It took Aveline several slow, unsteady breaths to remember where she was.
She was not in the Willowgrave mansion.
She was sold.
And now…
Her gaze lifted to the man before her.
Theron.
He was no longer clad in armor. Without it, he seemed broader somehow. More real. His dark tunic clung damply to his shoulders, sleeves rolled to his forearms. And he looked…
Angry.
He was not loud, he didn't shout. But he was tightly, dangerously contained.
Her first instinct was to drop her eyes.
"What are you doing?" she asked anyway, her sapphire eyes flickering in the candlelight.
He saw the tremor in her hands. His jaw tightened. His fists curled at his sides.
"You stink," he said flatly.
The words struck.
For a heartbeat, she was offended, absurdly so. Of all the things to say. Of all the ways to look at her...
She had once been a lady. Now she was here… filth, blood, and the remnants of someone else's violence.
And then she laughed.
Not brittle. Not forced.
A sudden, wholehearted laugh that startled even her. It bubbled up from somewhere unhinged, somewhere teetering on the edge of hysteria.
His eyes narrowed.
Her laughter cut short when he stepped forward and lifted her as if she weighed nothing.
She gulped, instinctively clutching at his shoulders.
Before she could see his expression clearly, he stopped at the wooden tub filled with steaming water.
And without ceremony…
He threw her in.
She went under completely. Warm water swallowed her whole. For a disorienting second, there was only muffled sound and heat.
She broke the surface with a sharp gasp, hair plastered across her face.
Before she could inhale fully, his voice cut low and commanding.
"Hold your breath."
"What are you—"
His palm pressed firmly against her forehead and pushed her under again.
Her fingers clawed at the rim of the tub. Her legs kicked once, twice…
Then he pulled her up.
She surfaced coughing, dragging in air, fury and shock tangling in her chest.
Before she could form a protest, he had taken a cloth and began wiping her face with brisk efficiency.
"Whose blood is that?" he asked.
His eyes were on her. He was not glancing, not distracted.
He was looking... Into her.
"I tried to bite my way out earlier," she replied, holding his gaze this time.
He did not look surprised. He did not look disgusted either. Just… assessing.
She went quiet, deciding to watch him instead.
He cleaned her face, her hands, her arms. His movements were firm but careful. He avoided bruises without being told. When she flinched, his grip adjusted automatically.
Gentleness, she had not been given in ten years.
"Why did you buy me?" she asked suddenly.
His hand, reaching toward the dried streak along her neck, stilled.
For the first time, something flickered in his expression. Not anger. Something sharper.
His gaze was too intense. She had to look away first.
"I bought you for the Crown of Greenvale," Theron said at last, his eyes shifting to the water.
Her heart stumbled.
"The Crown? Prince Vaelor?" Her pulse quickened. "What does he want with me?"
She grabbed the cloth from his hand before he could resume cleaning her neck.
"Tell me why," she demanded.
All she knew about the Crown Prince of Greenvale was rumors and whispers in corridors. They said that Prince Vaelor was ruthless, bloodthirsty, and cruel beyond words. He was a beast wearing a man's skin and drinking the blood of virgins.
"Did he want any woman?" she pressed, voice thinning despite her effort to sound calm, "and you bought me for him?"
That would make sense.
She had worn a mask.
Even Theron would not have known it was her.
So… this was fate, then.
As if fate had not been cruel enough, it was sending her straight into the hands of a neighboring tyrant.
And Theron… had every reason to hand her to that fate.
Or... was it more than that? What if the cruel prince had wanted her?
Theron did not answer.
The silence stretched.
The only sound was the faint slosh of water settling against the sides of the tub… and her own breathing, still unsteady from whatever had overtaken her body earlier.
"Can I wash myself?" she asked at last.
The words came out softer than she intended. Careful. Measured.
She needed space. Distance. A way to breathe without him watching every movement.
Slowly, he crouched so they were nearly level.
For a moment, he said nothing and just watched her. Studied her, as if weighing something she could not see.
Then, quietly, "You ask many questions for someone who nearly fainted an hour ago."
His gaze shifted past her, toward the window, as though deciding something.
"I'm staying," he added, releasing the cloth.
No threat in his tone. No mockery either.
Just… certainty.
He pulled a stool and set it a short distance away before sitting down. Not close enough to touch her. Close enough that she could feel his presence like warmth against her skin.
Watching.
Aveline hesitated.
Then... slowly... she reached for the soap.
She told herself she didn't mind.
Whatever strange, wordless comfort lingered in the space between them, she would use it. Take what she could. She had not had a proper bath in years, not one that did not feel like punishment, or survival, or necessity.
So she let herself sink into the warmth.
The water held her. The faint floral scent curled around her senses. For a few fleeting moments, she let herself forget where she was. Who he was. Who she was supposed to be.
Until...
She felt fingers in her hair.
"I'll wash your hair," he said.
And suddenly she was aware again.
Painfully aware.
There was nothing between them but water… and the thin, clinging cloth that did nothing to hide the outline of her body. Her shoulders drew in instinctively, her pulse tripping over itself.
How much could he see?
How much was he looking?
"Ow—" The thought shattered as pain flared sharply at the back of her head.
His hands stilled instantly.
"What?" His voice sharpened, not in anger, but in alertness.
"It's…" Her vision dimmed for a heartbeat, the memory of the blow rising with the ache. "I was hit there…"
Silence.
Then... something shifted.
His touch changed.
Gone was the casual ease. Gone was the absent handling. What replaced it was… careful.
Gentle.
His fingers moved more slowly now, detangling each strand as though it might break. When he poured water over her hair, he angled his hand so it wouldn't strike the wound. When he worked the soap in, his fingertips avoided the tender spot entirely.
No questions. No pity.
Just quiet care.
Aveline sat very still in the warm water as he washed, rinsed, and then... carefully dried her hair.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, she realized something that unsettled her far more than his nearness ever could...
Her body had stopped bracing.
When he finished, she turned and stood.
Water slipped down her skin in slow, trembling trails. Her golden hair clung to her back, heavy and damp. The thin chemise plastered itself to her body, outlining every line she had no strength left to hide.
She did not step away.
She stepped toward him.
Close enough that she could feel the heat of him. Close enough that her breath touched his throat.
Her hands lifted... hesitated for the briefest second, then pressed flat against the hard plane of his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as though anchoring herself to something solid.
"Theron," she said.
His name came out soft. Fragile. Almost breaking.
"Don't hand me to the Crown Prince."
A beat.
Her voice dropped.
"Take me as your mistress."
The words landed between them: raw, unpolished, carved straight from fear.
She could not go back to pain. Not again. Not another man's cruelty, not another room where she would be nothing but something to be used, broken, discarded.
She just wanted to live. And she chose the lesser of two evils. Even if it meant bargaining away the last thing she had left.
Theron almost staggered back as if struck, but her grip tightened, clutching at his tunic, refusing to let him step away from the plea she had laid at his feet.
"I'll do whatever you want me to do," she whispered.
Theron's hand tightened on her wrists.