Chapter Ten — The Space Between
I didn't see Kael for the rest of the day.
Not at court. Not in the corridors. Not even at the evening meal, where his absence felt as loud as the empty chair beside the queen.
So when the knock came just after nightfall—two firm, deliberate raps—I already knew it wasn't a servant.
I opened the door to the knight from before. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair tied back. Eyes the warm brown of worn leather—patient and hard to read.
"His Highness wishes to see you."
"At this hour?"
"Does the sun's absence change the meaning of an order?" he asked, as if stating a simple fact dressed up like a riddle.
I swallowed the retort on my tongue. "Lead the way."
---
The night made the palace feel like a held breath. Torches hummed along the walls; even the guards' armor seemed to soften its voice. My steps echoed in the spaces between lights.
Kael's study door stood ajar. He didn't look up when I entered, absorbed in a sheet of parchment crowded with small, precise handwriting. He rolled it away before I could see more.
"You're late," he said.
"You sent for me moments ago."
He lifted his gaze, cool and amused. "You think obedience is measured by the clock?"
"I think you enjoy arranging the room so everyone begins already guilty."
That teased the corner of his mouth. "Now we're getting somewhere."
He came around the desk unhurried, like a hunter circling something he meant to claim. I stepped back on instinct. My shoulders found a bookcase; the wood was cool through the cloth of my gown.
"You've been making an impression," he said.
"On the queen?"
"On everyone. Some are curious. Some are wary. Some would like nothing better than to see you gone."
"That's encouraging," I said dryly.
"Sarcasm," he murmured. "Not what I expect from my future wife… though on you, it almost entertains."
He didn't stop until he stood close enough that the heat of him crowded the air between us. His hand lifted to brush a stray curl from my cheek.
I flinched before I could stop myself—small, but not small enough to hide.
"Uncomfortable?" he asked.
"I prefer to decide who touches me."
"Then get used to being uncomfortable."
He took a step forward. I took one back.
"When we're married," he continued, closing the distance again, "your words, your steps, and yes—your touch—will belong to me. That is the price for standing at my side."
Another step from him; another retreat from me. The smooth paneling found my spine.
"And if I have my own words?" I asked.
His palm settled against the wall beside my head, boxing me in. His other hand hovered just above my hip, not quite touching—close enough to make the air feel tight.
"Choose them carefully. There are ways to keep a sharp tongue," he said softly, "and still live to use it again."
"You make marriage sound less like a union and more like a leash."
"Only for those who pull against it." His voice dropped, quiet and sure. "Tell me, Serenya… will you pull?"
I kept my chin high. "Not unless you give me a reason to."
Something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Then his hand finally touched my hip—not gentle, not rough, simply certain—his thumb tracing a slow arc that made my pulse misbehave.
"I could find a dozen reasons," he said. "Some you'd hate me for. Some… you might not."
I stayed very still. My mind told me to shove him away. My body wasn't listening.
"You think wit is armor?" he breathed, leaning in until the edge of his coat brushed my gown. "I can take that from you in a single night and have you begging to hand it over."
"That assumes I care what you want."
"You will," he replied, his breath warm against my cheek. "Because soon enough, what I want will be the only thing that keeps you alive."
His hand slid along my jaw, thumb pressing lightly beneath my chin until my head tipped back.
"Look at me," he ordered.
I did.
"There," he said, almost to himself. "The part of you that doesn't know whether to hate me or…" His thumb ghosted across my lower lip. "…something else."
A knock at the door startled the room back into motion. He didn't move at first; then he drew away, slow, as if reluctant to leave fingerprints on the air.
"Enter," Kael said.
The knight stepped inside—silent, steady. His gaze flicked to me for a heartbeat, then to the prince. "Your Highness, the envoy from Aelthros has arrived."
Kael didn't look away from me. "Tell them I'll be there shortly, Blackthorn."
The name rooted itself in my mind at once. Blackthorn. A flower with a hidden cost.
"Yes, Your Highness." Blackthorn turned to go, then paused. A thin draft curled from the window behind me; without a word, he crossed the room, reached past—but not into—the space Kael had occupied, and eased the shutters closed. The sudden hush stroked across my skin like warm cloth. He didn't touch me. He didn't need to. The simple, practical care made my chest ache in a way Kael's nearness hadn't.
Our eyes met—just for a breath—then he inclined his head and left as quietly as he'd come.
Kael's gaze snapped back to mine. "We're not finished."
"I never agreed to start."
That earned the faintest curve of his mouth, not quite a smile. "Careful, Serenya. You're playing with a man who doesn't lose."
He turned toward the door, the red of his coat catching the lamplight as he moved. At the threshold, he looked over his shoulder.
"Be ready tonight. You'll dine with me. I don't like my guests unprepared."
The door closed. Silence settled—thick, aware. I pressed my fingers to the place on my hip where his hand had rested and told myself the quickness in my pulse belonged to anger.
It wasn't the whole truth.