I wake before dawn, my body jerking upright in bed before my mind fully catches up.
My heart pounds against my ribs like something caged and desperate, and for a moment, I don't know where I am. The darkness is too complete, the silence too absolute. Then memory filters back: the Valmont estate. Safety. Sanctuary.
But safety feels like a lie when the approaching coronation looms over everything like a storm cloud.
I throw off the covers and dress quickly in the dim pre-dawn light, my fingers fumbling with laces and buttons. I need to move, need to do something with the restless energy building in my chest like pressure before an explosion.
The estate grounds are silent as I slip outside, only the first hints of gray touching the eastern sky. My feet carry me without direction, following paths I'm starting to know by memory now. But my mind is elsewhere entirely, spinning through scenarios I can't control.
What will I say when Leander sees me again?
Will he acknowledge me at all, or will he pretend not to know his disgraced first wife?
How will I react when I see my sons? When I watch Cecily hold them, touch them, claim them as hers while I stand silent in the crowd?
Can I really maintain composure? Can I smile and curtsy and play Lady Rosetta while Princess Sybil screams inside me? Or will I break the moment they're within reach? Will I shatter completely and ruin everything we've worked toward?
Suddenly the sound of steel on steel cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I stop walking, tilting my head to locate the source. It's coming from the eastern side of the grounds, where I haven't ventured before. My feet carry me toward it, grateful for the distraction from my own mind.
The training yard opens up before me—a wide space of packed dirt surrounded by wooden posts and practice dummies that have seen better days. Two men spar in the center, their movements fluid and precise despite the early hour.
One is an estate guard I recognize from meal times. The other is Kyrell.
I stop at the yard's edge, partially hidden behind an old oak tree.
I know I should announce myself. Or leave. Or something. But I can't seem to make my feet move. Can't seem to look away. Kyrell has shed his usual tunic, fighting in just breeches and boots.
His bare chest gleams with sweat in the growing dawn light, every muscle defined as he moves. He's not just skilled—he's beautiful in motion. Economical and controlled, but with explosive power when he strikes that speaks of years of dedicated training.
He blocks a blow, pivots with grace that seems impossible for someone his size, and his opponent staggers backward under the counter's force. The practice sword clatters to the ground. The guard yields with a breathless laugh, clapping Kyrell's shoulder before heading toward the water barrel at the yard's edge.
Kyrell remains in the center, breathing hard. He rolls his shoulders, stretches his neck from side to side. Then he picks up a water skin and upends it over his head.
My breath catches in my throat. Gods…
Water cascades down his face, his neck, his chest. It traces the lines of muscle I'd only imagined beneath his usual formal attire, considering his size. It catches in the hollows of his collarbones, streams down the defined plane of his stomach.
He shakes his head like one of his hounds after a swim, water droplets flying in all directions. Then his hand comes up, pushing wet dark hair back from his face in a gesture so unconsciously masculine it makes something low in my abdomen clench tight.
I can feel heat floods through me—sudden, unexpected, and completely inappropriate. My face burns and that knot in my abdomen tightens further with an awareness I have no right to feel.
I'm a mother. My children are stolen. I should be thinking only about them, absolutely not noticing how water traces patterns across Kyrell's bare skin. I should leave. Should absolutely leave right now before… Kyrell's head turns in my direction.
His eyes found mine across the yard, as if he sensed my presence. A slow smile spreads across his handsome face—knowing, teasing, and devastatingly attractive.
"Enjoying the view, Your Majesty?"
His voice carries across the yard with teasing warmth that makes my already burning face feel like it might actually catch fire. I should be mortified and stammer excuses and flee back to the house like a proper lady caught staring at a half-naked man.
But something in his smile—teasing but not mocking, pleased rather than uncomfortable—makes my spine straighten instead.
I step out from behind the tree, forcing my voice to remain steady even as my heart hammers. "I was just walking and heard sparring. I didn't mean to intrude."
"You're not intruding." He crosses toward me, seemingly completely unbothered by his state of undress. "Though you're up early."
The honest answer escapes before I can craft something more diplomatic. "I'm worried about the trip to the palace. Can’t sleep well."
His expression softens immediately, all teasing replaced by genuine concern. He glances around the training yard, then back to me, and something shifts in his demeanor.
"Come," he says, gesturing to the yard's center.
I follow, acutely aware of how close he is as we stop. The heat radiating from his body. The way water still glistens on his skin. The scent of clean sweat and something indefinably masculine that makes my pulse quicken.
"I might not be with you every moment at the palace," he says, his voice dropping to something more serious. "Court politics, protocol… they may separate us for a while. But I can show you a few things. Simple techniques to protect yourself if someone approaches you wrongly and I'm not there to intervene."
"I don't think self-defense lessons will help against…"
"Humor me." His smile returns briefly. "Besides, it might help channel some of that nervous energy of yours."
He demonstrates a basic defensive stance, his movements precise and controlled. Then he moves behind me, and suddenly his hands settle on my waist. Warm through the fabric of my dress, firm but not constraining.
"If someone grabs you from behind," his arm wraps loosely around me, demonstrating without actually restraining, and his bare chest presses lightly against my back. "Don't pull forward, that's what they expect. Drop your weight. Twist here."
His hand guides my hip, showing me how to use momentum and surprise. But I can barely focus on the lesson.
Every point of contact burns. I feel his breath against my neck, smell sweat mixed with something clean and undeniably him. When I move as instructed, I feel the hard planes of his chest and stomach against my back, separated only by the thin fabric of my dress.
"Good." His voice has dropped lower, rougher. "Now if someone approaches from the front, invading your space…"
He steps around to face me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to.
"You have options," he continues, his hazel eyes intense on mine. "Knee to the groin if they're hostile. Heel of your palm to the nose if it's lethal. But most importantly…"
His hand comes up, fingers ghosting along my jaw with a feather-light touch that makes me shiver despite the warmth of the morning.
"Don't hesitate. Don't second-guess yourself. Trust your instincts."
The air between us crackles with something unnamed. His fingers remain on my jaw, warm and slightly rough. His eyes are dark, pupils dilated, locked on mine with an intensity that steals my breath.
"Your instincts are good," he says quietly. "Better than you know. Trust them. Trust yourself."
I'm not sure who moves first. But suddenly the space between us is nearly gone, and I know with absolute certainty that if I don't step back right now, something will happen that I'm not ready for.
No, not yet.
Not when everything is so uncertain, when my sons are still stolen, when I'm still broken inside.
I take a careful step backward. His hand falls from my face, but his eyes hold mine for another heartbeat—a question, an invitation, a promise of patience—before he steps back as well.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice barely steady. "For the lesson."
"Anytime, Your Majesty." That knowing smile returns, though it's softer now. "Though perhaps next time, don't hide behind the tree. Just come watch openly."
“Once again, I wasn’t…” I start to protest, then stop when I see the amusement dancing in his eyes.
"I always know when you're near, Princess." his grin became unrepentant. "Always."
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