Chapter 32 #2
“Brutal. You give me nothing, Knox.” Before he could answer, she pressed on. “Do you have any siblings?”
“No. Though I always wanted a sister. Caius is my brother in every way that matters—except we don’t share blood. I’d return the question, but I doubt there are two lost heirs to the Vallorian throne.”
“Correct. My parents must’ve thought one hooligan running around was more than enough.”
Alaire’s stomach growled, and she pressed a hand to her abdomen.
“Hungry?” Dawson raised a brow in amusement.
“Starving.” She tried to muffle the embarrassing noises rumbling from her stomach.
He got up and walked to his pack by the fire, pulling out a small pot and several parcels of food. “The stew needs just a few minutes to warm up,” he said, setting the pot above the flames and emptying the packages.
“Here.” He tossed her a thick piece of bread. “That should tide you over.”
“Thank you. You thought of everything, didn’t you?” she said around a mouthful.
“I’m nothing if not prepared.” Dawson stirred the pot.
Alaire polished off the bread in just a few bites.
When she was done, she watched him work, his movements simple and practiced.
She hadn’t expected a prince to know how to heat food, let alone handle a pot with such ease.
Standing, her muscles ached from Dawson putting her through the ringer earlier. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You could grab me two bowls. They should be beside my pack.”
She walked over, crouching when she didn’t see them. They were tucked under the top flap. “So,” she asked, handing him the bowls, “what’s it like growing up a prince?”
Dawson stared into the fire as if the flames clutched memories he’d rather not face.
“It was… different. Most of my days were structured. Training at dawn. Lessons on history, politics, strategy, the original bloodlines, diplomacy. Hours upon hours of mastering every weapon you can think of. Thanks to that, I’m able to have you on your back in seconds. ”
“You mean minutes,” she teased.
He stirred the pot more aggressively, broth sloshing over the rim. “Fuck.”
Alaire grabbed a towel from the pack to wipe up the spill. “I’ve got it.”
“Thanks.” He exhaled, resuming a calmer clockwise stir. “Caius called it the formula for ‘forging the perfect heir.’ Everything I did—and still do—is to serve a greater purpose. That’s the price of a crown.” His expression was carefully neutral.
Alaire tilted her head, studying him. “And did you ever get a chance to just be a kid? Get into trouble, have fun?”
“Caius and I…” He rubbed his jaw, the scrape of stubble rough as sandpaper.
“Let’s just say we were too precocious for those at court’s taste.
Much to my mother’s dismay, we practiced dueling in every room with decent cushions to launch off.
Sometimes, we’d sneak into the woods for a few days.
Out there, we could be whoever we wanted. ”
Alaire laughed, the sound ringing through the night. “That’s it? Campfires and snacks? I was expecting something a bit more daring.”
“As we got older, our escapades got more scandalous,” he said with a snicker.
She arched a brow.
“As the heir, every action and decision was some form of training. Whether I knew it or not, my whole life was a test.” His knuckles whitened around the spoon.
He lifted the ladle to his lips, tasting the stew. The boiling broth filled the clearing with mouthwatering scents—roasted basil, thyme, a smoky hint of paprika. Her stomach growled again. He scooped the steaming stew into two bowls, the spoon clinking against the pot.
“Here.” He handed one to Alaire. Warmth seeped into her palms as she accepted it. She took a sip, savoring the flavor—tender chunks of meat, soft root vegetables, and a slow heat that lingered.
“Not bad at all, Knox,” she admitted. “I think you missed your calling as a chef. In case being a prince doesn’t work out.”
He shot her a loaded look. “I’m full of surprises.”
They ate in comfortable silence, the fire crackling and popping. Alaire watched Dawson through her lashes, his features somber and unyielding. A pang stirred in her chest, sharp and unnameable.
“Is being a king what you want?” she asked at last.
Dawson looked up, brows furrowed, his eyes dragging across her face as if she were a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
Good. He’d baffled her more times than she could count.
He sighed, the kind of heavy exhale that made Alaire wonder what burdens he carried.
When she noticed he’d finished his stew, she gathered both bowls. Using a splash from his canteen and the tea towel, she cleaned the dishes he’d packed. Then she set them aside and returned to her bedroll.
Dawson’s gaze met hers—sorrow and determination flickering in the depths. Duty. Family. Sacrifice. Three simple words that defined how Dawson would live the rest of his life, never choosing himself. She understood more of the weight he bore, the mask of indifference he wore like armor.
He burned cold; she flared warm. His veneer was icy, impenetrable. Hers blazed with always feeling too much.
“If I had a choice, this wouldn’t be the path I’d have chosen.”
His hands pressed into the earth at his sides. “What I want, what I desire…” He faltered, a flicker of longing flashing across his face before he tilted his head back to the inky sky. “It’s irrelevant in light of duty. I will do what’s required, no matter the cost.”
When his gaze returned to hers, his eyes held nothing but resolve. “The past cannot be changed. All I can do is meet the challenges ahead and navigate what’s to come for the sake of my family, my house, my kingdom.”
Alaire nodded, the weight of his words sinking deep. She ached to reach out, to offer comfort, her fingers twitching at her sides. But she held back. Neither of them dared to cross the boundary, though they brushed against it again and again.
This game they played was a safe distraction. They both knew it could never be more. Alaire was half-fae, her bloodline diluted. The Consortium would never permit a royal courtship between them.
The fire snapped, sending sparks into the night. Alaire stared into the flames, pretending she couldn’t feel his gaze. Dawson lounged as if he belonged there, infuriatingly comfortable in the chill.
“Cold?” His voice was low, edged with amusement.
She rolled her eyes, folding her arms tight. “I’m fine.”
He arched a brow, firelight carving sharp shadows across his maddeningly handsome features. “Why am I not surprised?” His gaze swept down her, deliberate and scorching. “Beautiful and stubborn.”
“I prefer gorgeous, resilient, and wonderful,” she countered, refusing to admit the way her skin prickled under his stare.
Dawson smirked, that infuriating curve of lips that made her stomach flip. Rising, he crossed the small space and lowered himself beside her.
His scent—frosted evergreen and salted wind—wrapped around her. She should move. Gods, she should definitely move. But she didn’t.
“I can practically hear your teeth chattering,” he murmured near her ear, breath ghosting over her skin. “Admit you’re cold, and I might be convinced to share.”
Alare shot him a glare. “I’d rather freeze,” she shot back, ignoring her thundering pulse.
Before she could blink, he tugged off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders in one smooth motion. His fingers lingered at her collarbone.
“Don’t be dramatic. Despite your love of arguing, you are cold. This will help.”
Her mouth parted, ready with a retort—but it died when his arm settled along her lower back, his palm warm and steady. Every nerve in her body sparked at the contact, her composure unraveling thread by thread.
“Stop fighting me, Alaire.” His voice dipped lower, rougher. “You’re shivering.”
Her body pressed closer to his heat. “I’m not shivering,” she ground out.
Dawson’s lip twitched. “Denial looks good on you.” His thigh brushed against hers like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Alaire clenched her jaw. “You?—”
“This level of charm cannot be taught. It just is.” His fingers toyed with the edge of the jacket at her shoulder, each graze leaving fire in its wake. “Hard to talk tough when you’re practically cuddled against me.”
Heat crept up her neck. She scooted away. “I am not cuddled against you,” she snapped.
He hooked an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. “If it walks like a cuddle and talks like a cuddle…”
She twisted toward him, their faces inches apart. Gods, she hated the way her breath caught when he looked at her like that. Those turquoise eyes burned in the firelight, magnetic, pulling her in with promises she shouldn’t even be entertaining.
“You’re insufferable,” she muttered past the lump in her throat.
Dawson’s gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, to her mouth. “And yet…” His lashes shadowed the fire in his eyes, and the way he looked at her sent a dangerous current through her veins. “Here we are.”
His breath skimmed her jaw.
Her fingers curled into the collar of his leathers.
He dragged his tongue over his lower lip.
Her blood roared. She didn’t just want him. She needed him?—
A guttural, pained cry split the night.
They jerked apart. Dawson shot to his feet.
Alaire’s hand went instinctively for her daggers—only to grasp at air. Dawson had collected them before their training session.
“ Solflara !” she shouted down the bond. But the bond was silent. Empty. She hadn’t silenced their connection, yet there was nothing. Panic gnawed at her. Something was wrong.
She cursed herself for being too distracted by Dawson to notice sooner.
“I can’t reach Solflara.”
“Beck isn’t answering either.”
Another gut-wrenching cry echoed from the brambles.
“Did you hear that?” Alaire whispered, scanning the shadows.
Dawson nodded, jaw tight.
Scraping followed—a body, or something worse, being dragged through the darkness.
“This isn’t another training exercise, is it?” Her eyes flicked to his.
“No.”
Alaire surged to her feet. “Then let’s go.”
“No. You stay here. I’ll check it out.”
She scoffed. “Do you think I’m going to sit here polishing pots while you play hero? We’re partners, Dawson, whether you like it or not. And if that has anything to do with Solflara, I’m coming.” She planted her hands on her hips. “Not up for debate.”
His jaw worked. “Fine. Stay close. And try not to do anything reckless.”
Alaire gave him a doe-eyed look, even as panic clawed at her ribs. “Reckless? Me? Never. Lead the way, prince.”