“Promise me you won’t hurt yourself,” I demanded, my whisper harsh.
“Elspeth.” He groaned my name as if pleading with not only me but his own sanity.
“Princess?!” The voice grew more urgent.
“Promise me!”
“Gods, Ellie. It’s a simple cut on the–”
The door burst open, and Sainte moved in an instant, spinning me to face the fire. His hand darted behind him, the hum of metal against wood ringing out. A twitch tightened his jaw as he closed his eyes. I craned my head, peeking past his arm as he pulled me close, my bare chest pressing against his damp tunic.
An apprentice in light blue robes stood frozen, the door ajar enough to reveal his shocked expression. A dagger quivered in the frame, mere inches from his face.
“We’re fine,” I said, flashing him a smile.
“I… I–”
“The Princess of Wynterborne answered you, boy,” Sainte snapped.
I smiled at the underside of his chin as he glared at the wall above my head.
“Right then.” The man swallowed nervously, then eased the door shut.
Sainte let me loose as if I burned him, then spun away. Guilt mingled with my anger. I shouldn’t have lashed out, yet it felt justified. Why was I always powerless when I was meant to be a princess? People used my title for their own ends.
“They will cut my palm with a ceremonial dagger,” he said, voice low.
My lips pressed together, and I hurried into the robe. Sainte did the same, not speaking or glancing my way to check if I respected his modesty… whichI did once he removed his tunic. Silence enveloped us. He secured his belt and retrieved his dagger from the frame, sliding it into his sheath.
“I’m coming,” I stated, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I never doubted it.”
We traversed the quiet, dim corridors, where hushed voices and scarce lighting created an atmosphere akin to a dungeon. As we delved deeper into the temple, the lanterns on the walls became more sparse, forcing me to squint in the darkness.
I followed Sainte’s bulky figure as he strode behind the young priest. He was brooding and angry, and I didn’t like it. I was accustomed to his unwavering support, even when he disagreed with me. Now, his frustration was palpable, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.
Not without reason.
I did slap him.
I lowered my head to hide the smirk spreading across my lips. Perhaps I wasn’t as remorseful as I pretended. Asserting my independence felt empowering, despite the consequences. Did I regret slapping him…
Minutely.
He bore physical pain on my behalf, suffering years of floggings and countless beatings, enduring my brother’s wrath. He shielded me with his body. I reached my limit.
I cared for him.
Not that I would tell him that.
It pained me to see him suffer for my sake, even if it was his duty. I resolved to spare him every possible ounce of misery.
Falon claimed Nothar wouldn’t respond to Sainte’s blood…
I glanced up at his broad shoulders, a mischievous grin forming on my lips. As if catching onto my scheme, he peered over his shoulder. I masked my expression with an innocent smile, fluttering my lashes. His mouth curved downward in an endearing manner before his attention focused ahead.
The priest guided us into a vast chamber, its illumination as dim as the corridor we traversed. A fire at its heart cast shadows across the stone walls, adding to the room’s rustic allure. I glanced upward, marveling at the sloped ceiling, wondering about the skilled hands that fashioned this space. The fiery burn of coals within the center outshone the four lanterns’ feeble glow.
