But I was the king, not the prince. Her future father-in-law, not her betrothed.
So, I kept walking.
Days passed, and Nienna grew too close. She was always at my side. At council meetings, she took Tallon’s place when he was absent, sitting at my right hand. The initial wary glances turned into a quiet acceptance. Nobles weren’t accustomed to a woman at the table, but she earned their respect with each meeting, offering sharp insights and clear thoughts.
She sat beside me at dinner, close enough that I detected the faint fragrance of water lilies in her hair. I caught the sparkle in her eyes whenever she understood a joke, that twinkle of wit and ease.
Yet, she was too far. Her chair sat just out of reach. I couldn’t touch her, nor could I whisper reassurances when confusion flickered across her face, her brow furrowing at a nobleman’s remark.
Her focus on learning the land’s patterns—the crops, the livestock, the importance of each district—stirred a reckless urge in me. I longed to reach for her, to act on the temptation she kindled.
I kept my distance, avoiding the balcony in case she sought me there. My heart ached for her—I burned in her presence. I couldn’t trust myself.
It had been mere moments after her maid’s death, when I pressed her against the wall, taking her mouth like I wanted to take her body.
I shifted in the saddle, riding through the city. My thighs felt tight in my breeches, and I pasted on a practiced smile as I greeted the people of Reem.
If Greaves hadn’t halted us at the library, if Tallon had not interrupted in the stairwell… I wanted to believe I was above it—above taking her like some careless youth. But clearly, I wasn’t.
Her softness lingered in my memory, the feel of her hair slipping through my fingers. Her quiet moans as she yielded to me. And her persistence when I pulled away—how she reached for me again.
Reins in hand, I rested my palm on the front of my saddle, cursing my wandering thoughts. This wasn’t the moment for recalling the sounds she made or how her legs felt wrapped around me.
We pushed deeper into Reem, stopping to speak with citizens along the way. They needed to see I was still capable of defending them. That I was steady andassured after the assassination attempt, one that surely already spread through the rumor mill.
I was discussing the rising cost of iron with a blacksmith’s son when Greaves nudged his horse closer, his boot brushing against mine.
“No more melting down nails every day!” The boy went on with enthusiasm.
“Resources will grow each week now that the war’s over,” I replied, offering a smile, though my gaze shifted to Greaves.
His eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead, brows drawn in a sharp frown. The reins were taut in his hands, and his gelding stamped at the dirt.
I studied the path, searching for whatever unsettled him. Commoners weaved in and out around us, a familiar dance. They greeted me with smiles and waves, but knew I wouldn’t be gone long. Some lingered, cautious but curious, staying just beyond the reach of Greaves’ watchful glare—and, at times, his shouted warnings.
Among the crowd, my gaze snagged on the unmistakable gleam of black armor.
A Thresher.
“I’ve taken up too much of your time, Your Majesty,” the boy said, embarrassed.
I returned my focus to him with a nod. “Next week, I expect to see those new nails!” I chuckled, straightening in my saddle.
As I spurred my horse forward, the crowd parted, scattering as they sensed the shift in pace. We kept a safe distance behind the Thresher, careful not to draw attention. It wasn’t unusual to spot one within the city; it only meant a high-ranking noble ventured into Reem.
But Greaves’ expression—his glower confirmed my suspicions. Without further comment, he urged his horse into a faster gait, taking a slight lead.
Nienna wasn’t confined to the palace. She was allowed to roam whenever she pleased, yet by the gods, I wished she would have warned me. Whoever sought her life was still out there, and while the Threshers were elite, they could be overwhelmed.
A cloaked figure whirled on the Thresher, and a flash of blonde hair slipped free from her hood. She hissed, waving her hand at the guard, but he ignored her and pressed on. I could almost feel her frustration as she turned away, plunging into the crowd.
That was enough to snap me into motion.
We veered off the main road, guiding our horses alongside a rickety wagon. The side street was narrow, out of sight, and our mounts were shielded from view. A man, whose weathered face and bloodshot eyes suggested he’d spent too many nights in his cart, squinted at us.
“Your cloak, good sir,” I said, dismounting.
The stallion snorted as I tethered him to the wagon, scanning the area. A few passersby noticed the gleam of my mantle, their faces scrunching in confusion before they bowed.
