"Absolutely not."
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, at the gown Maren has just laced me into. The neckline plunges far lower than anything I've ever worn, and the fabric clings to curves I've been trying to hide since arriving at the Valmont estate.
"This is entirely inappropriate for the coronation!"
"It's perfect for the coronation." Maren circles me with the assessing eye of a general surveying a battlefield. "You're supposed to be a duke's ward, not a nun. Besides, you have quite a figure, Your Majesty. All that curves in the right places… why hide it?"
"I'm supposed to be Lady Rosetta, remember? Disgraced first wife in madness, not a glorious Princess Sybil."
"Even Lady Rosetta deserves to feel beautiful." She starts unlacing the gown before I can protest further. "You know what I’m thinking? We need a man's perspective here."
Something about her tone makes me suspicious. "Maren, what are you—"
But she's already at the door, throwing it open with theatrical urgency. "Kyrell! Brother dear, we need your assistance immediately!"
"Maren, no…" I start, but she's already calling again down the corridor.
Kyrell appears moments later, his expression shifting from concern to confusion to resignation as he takes in the scene. "What's wrong?"
"We need a man's perspective." Maren gestures at me with exaggerated helplessness. "Come in, brother. Tell us what you think."
His eyes meet mine across the room, and I see the same realization I'm having: we've been ambushed by his incorrigible sister.
"I'm certain whatever you choose will be appropriate," he says carefully, staying firmly in the doorway. "I trust your judgment, Maren."
"But we need to know if the colors complement each other." She's already pulling him fully into the room, positioning him near the window. "And whether the embroidery is too much or too little. These are important details."
For the next hour, Maren parades me through a succession of gowns while seamstresses flutter around with pins and measuring tapes. Each dress is more ‘figure-emphasizing’ than the last, and each time Kyrell is asked for his opinion, his responses become more terse and tense.
"It's… fine."
Or… "That one works."
And… "The color is acceptable."
He maintains a polite distance, arms crossed, clearly wishing he were anywhere else. I catch his eye once and see sympathy there mixed with his own discomfort, and despite everything, I have to suppress a smile.
Finally, we settled on a deep blue gown with intricate beadwork along the bodice. It's beautiful—elegant without being ostentatious, rich without being gaudy. Appropriate for a royal occasion while still allowing me to fade into the background of nobles.
"Perfect," Maren declares. "Now we just need to make final adjustments. Sybil, behind the screen to change. Kyrell, you can… Actually, stay right there. We might need your input on the final fit."
I change behind the carved wooden screen, grateful for the privacy. The gown settles over my chemise with a whisper of silk, the weight of it different from anything I've worn recently. When I emerge, Maren circles me with critical eyes.
"The front is perfect," she mutters, tugging at the bodice. "But something's wrong with the back. These laces are impossibly tangled."
She pulls at the laces running down my spine, and I feel them catch on something—my hair, maybe, or a knot in the silk itself.
"I can't get them undone properly to adjust the fit." She tugs harder, more forcefully, and I wince as the fabric pulls uncomfortably. "They're completely stuck."
"Just cut them and replace," I suggest, trying to reach back to help.
"No, no, we'll ruin the silk." She straightens, turning to Kyrell with theatrical desperation. "Brother dear, you have stronger hands. Come help me with this before I make it worse."
Kyrell's expression is pure reluctance. "Maren, I don't think…"
"I'll find some servants in case you can't manage it." She's already moving toward the door with suspicious eagerness on her face. "They'll know what to do. I'll be right back!"
She sweeps out before either of us can protest, and the door clicks shut with damning finality.
The silence that follows is heavy, charged with awareness. I stand with my back to him, acutely aware of his presence behind me. The sound of his breathing, careful and controlled.
"I apologize for my sister," he says finally. "She's incorrigible."
"The laces really are stuck." I try to keep my voice steady, casual. "I can feel them pulling."
"May I?" The question is formal, proper, but his voice has gone rough around the edges.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and then I hear him move closer. His boots are soft against the floor before his fingers brush against my spine as he reaches for the tangled laces.
The touch burns through the thin fabric of my chemise like fire. I force myself to stand still, to breathe normally, as his hands work carefully at the knot. He's methodical, gentle, trying to loosen the tangle without pulling my hair that's somehow caught in it.
"Almost there," he murmurs, and I feel his breath against my neck.
The laces finally give way with a soft whisper of silk and the dress loosens immediately, the back panels falling open to reveal my bare skin. The chemise beneath is scooped low enough that my entire back is exposed—including the four-pointed star birthmark on my left arm.
Kyrell goes completely still behind me. I can hear his breathing change, becoming slower, more deliberate, as if he's trying to control something.
I should say something. Thank him. Tell him he can go. But the words won't come.
"I've never seen this before…" he says quietly.
His fingertips trace the birthmark with such gentleness it makes me shiver. Four points arranged in a star pattern, the genetic signature of Ziana's royal bloodline.
"It's beautiful," he breathes.
His touch doesn't stop at the mark. His fingers trail to my shoulder blade, then down the curve of my spine, mapping skin he has no right to touch but seems unable to stop exploring. Each point of contact sends heat racing through me.
"Kyrell…" His name escapes as barely a whisper.
I turn abruptly, unable to stop myself, and suddenly we're face to face as his hands settle on my waist to steady me.
So close I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, can feel his breath mingling with mine. The dress is loose around me, held up only by my arms pressed at my chest, the back completely open.
His gaze drops to my lips and my skin where his hands on my waist is burning through the thin fabric of my chemise. The air between us is charged with weeks of denial and want and desperate restraint finally reaching its breaking point.
We never brought up what almost happened between us during the training last week. Doesn’t mean that I was obsessing about it all this time.
I can’t throw away the images of his face from that moment. His burning gaze, his parted full lips. His strong body and warm hands. The way I feel near him. Like he could hold the world from my shoulders until I could breathe again if needed. Like he would never let anything bad happen to me. Like I’m special to him.
Perhaps, I am. After all, he said himself that as a Princess of Ziana I am his duty.
But the way he looks at me sometimes, the way he looked at me that one time… It looked nothing like duty.
It looked like the very thing I had been denying myself.
And right now I’m not sure if I want to do this anymore.
It's been so long since the last time I felt like that. Since someone looked at me like I’m his whole world, like I’m the only thing in his world. Maybe before the fourth misscarriage, or a second stillbirth.
Leander used to look at me like that, but it was so long ago I can barely remember how his hands or lips or love felt like.
Maybe that’s the reason? That’s why I feel like that despite everything? I’m starved to reverence and care and partnership and… love?
When Kyrell finally leans in, just slightly, my eyes flutter closed in anticipation. I can feel my heart hammering so hard I think he must be able to hear it when he will… But then he jerks back, his hand drops from my waist.
He takes two steps backward, putting distance between us with movements that look almost painful.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty." The words come out harsh, almost angry—though the anger is clearly directed at himself, not at me. "That was inappropriate. I shouldn't have touched you like that."
"Kyrell, wait…" But he's already moving toward the door, not looking at me.
"I'm sorry.” He reaches for the door handle. “That won't happen again."
The door closes firmly behind him before I can form another word.
I stand alone in the fitting room, the dress loose around me, my skin still tingling where his fingers traced patterns of fire down my spine. My heart pounds so hard I think it might break through my ribs.
I’m trying to understand what just happened, what almost happened. What I wanted to happen, even though I shouldn't.
I press my palms against my flushed cheeks, trying to steady my breathing.
Maren never returned.
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