She took two deliberate steps back. "I can find my own way."
Turning her head slightly, she caught sight of his impeccable attire: a dark blue tunic beneath a heavy white coat that hugged the planes of his chest and shoulders, accentuating a figure carved for command.
"I know you, Aurelia."
His voice was low, deliberate. He moved closer, his ocean-blue irises fixing not on her face, but on the faint marks scattered across her neck and shoulders—bruises in the shape of desire, of teeth and fingertips.
"Let me take you to your chambers."
Before she could protest, his hand rose, fingers brushing slowly over the curve of her shoulder.
"What is this?" he asked, though his tone said he already knew.
He closed the distance between them, his thumb tracing a lingering path over one of the marks. "Did he hurt you?"
She pulled her shoulder back, the motion both a retreat and an adjustment—a subtle shift to cover what lingered on her skin.
"Nothing here should concern you," she said, taking a measured step back as her gaze lifted to his.
Her violet eyes clashed with his ocean-blue stare—two opposing colors locked in the torch-lit dim of the corridor.
"Look at your hair," he murmured, stepping closer. "Look at your gown. He didn't even bother to dress you properly." His voice softened, yet carried an edge. "Everything about you concerns me."
She didn't flinch, but he could see the rise and fall of her chest—a silent, rapid rhythm she couldn't conceal.
Without another word, he removed his white coat, letting it drape across one arm before stepping close enough that his shadow fell over her. Gently, he guided it over her shoulders, the fabric settling warm and heavy around her.
"Here," he said, his smile faint in the shifting torchlight as his eyes drifted over the coat now draped across her shoulders.
Why is it you I find whenever I am lost?
Why are you the only one here when I have no one?
She looked at his hand still resting near her collar, her expression tightening—a mask over the unwelcome warmth his gesture stirred.
"I don't need your pity, Kaelen," she said, her voice low but clear. "I will find my own way."
Beneath the folds of her gown, her fingers tightened around the torn undergarment—a hidden reminder of what she was truly fleeing.
"Find your own way and you'll wander till nightfall," he said, stepping closer. His eyes dropped to where her hand was tucked into the folds of her gown. "What is that?"
"It's none of your—"
Before she could finish, he caught her wrist and pulled the fabric from her grip, holding it high above her head. She strained, rising onto her toes, her boots scraping stone—but he was taller, unmoving.
Only then did he see what it was: torn linen, the remains of her undergarment.
"Stop this. It isn't funny," she said, voice tight, still reaching uselessly.
"So you're completely bare beneath this dress," he observed, stepping nearer. She retreated until her back met the wall, her head pressed against cold marble. "Only this coat between you and the world."
His breath brushed her neck, low and intimate. "Nothing between your thighs but memory."
"Would you like to check?" she whispered, defiance sparking in her violet eyes as she pressed harder against the stone.
"Yes, of course. But first…" His free hand came to rest beside her head, caging her in. "Tell me why you're running. Tell me, and I'll give this back." He lowered his head, his nose brushing her neck as if he could scent her defiance.
A cold, betraying chill crept over her skin, but this time she controlled it—steadying her breath, her will.
"Stop it."
In one swift motion, she snatched the torn undergarment from his grip and turned to leave.
But before she could escape, his hand closed around her wrist.
His grip was firm but not bruising—a circle of heat that seemed to seep through her skin, sending a betraying chill down her spine. She twisted her legs together instinctively, aware—painfully aware—that beneath the gown and his coat, she wore nothing at all.
She didn't pull away. Instead, she turned slowly, her violet eyes glowing faintly in the torch-lit dim. "Let go, Kaelen," she said, her voice low and layered with warning. "Or I will make y—"
Grrrrrrrrrl.
The sound cut through the tension like a blade—loud, deep, and utterly human.
Her stomach had growled.
For a moment, the entire corridor seemed to freeze. The defiance in her eyes flickered, replaced by a flush of sheer, undeniable embarrassment.
Grrrrrrrrrl.
It whispered through her again, a deep, visceral rumble that made her bend slightly at the waist, one hand twitching against her stomach.
"Are you all right?"
He caught her before she could stumble, his arm firm around her waist.
"I was certain you hadn't eaten," he murmured, his other hand pressing gently across her shoulder—protective, almost possessive. "Come. I'll take you to the kitchens before your empty stomach does what your pride couldn't."
She wanted to refuse, to pull away and reclaim her anger—but another low growl betrayed her. "Fine," she muttered. "Take me."
He guided her slowly down the corridor, one hand steadying her elbow. Thank the heavens the kitchen wasn't far—just around the next turn, through an arched doorway veiled in the scent of baking bread and smoked meat.
Inside, the kitchen was a vault of warmth and noise—fires crackled in wide hearths, copper pots gleamed under the glow of oil lamps, and beautifully carved cupboards rose toward shadowed ceilings.
"What are you—"
A scullery maid glanced up, her words dying as her eyes landed on Kaelen. She bowed slightly turning away swiftly, her attention fixed back on the dough she was kneading.
He guided Aurelia to a stool near the hearth's warmth. "Stay," he said, the word not quite a command, not quite a plea. "I'll find you something that won't revolt your noble stomach." Before she could reply, he bent and pressed his lips lightly to the silk above her navel—a kiss so swift and subtle it might have been a trick of the firelight.
A faint, involuntary smile touched her lips. The gesture sent a ticklish flutter through her belly—one that had nothing to do with hunger.
He moved toward the cupboards with the ease of a man who knew this place well. "There should be honeyed figs and oatbread here somewhere… unless the afternoon watch has already plundered it."
"Why are you doing this, Kaelen?" she asked, her voice barely above the crackle of the fire. "I am not your responsibility."
He paused, his back to her for a moment before turning slowly.
"And what do you think you are to my brother? His responsibility?" His gaze held hers, intense and unguarded. "I do not see you as a problem. You are everything a man could ask for. You are… important to me."
He took a step closer. "You deserve more than being called his harlot in every hall, Aurelia. More than being left bare and hungry while the court whispers."
"He doesn't care what they call you looked at your wrist it's bandaged because of him. I care ,I do."
He bent toward her, his hand cupping her cheek—firm, but not harsh. She sat perfectly still, her violet eyes fixed on his as his lips drew nearer, closer, until only a breath separated them.
Then he froze.
"I… sincerely apologize."
He pulled back abruptly, his expression tightening as his gaze swept the kitchen. Two scullery maids had paused in their work, watching—not with curiosity, but recognition. They knew who she was. Tenebrarum's woman. The one everyone talked about, and no one defended.
One of the older cooks called out, her voice layered with false courtesy, "Will my lord be requiring a plate for his… guest?"
"A large tray, perhaps," Kaelen answered, his smile faint but deliberate. His hand brushed hers briefly beneath the table before he straightened.
Soon a tray arrived, laden with dishes: steaming chicken soup, a small venison pie, honey cake, and slices of roasted pork—all placed silently before her.
"Thank you," she whispered, picking up the cutlery. She ate quickly, not tasting so much as fueling herself, bite after steady bite.
The cook—a stout woman with flour-dusted arms—gripped Kaelen's sleeve and pulled him into the pantry, closing the door behind them. In the dim, spice-filled space, her voice dropped to a hiss.
"Lord Kaelen, have you lost your senses? Do you want your brother to kill you?"
This was Marta—the same woman who'd caught him stealing honey cakes when he was knee-high, and who had never once turned him in.
"She was shaking with hunger, Marta. Would you have me let her faint in the hall?"
He ran a hand through his silver hair, tied loosely at his nape. "You know how much I care for her."
"Your brother will not take this lightly."
"My brother. My brother. My brother." His voice dropped, each repetition sharper than the last. "I do not care what he would do. I love her—and that is enough."
"Love?" Marta's voice was low and grim. "Love won't stop a blade, boy. And your brother carries more than one."
"I know the risks," Kaelen replied, his voice dropping almost to a whisper. "But if I walk away from her now… I am no better than him."
Without another word, he turned and left her standing in the spice-scented dimness of the pantry, the weight of his declaration lingering like smoke in the air.
When Kaelen stepped back into the kitchen's warmth, Aurelia was no longer eating.
She stood near the hearth, his coat wrapped tightly around her, the torn undergarment still hidden in her fist. Her eyes lifted to his—violet, alert, and painfully aware.
"I heard," she said, her voice barely carrying over the crackle of the fire.
He didn't ask what she meant. He didn't need to.
The space between them felt charged, thin—as though the air itself held the echo of his words: I love her.
"We should go," he said softly, moving toward her. "Before others come looking."
--------------------------------
To be continued...