Chapter 19
19
R ain drummed against the window, a steady rhythm accompanying Skylar as she eased into the steaming bath. There were no bindings constricting her chest, no wig itching her scalp. Just Skylar, bare and vulnerable, allowing herself this rare moment of truth.
She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of rose oil floating on the water’s surface. The warmth seeped into her muscles, easing the tension she’d carried for days. Five days, to be exact. Five days since she’d last spoken to Arye, since she’d seen anything but tightness in his jaw and a storm in his gaze whenever their paths crossed.
Her hand drifted lower, skimming her stomach. The water caressed her skin, warm and inviting. For a heartbeat, she considered seeking release, letting pleasure wash away her troubles. Her body responded instantly, a flush creeping up her neck that had nothing to do with the bath’s heat.
Skylar closed her eyes, imagining Arye’s touch instead of her own. The ache of longing intensified—a desperate need for connection, for comfort. Her fingers trembled, hovering on the precipice of desire she’d so often denied herself.
But as quickly as the urge had come, guilt twisted in her gut, sharp and insistent. How could she indulge when she’d hurt Arye so deeply? The memory of his pained expression flashed behind her eyelids, dousing her arousal like ice water, replacing it with a dull pain in her chest. A sigh escaped her lips as she sank deeper into the water, letting it lap at her chin. The gentle waves created by her movement sent ripples across the surface, distorting her reflection.
Arye’s face lingered in her mind, and Skylar found herself wondering when he had started seeing her—seeing Duke Anathemark—as more than a friend. She cast her memory back, searching for clues she might have missed. There had been women, once. Years ago, when they were younger. She remembered teasing him, the way he’d squirmed under her playful jabs.
“Sky, drop it. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he’d muttered, refusing to meet her gaze.
“Come on, Arye,” she’d laughed, elbowing him playfully. “Even the kitchen maids know about your late-night visitors. Care to enlighten your oldest friend?”
His face had darkened then, a scowl twisting his features. “They’re disgusting,” he’d whispered. “All of them.”
At the time, she’d assumed he meant the gossip. Now, she wondered if there had been more to his words. Had that been the moment he’d realized his preferences for men? Or had it come later, gradually, as they’d grown closer over the years?
But then, hadn’t he told his father about some noble lady he fancied? Skylar’s chest tightened at the thought, a familiar jealousy coiling in her stomach. Maybe he’d found someone after all. Someone who could give him everything Skylar couldn’t.
It was for the best. As long as he’s happy.
By the time Skylar finally called for Melody, the water had cooled. Despite her wrinkled, pruned skin from the long soak, she felt no more relaxed than before. Her faithful servant entered, the lock clicking securely behind her before she helped Skylar from the tub.
As Melody wrapped her in soft towels, Skylar reveled in the simple pleasure of being cared for. It was a luxury she rarely allowed herself, too afraid of growing accustomed to a softness she couldn’t keep.
“The Dowager Duchess sent a gift,” Melody said, retrieving a package from the wardrobe. Her voice was gentle, almost hesitant. “To help you get used to… well, being yourself.”
Skylar’s fingers trembled slightly as she unwrapped the parcel, the paper crinkling softly under her touch. Inside lay a silken nightgown and matching robe, the fabric shimmering in the candlelight. It was impossibly soft against her skin as she slipped them on, the edge barely hiding her knees. So different from the stiff uniforms she usually wore. It felt foreign, almost dangerous, to be clothed in something so undeniably feminine.
“It’s exquisite,” she murmured, running her hands over the silver fabric. Her fingers traced the delicate embroidery at the hem, making her smile. Lavender flowers. Of course. Her mother’s touch, even from afar.
Melody smiled, guiding Skylar to the vanity, its surface adorned with trinkets from all her travels. “Now, let’s see to that hair of yours. It’s a crime to keep it hidden all the time.”
As the brush glided through Skylar’s long silver-white tresses, working out the tangles, a comfortable silence fell between them. But Skylar couldn’t help glancing nervously at the door every few moments, her body tensing at each creak or distant footstep.
“Melody,” she said, voice tight with anxiety, “you’re sure you locked it, right?”
“Of course, my lady,” Melody assured her, meeting Skylar’s eyes in the mirror. Her gaze was steady, grounding. “No one will disturb us. You’re safe here.”
Skylar nodded, trying to relax. “Thank you. I just… I can’t afford for anyone to see me like this.” The consequences would be catastrophic—not just for her, but for her entire family. The thought of King Lyinell discovering her deception sent ice through her veins. Or worse, Arye.
“I know, my lady.” Melody’s voice was gentle, tinged with sadness. “But you should be able to be yourself sometimes.”
A lump formed in Skylar’s throat. “I don’t mind it,” she lied, more to convince herself than Melody. “It protects the ones I love.”
Melody’s hands stilled for a second. “Speaking of which, I received news today. Your mother’s found a name for your brother.”
“Oh?” Skylar perked up, grateful for the change of subject. “What is it?”
“Conley,” Melody replied with a smile. “Fitting for the future Duke Anathemark, don’t you think?”
Skylar’s shoulders tensed. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
A question that had long simmered in her mind suddenly bubbled to the surface. “Melody,” she began hesitantly, “why was I raised as the heir? Father was still alive when I was born, and they were trying for a son. I never fully understood why they put me through all this.”
Melody’s hands stilled, her expression growing serious in the mirror’s reflection. “It was to protect your bloodline,” she said slowly, choosing her words with care. “The king… he didn’t like your father much. Without a male heir, people might have tried to get rid of your mother. Who would protect the wife of a monster and her little girl?”
Skylar frowned, sensing there was more to the story. “Is that all?”
Melody sighed, her eyes sad as she met Skylar’s gaze. “No, my lady. They couldn’t be sure the next child would be a son. And…” she hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper, “there was another reason.”
“Tell me.”
Melody glanced uneasily at the door before continuing. “King Lyinell,” she said, her words barely audible. “He showed… interest in the Duchess. Used your father like a tool. Their Graces worried what he might do to a child with your mother’s beauty and your father’s power.”
Skylar’s stomach churned as the implications sank in. Memories flooded back—the King’s lingering gaze on her mother, the tension that filled the room whenever he was near. And then, more recently, the day he’d used the pact, forcing Skylar to her knees. The cruel glint in his eyes as he’d nearly made her act like a dog. Bile rose in her throat, bitter and acidic. Hate and disgust burned deep inside her, a fire that threatened to consume her.
“Is that why they had me grow up with Arye?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady. “To keep me away from the King?”
Melody shook her head, a fond smile touching her lips. “No, that was your doing. You befriended the prince on your own. He was always asking for you, even though you were two years younger.” Her expression softened. “It worked out well, though. Kept you both happy and safe.”
Skylar nodded, lost in thought. So much of her life had been carefully orchestrated, a delicate dance of protection and deception. She’d been a pawn in a game she hadn’t even known she was playing. And now…
“There’s something else you should know,” Melody said, her voice hesitant. “The king… he plans to marry Prince Arye to Princess Quince.”
The words hit Skylar like a punch in the gut. “What?” she breathed, gripping the edge of the vanity. Her knuckles turned white, the smooth wood beneath her fingers the only solid thing in a world spinning out of control.
“I’m so sorry, my lady.”
Skylar’s mind raced. Arye’s recent behavior, his sudden openness about his feelings… it all made sense now. His time was indeed running out, just as hers was. The walls seemed to close in around her, the air suddenly thick and suffocating.
Before she could think better of it, Skylar was on her feet. Her head throbbed, her mind reeling as Arye consumed her every thought. In an instant, the careful Duke, the dutiful daughter, the years of caution—all of it crumbled away. None of it mattered anymore.
All that remained was Arye and the desperate need to see him. His impending marriage to Princess Quince felt like a knife twisting in her gut, made worse by the memory of her own words urging him to do his duty. How blind she’d been, preaching responsibility while he struggled alone with the weight of his crown. The risks that had always loomed so large suddenly paled in comparison to the pain of losing him.
Guilt and longing warred within her as she strode to the balcony, throwing open the doors. The cool night air hit her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms and legs. The sudden gust sent papers fluttering from her desk, scattering across the floor like fallen leaves—a fitting metaphor for her carefully constructed world falling apart.
“Your Grace!” Melody called, alarmed. “What are you doing?”
But Skylar was beyond reason. In one fluid motion, she swung her leg over the railing and looked down. The balcony wasn’t high—perhaps fifteen feet from the ground—it was manageable. Ignoring Melody’s gasps, she leapt. Her legs absorbed the impact as she landed in a crouch, the wet grass cool beneath her soles. The jolt of pain that shot through her ankles was real, tangible, unlike the ache in her chest.
Without pausing, Skylar pushed herself up and began to run. Rain pelted her face, cold and stinging, plastering her nightgown to her skin. For the first time in her life, she felt the wind whipping through her long, unbound hair. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.
She sprinted through the gardens, taking every shortcut she knew. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out the storm. She clutched at her robe, keeping it from flying open as she ran. Silk clung to her legs, hampering her movements, but she pushed on.
The rain eased to a gentle drizzle. Skylar’s bare feet slapped against wet stones, sending small splashes up her calves. The scent of soaked earth and night-blooming flowers filled her nostrils.
Arye’s chambers weren’t far now. Just a little further and?—
Skylar skidded to a halt, nearly losing her footing on the slippery grass. There, beneath the old willow tree where they’d sat days ago, stood Arye. His shoulders were slumped, his usual regal posture absent. In one hand, he clutched a half-empty bottle of wine.
Time seemed to stand still as Skylar took in the sight of him. Vulnerable. Broken. So unlike the proud prince she knew.
What had she done?