Chapter 18 Premonitions #2
“A strange woman spoke to me.” I continue.
“It was some sort of riddle… or… premonition. When hope is ash and faith undone, a heart of thorns and flames must become one. Find the truth and unlock the past before the crimson glow has passed. Life to death, and death to life—break the curse, or pay the price,” I recite, already knowing the words by heart.
“I need answers. Mariel suggested looking in the library, but I can’t find them alone. Not with all eyes on me.”
“You won’t be alone,” Mariel says, lifting her chin. “We’ll help you.”
Vivian nods, slow but firm. “If the curse can be broken, then we have to break it—by any means necessary.”
“Seraphina and Elena will be hard to outsmart,” Cassy says nervously. “They want the king more than anyone else.”
Something shifts between us. Not just friendship. An alliance.
Vivian smiles—slow and tired, but real. “Let them chase him. We’ll chase the truth.”
I smile back.
“So,” Mariel says, “what day will you pick, then?”
I glance toward the window. The moonlight filters in like a silent promise. “Wednesday.”
That night at dinner, the other girls make their choices known.
To no one’s surprise, Seraphina claims Saturday, practically glowing with the hope that the king will choose her again on Sunday.
Elena is next, snatching up Monday for the same reason.
She tosses her hair and pretends not to glance my way.
Mariel chooses Thursday, just to get it over with.
Cassy picks Tuesday, which leaves Friday for Vivian.
And Sunday—his day.
A chill passes through me, one that has nothing to do with the stone walls or the thin morning light. I bought myself time. But only one week.
I can feel it already—the pressure of it ticking down. A choice cloaked in duty. A command masked as an invitation.
There’s no safety here, not really. Only space to breathe before the next cage closes in around us.
Sleep evades me. Even with the ache in my limbs and the soft lull of the keep settling into slumber, my thoughts won’t still. They circle like wolves, snapping at the shadows of my mind and dragging the lake, the vision, the dragon, and him back to the surface of my mind.
I need to breathe. I need… chocolate.
The craving hits like clockwork once a month. Chocolate—and blueberries, if I’m lucky. My body’s infallible warning system, alerting me to my imminent physical combustion.
Ridiculous, maybe. But it’s also grounding. Proof that I’m still me in a world where everything else is being rewritten.
I slip from bed, careful not to wake Mariel or Cassy, who’ve fallen asleep by the fire in a tangle of blankets and books we’ve managed to borrow from the library.
Books that thankfully came without teeth this time.
I glance down at them and smile. Then, pulling a shawl tight around my shoulders, I step into the hall.
Past the shuttered library. Past the rose garden doors. Down the winding staircase to the kitchen’s back entrance—thank the stars, still unlocked.
For the past three nights, I’ve come here. And every night, a plate of chocolate muffins has been waiting on the counter beside a single glass of creamy milk. No note, no explanation, as if the kitchen knows what I need before I do.
The kitchen is warm from the hearth, perfumed with the fragrance of cinnamon and stone.
Moonlight spills through the tall, arched windows, silvering the countertops and floors.
It reminds me of the kitchen at home—of how I would throw open the windows on cool fall nights, savoring the brisk chill in the air after a long, hot summer.
How the aroma of harvest and hay would drift in on the breeze, reminding me that we had an abundance of food and feed stored away to wait out the winter.
I cross the tile, my bare feet kissing the cool, intricately designed floor, the quiet pressing close. Sure enough, the plate is there. Still warm. Still perfect.
I murmur a silent blessing to the bakers—or the ghosts, or the magic, or whoever keeps leaving these offerings. I sink onto one of the stools with a sigh. I bite into the rich chocolate muffin, savoring its sweetness, laced with a touch of sea salt.
Pure heaven.
For a few precious minutes, I just sit there, breathing. Letting the stillness hold me. Letting the armor of the day slip from my shoulders.
Tomorrow is Sunday, and the king will choose one of us.
The thought turns my stomach. I try not to picture Seraphina in his chambers—the wine, the whispered laughter. I try not to care. But some feral, aching part of me does.
I reach for another muffin, hoping to eat my frustration away.
“So, you’re the muffin thief.”
I spin around, nearly knocking over my glass of milk. King Keiren leans in the doorway, arms crossed, half-shadowed in moonlight. His dark hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends.
“What are you doing here?!”
He steps into the glow of the kitchen hearth.
He’s wearing a loose black tunic and trousers, relaxed, his hands tucked into his pockets.
He shrugs, looking around the room, then back at me.
It’s only then that I realize I just questioned what the king of the castle was doing in his own kitchen. Stars help me.
“I’ve been coming for my usual midnight snack these past few nights,” he continues, “but someone’s been beating me to it.”
“I didn’t know they were yours,” I say, sounding not entirely apologetic. “They kind of just appeared a few nights ago.”
He smiles and nods.
“The kitchen is old magic,” he replies. “It’s responsive. Some nights, it gives me what I ask for. Others…” His eyes flick to the plate. “It prefers you, apparently.”
I lift the muffin in a mock toast. “Clearly it has great judgment of character,” I say, taking a bite.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Now who’s thinking highly of themselves?” he says, throwing my earlier retort back at me as he steps closer—his movements slow and deliberate—until he’s leaning a hip against the counter beside me.
I take another bite, avoiding eye contact.
His gaze flicks down to my lips and lingers, and I become all too aware of the fact that I’m in my nightgown, crumbs no doubt lining my mouth.
He then looks down at the plate, where the last small muffin sits.
I quickly grab it and pop it into my mouth before he can steal it.
“Cruel,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you’d at least save me a crumb.”
“It’s like you said—I’m a thief,” I say, licking chocolate from my finger. “And thieves don’t share, Your Highness.” I say the last word with as much mirth as I can muster. “But I suppose I should thank you for funding my midnight heists.”
I down my milk and rise to leave—just as it magically refills itself.
His gaze shifts to the glass, then to the plate again. A ghost of a smirk touches his lips as he reaches past me to grab a muffin from the plate—the plate that suddenly has half a dozen more muffins on it.
I blink, startled, as a second glass appears in front of him.
As if the kitchen wants us to linger. To share them.
I watch him take a slow bite. My eyes drop to his mouth, remembering how it felt against my cheek. How those steady hands guided me effortlessly in the garden, on the dance floor. The way he held me carefully, like I was something precious.
Or something dangerous.
His words from that night echo through me: There are many things I’d enjoy teaching you, Fire… The way he said it—soft, desperate, laced with desire—made me flee from the ballroom.
And now here I am again, trapped in that same magnetic pull, my every instinct screaming to run.
His nearness hits me like flame. The scent of him—smoke, pine, and something darker—curls around me. My pulse thunders.
“You chose Wednesday.”
I blink at the sudden shift in tone and settle back onto my stool.
“I thought you’d pick Saturday,” he continues between bites. “Or Monday.”
“And be forced to endure the pleasure of your illustrious company two days in a row? I think not,” I retort.
For half a second, something dims behind his eyes. Then it’s gone, his expression smoothing back into cool indifference. Disappointment? Why would he be disappointed?
More importantly, what is he still doing here with me when Seraphina is probably in his bed, waiting for him to return? The image flashes hot and unwanted, twisting something sharp in my chest.
I don’t care. I refuse to.
I straighten my spine anyway, as if bracing against the thought itself.
“Shouldn’t you return to your chambers? Won’t a certain queen-to-be be wondering where her king disappeared to?”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking once before he schools his expression. “Seraphina? I sent her away hours ago,” he says matter-of-factly, with no hint of emotion.
The relief that sparks in me is immediate—and deeply unwelcome.
“Jealous, are we, Fire?”
I scoff and turn away, trying to hide the slow burn creeping up my cheeks, betraying me.
He studies me like he can see straight through the lie, then leans down, closing the distance and dropping his voice to a whisper.
“Say the word, and tomorrow is yours.”
His voice is a caress. I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears. He pauses, his gaze skimming my face like it’s a map he’s memorizing. Then, after a beat—quieter, more dangerous:
“In fact,” he says, reaching up and taking a loose curl between his fingers, “we could even start it right now.”
He tucks the stray strand behind my ear, grazing his knuckle along my cheek. My breath catches at the contact.
I hate it. I hate the flutter in my chest. I hate how, whenever I’m around him, I feel safe—unguarded—even though I know that, other than the dragon, he is the most dangerous being in existence. But mostly, I hate myself, because part of me—some reckless part—wants to say yes.
“No.” I force the word out, clearing my throat. “I don’t want to spend tomorrow with you. In fact, I don’t want any days with you.”
He tilts his head. “Is that so?”
He brushes a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.
Then, to my absolute horror, he lifts his thumb to his lips and sucks it clean, a soft groan escaping him.
I gasp.
His grin widens.
I sit there frozen in place, eyes locked with his—the fierce sapphire blue meeting molten gold veins. I feel it then. That pull. That dangerous gravity. And no matter what I say… I know he’ll still choose me tomorrow.
Because of course he will.
That’s what men like him do. They take what they want, when they want it. And despite everything—despite my refusal—some small, shaking part of me is already bracing for it.
“You still owe me a kiss,” he growls. “Or should I start charging interest?”
“And you still owe me the truth about the second Trial.”
“We have a whole month before the next Trial.”
A whole month?
A whole month I could be preparing—if I wasn’t so stubborn.
“You won’t need the clue until the night of,” he adds, as if sensing my thoughts.
“Great. Then I guess we can both wait,” I retort.
His jaw ticks. “I could make this easier for you, Fire. I could do a lot more—if only you’d let me,” he says, voice like velvet over steel as he leans closer.
“You could make me do a lot of things,” I say softly, matching his tone, offering a smirk of my own. “But if you did,” I continue, “you’d be no better than the monster that brought us here.”
A long silence stretches between us.
His head drops, his gaze no longer boring into me but fixed on the once-again empty plate, his jaw flexing so hard I swear I can hear his teeth grind.
He doesn’t look at me when he steps back, just turns and starts for the door.
At the doorway, he pauses and glances over his shoulder. “Take all the time you need, Fire,” he says quietly. “Luckily for you, I’m a patient man.”
And then he’s gone.
I glance back down at the plate covered in small brown crumbs. This time, it does not replenish itself.