CHAPTER EIGHT
Another week goes by, and then a month, and then several more. Soon, Henri and I slip into a routine—a lonely routine, but comfortable for the most part.
By day, my husband wanders the forest, tenaciously protecting the nearby villagers from everything from wolves to careless accidents. I join him occasionally, but I’ve grown bored of aimlessly wandering the woods.
At dark, he returns to me. We usually share a simple dinner of greens I’ve gathered from the forest and whatever meat Henri brings back. I miss baked goods, but I don’t dare venture back to the village for supplies to fill the larder.
As far as the villagers know, we traveled through near the beginning of summer and are far, far away.
With the passing of months, Henri and I become friends. I treasure the time we spend together. The sun has become my enemy, and the moon is dear. Still, in all this time, Henri has not touched me past the kiss I receive on my forehead every evening when he returns home.
And I am going mad.
Henri sits across from me now, in front of a crackling fire. He’s reserved tonight, more so than usual.
We’ve eaten and are enjoying the pleasant hours before we retire to our chambers—him in the guest suite and me in his room. Why he continues to separate himself even though we are married, I’ll never know.
Rynn’s wretched cat appears out of nowhere and leaps onto his lap. Henri absently scratches her head, and she purrs, reveling in the attention.
For the first time in my life, I wish I were a cat.
As if sensing my irritation, the awful beast turns her head to face me, giving me the feline version of a smirk.
“You’re quiet,” I say to Henri as I glare at the cat.
He turns, meeting my eyes. “Are you happy, Sophie?”
The question takes me by surprise. “Yes, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
Shaking his head, he looks back at the fire. “You’re vibrant, lively, and I’ve trapped you in this empty palace, all so I don’t have to face the evening hours alone. It was cruel of me.”
I narrow my eyes, wondering where this is coming from.
After several long, quiet minutes, he finally says, “A woman in the village died today. The entire community wept at her funeral. They spoke of all the things she’d done in her life, all the people she cared for. She’d touched every one of their lives in some way.”
“Henri—”
He turns to face me, his eyes searching mine. “And I realized I’m going to lose you someday. You’re going to waste your life here, shying away from the sun, and for what? I’ll be here long after you’re gone, burdened with the memory of what I’ve lost. And you’ll never live.”
He’s right. But I wouldn’t leave him now, not ever. I’ve grown to care for the hurting prince, more than I thought I would. More than I thought I could.
“I’m here by choice,” I remind him softly. “And I stay by choice.”
Needing him to understand, I set my hand on his. For the most part, I’ve respected the distance he seems to crave. I tease him occasionally, flirt a little, but I never let him see how I’m truly starting to feel.
I suppose I’ve been frightened—frightened of the bear, frightened of the man. Perhaps even more the man because he keeps me at such a distance.
The contact startles Henri, and he pulls his arm back quickly, inadvertently bumping a tray of pillar candles burning next to him. The cat yowls and leaps to the floor.
The tallest candle tips, spilling wax. I quickly set it right, but melted wax has already pooled on the table.
“Careful—” I begin, but it’s too late. Henri sets his elbow right in it.
“Did it burn?” I ask, tugging his arm toward me so I can get a better look.
“No.” He grimaces and shakes his head, disgusted with himself. “But I liked this shirt.”
I laugh under my breath. “I can clean the shirt.”
Henri looks up, meeting my eyes. The nearness takes me by surprise, and my mouth goes dry.
“It’s impossible to remove tallow wax from fabric,” he murmurs, his voice deeper than before.
My stomach clenches, and my breath catches in my throat. “Impossible for some, perhaps. But not me.”
Feeling bold, and maybe a bit reckless, I loosen the ties of his leather jerkin.
Henri tenses and places a hand on mine, stopping me. “Sophia.”
It’s a quiet chastisement, one that would have made me cower when I first arrived. But I’m not afraid of him anymore, and I’m done living like strangers.
Softly, I bat his hand away and continue my work.
His arm falls slowly, and he swallows. His reaction makes my heart race, makes me wonder why he’s stayed away all this time.
I tug the jerkin over his head, and then I begin to untie his shirt’s neck laces.
“Sophie,” he says again, this time sounding pained.
It’s the tightness of his voice that makes me pause. I meet his gaze, unsure what I’ll find there. Once I look, I wonder if I should have kept my head lowered.
There is wanting in his light eyes, a desire to be close. But there’s conflict there as well. He wages an internal battle, but I have no idea what it might be.
“I cannot clean your shirt if you don’t give it to me,” I point out, trying to keep my voice even. The words come out quiet, but at least they don’t waver.
Henri’s breathing is shallow, matching my own, and he shakes his head as he clenches his hands in an attempt to keep them to himself.
The simple movement is like lightning to my chest.
Pretending I am brave, I step into him, moving as close as I am able. Even seated, Henri’s imposing. He dominates the chair, makes it look dainty even though it’s constructed of heavy wood.
I set my hand on his shoulder, and he tenses. Then, giving in, he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. “You can’t do this.”
“I can’t touch your shoulder?” I ask, purposely obtuse. I let my fingers drift down his arm, my touch light and exploratory. “Or your arm?”
A smile dances across his face even though he’s at war with himself. “You are wicked.”
“What about your elbow?” I ask, biting back a giddy smile as my hand drifts farther. The wax is already drying, making the fabric rigid. I lean close to him, willing him to open his eyes.
He finally complies, giving me a wry look when his stare meets mine.
Nodding, breathless and drunk on the sensation of touching him, I lean closer, softly teasing, “That’s surely allowed.”
Perhaps without him realizing it, his hands move to the sides of my waist. “You have to stop.”
“Then why are you pulling me closer?” I whisper.
He tugs me against him, destroying the wall he’s so carefully built between us. I stumble, startled, and catch my balance on his chest. There’s no sensation more exquisite than Henri’s arms around me and the steady thrum of his heart beating under my palm.
“Because I am a fool,” he breathes against my neck. “And this is torture.”
I close my eyes as his lips skim my jaw, cheeks, temples, and nose. But never my mouth.
“Why won’t you kiss me?” I demand after several long, agonizing minutes.
“I cannot.”
My hands rove his shoulders. “It’s really not that difficult,” I tease as his lips move to the sensitive skin behind my ear. “I think you’ll see if you give it a try.”
“Sophie,” he says, my name a caress and a plea. “If you care for me, please stop.”
I pull back, making him meet my eyes. “I do care.” I voice the words solemnly, though they aren’t enough. “Henri, I care very much.”
He cups the back of my neck, his expression earnest. “Then do not ask me to kiss you. I am not strong enough to resist again.”
Unnerved by the intensity of his gaze, I slowly nod. “All right.”
“I mean it, Sophie,” he says, his tone too serious for my liking.
A lump forms in my throat. I try to pull away, but Henri holds me in place, not letting me leave.
“You don’t have to go,” he whispers.
“But you just said—”
“I know what I said, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hold you and wish things were different.”
I soften against him. His eyes are haunted, and I want nothing more than to take the look away. What has him so worried?
Nodding, I catch his hand and pull him from the chair. Without a word, I lead him to his chamber. Though we cannot be together, we are married. I finally see he needs me as much as I need him, and I do not intend to spend another night alone.
Henri resists but finally lies on the bed, pulling me close. “I have to leave before the dawn,” he murmurs into my hair.
“That’s for the best,” I say lightly, reveling in the sweet feel of his arms around me. “I don’t particularly want to share my bed with a bear.”
His rumbling laugh makes me smile, and I lie here, utterly content as I listen to the rhythmic sound of his breathing. It soon slows, and I know he’s fallen asleep.
I turn in his arms, gazing at his face in the meager moonlight that spills from a part in the drapes. “I’m afraid I’m falling in love with you,” I whisper, safe because I know he can’t hear me.
It’s a terrifying thing, something I didn’t plan on.
Softly so I don’t wake him, I press the gentlest of kisses to his lips.
Henri made me swear I wouldn’t ask him to kiss me, but I never promised I wouldn’t kiss him.
***
A bird chatters outside the window. Its song is so foreign, I wake with a start. Not once in the entire time I’ve been here have I seen a bird on the palace. They grace the nearby trees and forage for food in the meadows, but they do not venture near the castle itself.
I sit up, startling the man next to me. Henri groans, still half-asleep.
Sunlight washes over him, illuminating features I’ve never seen in the warmth of morning.
“Henri,” I gasp.
He opens his eyes, wincing as they adjust to the light. He stares at me, seemingly bemused, and then he bolts upright in the bed.
“No,” he says, horrified as he scans his body—his human body. “No!”
Startled by his strange reaction when I believe he should be rejoicing, I shrink away from him. He turns to me, his face etched with horror…and fear.
The fear scares me, but my brain is muddled. Henri is handsome by firelight, but in the day…
How is this man my husband?
Henri’s magnificent. His features are chiseled—a marble artist’s dream in flesh. But it’s his eyes that capture me. They’re ice-blue, just like the bear’s. It’s a color that was impossible to ascertain in firelight, and they are trained right on mine.
“Sophie, what have you done?” he whispers as he yanks me into a tight embrace, clinging to me in anguish.
“I don’t understand,” I say against his chest.
He nudges me back and meets my gaze. “You’ve broken the curse.”
“And that’s bad?”
“She’ll feel it, and she’ll come. Briadell’s no longer safe.” His frown darkens. “You have to leave—you have to go home.”
I shake out of his grip. “I am home.”
“I can’t lose you,” he says, his voice urgent. “Sophie, she’ll hurt you out of spite.”
Hugging myself, more terrified than I want him to know, I shake my head, adamantly refusing. “I’m not leaving you.”
He clenches his eyes shut. “What is that ridiculous summon?” His eyes fly open, and he recites Mortimer’s call. But he says it wrong, and I’m not about to correct him.
To my great surprise, moments later, the air crackles, and the fairy appears.
Except it’s not the fairy at all.
“Amara,” Henri snarls as his muscles go rigid.
The woman is tall and regal, with ebony black hair and a look of pure loathing twisting her stunning face. She cackles as if mad and points a slender finger at Henri. “I knew it was only a matter of time.”
He pushes me behind him, about to say something, when the woman gasps. Her body flickers, almost as if half of her is trying to wink back to whatever forsaken place it is she came from. After a moment, she gains control, and then she turns her venomous stare on the prince. “I will kill you slowly, and then I will rule your kingdom as its queen.”
She raises her hand, and green, wispy magic crackles in her palm. Before she can cast it, I throw myself in front of the prince.
The pain is horrible, and I hear myself scream. It stabs like ice, jolts like lightning, and comes in waves, rising and falling like the tide. I writhe in pain, desperately wishing I could faint just so the misery would end. And through it all, my wretched blessing keeps track of the time. Three seconds pass, then five, seven, ten…
“Save her, and I will do anything you ask,” I barely hear Henri say.
“No,” I manage to gasp out, but that one word is all I have in me.
“Anything?” the troll woman demands.
“Anything you ask,” Henri vows, “if you save her.”
The pain comes to an abrupt stop, and I go still on the bed. The memory of the magic courses through my body, making me numb—and thankful to be. Silent tears run down my cheeks, but I’m helpless to stop them.
“The wretched fairy magic lingers,” the troll snarls to herself, flickering again like the flame of a candle.
It doesn’t look as if she can stay much longer. Soon, what’s left of Henri’s original, troll-twisted childhood blessing will shove her from the kingdom.
She turns her glittering, green eyes on Henri. “So be it. If I can’t rule, then you will marry my daughter. Take her as your queen. Let your people bow at her feet and do her every bidding.”
Henri looks at me, his face ashen.
“If you do not agree,” the woman continues, “I will kill this human girl before the magic forces me away—don’t think I cannot.”
I try to tell Henri not to give in, but the words come out as a nonsensical mumble.
“Fine,” the prince bites out. “I agree.”
Before I can argue, rail against his decision, or do so much as take a single breath, the troll disappears, taking Henri with her.
I’m left in the still palace, paralyzed by weakness, unable to even cry properly.
Outside the window, the bird continues to sing.