I let confusion drift over my face like a veil.
“Is it a title?” I asked, mild. “I don’t know such things.”
Rowan studied me a long moment.
Then he made a choice.
He waved Ashford away with a flick of the cane.
“Leave,” he said. “I prefer my entertainment without an audience.”
Lord Ashford’s smile didn’t crack.
But his eyes did something sharper.
He leaned close as he passed me and spoke with his mouth barely moving.
“Be careful,” he whispered. “Or you’ll cost yourself more than a bruised hand.”
Then he left.
The door shut.
Rowan turned to me, expression flattening.
The room felt larger with only one predator inside it.
He stepped closer, heavy and sure.
“Now,” he said. “We see if you’re worth the trouble.”
He reached for the front of my dress.
I let him.
Not because I yielded.
Because yielding, here, was camouflage.
My hand drifted toward his belt.
Toward that hidden weight again.
Rowan caught my wrist in a vice grip.
His smile returned—thin.
“Not yet,” he murmured. “Curiosity comes after obedience.”
He pushed me backward, slow.
The bedframe touched my knees.
The candle flame leaned, steadying itself again, as if the room inhaled.
Behind the drapes, the vent whispered.
And in that whisper I heard the next cost forming—already on its way.
Because I’d tested Pearl.
Because I’d tested Rowan.
Because I’d mis-timed one move.
Somewhere in the house, someone would be writing it down.