Elena woke up and immediately wished she hadn't.
Her entire body remembered last night.
Her brain did too.
Unfortunately.
She sat up, dragged a pillow over her face, and groaned into it.
"Fantastic," she muttered. "I can't wait to make eye contact with the man I… acoustically embarrassed myself in front of."
Mortification had a pulse. And it was hers.
Eventually—because life was cruel and breakfast was mandatory—she forced herself out of bed, straightened her hair, and stepped into the hallway with the confidence of a woman who absolutely did not moan Soren's name into the night air.
She lasted ten meters.
Then she saw him.
Soren was leaning against an archway like he had all the time in the world and had spent every second of it being outrageously attractive. His black leather armor was half-fastened, dark hair slightly mussed, jaw shadowed with early stubble.
And he was watching her.
With the kind of awareness she desperately wished he didn't have.
Her brain shut down.
Abort mission. Run. Pretend to be someone else. Fake your own death—
"Elena," Soren said softly.
No. No, no, no. Why did her name sound like that in his mouth? Why did her knees react like someone had unplugged them?
She lifted her chin. Proud. Fearless. Dignity restored.
"Your Highness," she said stiffly.
A tiny flicker crossed his mouth.
Oh no.
Was that a smile?
A knowing smile?
He pushed off the wall, walking toward her with unbothered, predatory calm.
"Did you sleep?" he asked.
"Fine," she replied too quickly. "Perfectly fine. Best sleep of my entire existence. Very quiet. Very normal."
Soren's brows lifted a millimeter.Which, for him, was the equivalent of screaming with laughter.
"Quiet?" he echoed.
Her lungs failed.
He stepped closer—just close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to maintain the illusion of composure.
"I thought I heard something," he said.
Elena died.
Just died on the spot.
"Probably… rats," she whispered.
"In your room?" he murmured.
"Big rats."
He inhaled slowly, deliberately.
Her skin flushed in a violent, full-body betrayal.
His gaze dropped—too low, too knowing—before rising again to her eyes.
"Elena," he said in that low, velvet tone that absolutely should be illegal, "if you are unwell, you may tell me."
"I'm not unwell," she snapped. "I'm perfectly well. Entirely well. Ridiculously well."
His lips curved slightly.
Smug. Devastating.
"Good," he murmured. "You seem… rested."
Rested.
RESTED.
She almost threw herself out the nearest window.
Trying to salvage what remained of her dignity, she scoffed, straightened her shoulders, and said:
"I have nothing to explain."
"Mm." His gaze lingered far too long. "Of course not."
"And whatever you think you heard," she continued, voice jumping an octave, "you didn't."
"I see."
"We're done here."
"We are not."
Her stomach dropped.
Soren leaned in just enough that only she could hear the next words:
"If there is ever something you need," he said softly, "you may ask for it. Instead of… dropping things repeatedly."
Her soul left her body.
He stepped back, expression perfectly composed—except for the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Before she could react, Claire appeared around the corner, bright and oblivious.
"Oh! Elena!" she exclaimed. "Come eat with me!"
Elena latched onto Claire like a woman rescued from drowning.
"Yes. Food. Absolutely. Immediate food. Goodbye—goodbye—Your Highness."
She fled.
Just— fled.
Claire blinked after her. Then turned to Soren.
"What," she asked, "did you do now?"
Soren didn't answer.
But the corner of his mouth lifted again.
And he was still watching Elena as she ran.
Because he knew.
He absolutely knew.
And Elena was never going to survive breakfast.