“You’re awake.” Henry’s voice cuts through the infirmary silence like a blade. “Finally.”
I struggle to sit up, my head pounding. “How long was I—”
“Six hours.” He whirls from the window, his face a mask of barely controlled fury. “Six hours of not knowing if you’d wake up. Six hours of wondering if she’d finally succeeded in destroying you.”
“Henry—”
“Don’t.” He stalks toward my bed, his movements sharp, predatory. “Don’t you dare defend what happened. You drank poison, Helena. Poison!”
“I didn’t know!”
“Exactly!” His voice explodes through the small room. “You didn’t know because you trusted her! After everything she’s done, you still took that glass!”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, anger flaring. “What was I supposed to do? Analyze every drink? Test every morsel of food?”
“Yes!” He slams his palm against the wall. “Because that’s what survival looks like in this place!”
“I’m not you!” I shout back, standing despite the dizziness. “I can’t live my life expecting everyone to be my enemy!”
“Then you’ll die.” The words come out cold, final. “Just like the others.”
Silence crashes between us like a physical force. Henry’s chest heaves with barely contained emotion, his hands clenched into fists.
“Get dressed,” he says suddenly, his voice deadly calm. “We’re leaving.”
“What?”
“Five minutes. There’s something you need to see.”
He leads me through empty corridors and up narrow stairs, his grip on my wrist iron-tight. We emerge onto the Academy’s highest tower, wind whipping across the stone battlements.
The moonlight turns everything silver—the courtyard below, the distant mountains, Henry’s face as he releases my hand and moves to the edge.
“You want to know why I can’t let anyone close?” He doesn’t turn around. “Why I destroy everything I touch?”
“Henry—”
“Look down there.” He points to the courtyard. “Third window from the left. That was Lady Beatrice’s room.”
My blood turns cold. “The girl who tried to kill herself?”
“The girl I killed.” His voice is hollow. “Not with poison or blade, but with attention. With words. With the promise of something real.”
I step closer, my heart hammering. “What happened?”
“I thought I loved her.” He laughs bitterly. “Seventeen years old and drunk on the idea of choosing for myself. So I courted her. Publicly. Gave her gifts, wrote her letters, made her believe she mattered.”
“That’s not—”
“She believed it,” he continues ruthlessly. “Believed it so completely that she let me into her room one night. Let me see her as no one else had. And I…” His voice cracks. “I sketched her. Every curve, every intimate detail. Because I was young and stupid and thought art was love.”
Horror washes over me. “The drawings that circulated—”
“Were mine.” He turns to face me, his eyes blazing with self-loathing. “I left them in my chamber, thinking they were private. But nothing is private when you’re a prince. My valet found them, sold them to the highest bidder. Within hours, every noble in the kingdom had seen Lady Beatrice naked and vulnerable.”
“You didn’t mean for that to happen.”
“Intent doesn’t matter!” He moves toward me, his voice rising. “She tried to cut her wrists with a shard of mirror. Do you understand that? She would rather die than live with the shame I caused her.”
I reach for him, but he jerks away. “Don’t touch me. Don’t look at me like I’m someone worth saving.”
“You were seventeen—”
“I was old enough to know better! Old enough to understand that everything I touch turns to ash!” He spins away, running his hands through his hair. “That’s why I kept my distance from you. Why I fought it. Because I knew—I knew—that caring about you would destroy you.”
“And yet here we are.”
“Here we are,” he agrees bitterly. “With you already poisoned because of me. Because I couldn’t stay away.”
The wind howls around us, carrying the scent of rain and secrets. I watch him pace the stone battlements like a caged wolf, all raw energy and barely contained violence.
“I’m not her,” I say quietly.
He stops pacing. “What?”
“I’m not Lady Beatrice. I’m not delicate or fragile or easily broken.” I step closer, my voice growing stronger. “I’ve been drowning in this place since the day I arrived, and I’m still here. Still fighting.”
“Helena—”
“You want to know what I think?” I advance on him, my anger matching his intensity. “I think you’re so terrified of being your father that you’ve forgotten how to be yourself.”
His face goes white. “Don’t.”
“Your father who trades daughters like livestock? Who sees people as chess pieces? Who destroys lives for political gain?” I’m close enough now to see the pain in his eyes. “You’re nothing like him, Henry. Nothing.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you carried me out of that ballroom when you could have let me fall. I know you stayed by my bedside all night. I know you’re standing here confessing your sins because you’d rather destroy yourself than risk hurting me.”
“Because I will hurt you!” The words explode from him like a confession. “It’s what I do! It’s what I am!”
“Then hurt me,” I say, stepping close enough to feel his heat. “Break me if you must. But stop pretending you don’t care.”
He stares at me, his breathing ragged. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I’m asking for the truth. For once in this godforsaken place, I want something real.”
“Real?” His laugh is broken. “You want real? I think about you every second of every day. I lie awake wondering what it would feel like to kiss you, to hold you, to be worthy of the way you look at me. And it terrifies me because I know—I know—that I’ll find a way to ruin it.”
My heart stops. “Henry…”
“I’m already ruining it,” he whispers. “Just by wanting you.”
The confession hangs between us like a bridge made of glass. One wrong move and everything shatters.
“Then we’re both ruined,” I say quietly. “Because I want you too.”
His eyes widen in shock. “Helena—”
“I want you,” I repeat, reaching for his hand. “Scars and all. Sins and all. Prince and all.”
For a moment, he just stares at our joined hands. Then his fingers tighten around mine, and I see it—the moment when the mask finally falls away completely.
“You’ll regret this,” he whispers.
“Probably,” I agree. “But I’d rather regret loving you than regret never trying.”