The silence in the room thickened once the door shut.
Roan remained where he stood, back half-turned from the threshold, shoulders squared as if bracing for a battle that had already passed. The scent of Arin still lingered, faint but distinct. Bitter almond and summer rain. It clung to the edges of the room like a ghost that refused to be exorcised.
He didn't speak. Didn't move.
Nova, draped in the afterglow of entitlement and silk sheets, shifted lazily on the edge of his bed. Her body, unashamed, uncovered was poised like art, calculated to catch the firelight in every perfect place.
When she spoke, her voice was smoke and satisfaction. "Now that she's gone, we can finally…"
"Get dressed."
The words were flat. Final.
Nova blinked at first, as if she hadn't heard correctly. "What?"
Roan's jaw tensed as he stepped forward, peeling away from the shadows of the window. He didn't look at her. Couldn't. The scent of her perfume, sickly sweet, heavy as wilted roses coiled around him like chains. His fists clenched at his sides.
"Put your clothes on and leave."
A beat passed. Silence.
Then she laughed. Not coy. Not cruel. Just surprised.
"Roan, please. She is your obligation, not your desire. We both know that."
He turned finally, and his gaze landed on her like ice.
Nova met it without flinching, standing slowly with all the elegance she had been bred into. Candlelight slid across her skin, and still she made no move to cover herself. Her eyes glittered with something sharp beneath the surface.
"She is your queen," he said evenly.
Nova tilted her head. "She is a mistake. A name forced upon you by old men and older laws. A shield to keep the court quiet. Nothing more."
He didn't argue. He didn't need to.
Nova's expression shifted. She reached for the wine decanter and poured a glass, the crystal clinking softly in the still room. She offered it to him, stepping forward.
"Drink. Forget. Let me help you feel good again."
Roan looked down at the glass. Then her. Slowly, deliberately, he took the offering from her hands.
And placed it firmly on the nearest table.
"No."
The word hit harder than a raised voice would have.
Nova's fingers curled. "Roan…"
"I said no." He stepped into her space. Close. Too close. "This was a mistake."
Her brows lifted, perfectly sculpted. "You didn't think so when I was…"
"And yet I'm thinking so now."
Nova stared at him. Not in disbelief. Not even in anger. Just… calculating.
"You would throw me out," she said. "For her?"
Roan's silence was answer enough.
She began to dress then, unhurried. Controlled. Her silk gown whispered against her skin as she slipped into it with practiced ease, the mask of serenity folding back over her like armor.
As she passed him, she paused by the door, one hand resting on the carved oak handle.
"You may wear the crown," she said, voice low and cool, "but don't forget who helped you shoulder its weight."
Then she left.
No dramatic parting. No slammed door.
Just quiet footsteps.
And a silence that followed like judgment.
Roan stood there for a long while, unmoving. He could still see the shape Arin had made in the doorway the way her eyes had widened, not in rage, not in outrage, but in something worse. A hollow, grief-struck disappointment that he hadn't earned, yet hated receiving.
She had looked like something fragile in that moment.
But not weak.
No, not weak.
She hadn't screamed. Hadn't begged. Hadn't demanded answers or curses or vengeance.
She had just left. Her silence said more than any fury ever could.
He moved back to the bed, dropping into it like a man too tired to hold his own weight. He reached for the wine and drank deep, the tart sweetness doing nothing to quiet the echo in his chest.
Arin.
He should feel nothing. That had been the plan. The expectation.
He hadn't asked for her. The council had insisted, and her father had schemed. He needed ties to the North, their wealth was important, most especially after years of border unrest. They had called her perfect: wolfless, soft-spoken, docile. Ideal for presentation and power consolidation.
He hadn't even looked at her during the binding ceremony. Only her hands. Small. Steady. She hadn't trembled.
He thought she was resigned.
But tonight… something inside her had burned.
And he'd stoked it. He'd struck the match.
Good, he told himself. Let her break now, before she ever began to hope.
Better she hate him than waste time on fantasy.
He leaned forward, rubbing his hands over his face. His thoughts were loud, chaotic. He couldn't stand Nova's scent still clinging to the sheets. Couldn't stand the shape her body had made against him.
Couldn't stand that Arin's scent, barely there, barely a memory was the one he noticed.
He rose abruptly and opened the windows, letting the cold night air rush in. He ripped the blankets off the bed and threw them into the hearth, sparks rising in a sudden flurry of flame.
He stood there, breathing hard, staring into the fire like it might burn away the parts of him that couldn't stop replaying her expression.
So quiet.
So hurt.
But not broken.
Not yet.
He wasn't made for softness. He wasn't made for care. This marriage, this farce was a cage. One more link in a long chain of obligations he had no desire to bear.
And yet…
And yet, her silence haunted him.
The way she had folded in on herself. The way she had looked at him not like a lover, or a queen, or even a rival, but like someone who had seen enough betrayal to know this wouldn't be the last.
He poured another drink.
Let it burn.
Let it numb.
Because if she didn't break, if she refused to disappear, then Roan knew something dangerous would come next.
She would begin to fight back.
And he wasn't sure whether he would be ready to deal with that.