His fingers traced the inside of her mouth, slowly and deliberately, drawing out a warmth that spread through her body in quiet, dangerous waves.
Aveline couldn't open her eyes. The sensation was too much.
Too unfamiliar.
Too… consuming.
His finger lingered just a moment longer before withdrawing, and as it slipped free, the cool air brushing her lips made her breath hitch.
But he did not move away.
He was still close, too close, that his breath fanned over her mouth, warm and steady, as though he could feel every tremor that ran through her.
Then his hand shifted.
His fingers caught her chin, lifting it, firmly, as if she had no other choice than to look at him, and his gaze dropped to her lips.
"How did your teeth get chipped?" he asked.
The question fell like cold water over her.
Aveline blinked, still half-lost in the haze he had drawn her into, irritation flickering through the fog.
Two of her teeth were broken—one just barely, the other jagged at the edge.
"I fell in the lake…" she murmured, her voice soft, distracted… still leaning toward him, still chasing that warmth.
"Falling into a lake doesn't break teeth."
His tone sharpened.
His hand slid lower, wrapping around her throat, not tightly, not cruelly… just enough to hold her still, to keep her from drifting away from the truth.
He leaned closer.
Closer.
So close his lips hovered just beneath her chin, his breath warm against her skin, his lashes almost brushing her.
"We played in that lake. There are no rocks there."
Aveline's throat tightened.
"I wrestled a very large fish," she said without missing a beat.
Theron's jaw clenched. His nose brushed her cheek, his breath hot and dangerously close.
"What happened to your teeth?" he asked again, his voice lower now, rougher. The question no longer sounded like curiosity.
It sounded like a demand, with something darker edged beneath it.
Something dangerous.
Aveline's irritation flared, sharp and defensive, but then something colder slipped in beneath it.
It struck her like a slap.
He hadn't looked at her.
Not once.
Not when she stood bare before him. Not when she pressed herself against him. Not when she tried, desperately and foolishly, to make him see her as a woman.
In her frantic attempt to reclaim her dignity, control, and the right to feel wanted… she had misunderstood everything.
He wasn't resisting her. He was avoiding her and distracting her because he did not want her. Because he could not even bear to see her that way.
She was nothing more than a purchase. A thousand ducats paid, and now he was simply inspecting what he had bought.
A product.
He sees me as a slave.
Heat rushed up her throat—humiliation, raw and suffocating.
She felt like a fool, like a pampered girl playing at being a woman she no longer was.
Her eyes snapped open, blue like shattered glass, anger blazing to hide the hurt.
"If you don't want me as your mistress, just say it," she said, her voice trembling despite the steel she forced into it. "Why are you—"
"What are you even—" he broke off, dragging a hand down his face, a long breath leaving him like restraint being forced back into place.
Then he saw it… The shine in her eyes and the way her lips trembled.
"Are you crying?" he asked, his voice dropping.
She turned her face away at once.
"I know you hate me," she whispered, the words catching, breaking. "But you didn't have to go this far… I… I'm a…"
Person.
The word never made it out.
Her throat closed around it.
She tried to pull away, to climb off his lap, to put distance between herself and the shame burning through her, but his hand closed around her waist, unyielding.
His palm was large, calloused from years of holding a sword, warm against her thin frame, against ribs too sharp beneath skin too soft.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice tightening now, something raw threading through it.
She didn't answer. She wouldn't even look at him.
Aveline swallowed, forcing herself to think past the sting clawing at her chest.
That much gold. If he didn't want her… then she still had value. To someone. And if that someone was the Crown Prince of Greenvale, then she would survive that too.
She had survived worse.
"Are you close with him?" she asked at last, her voice brittle, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond his shoulder. Her arms crossed over her chest without her noticing. "The Crown Prince of Greenvale?"
Theron stared at her, disbelief flickering across his face.
"What about him?" he asked flatly.
How had the conversation twisted here?
His hold loosened without him realizing.
Aveline slipped from his lap at once. Her hair spilled forward like a curtain as she reached for something… anything, to cover herself. Her fingers brushed his cloak, hesitated… then moved away. She chose the blanket instead, wrapping it tightly around herself.
With her back to him, she drew her knees up to her chest and sat still.
Small.
Guarded.
"Are you… angry at me?" Theron asked slowly. It felt that way. The air between them had gone sharp, brittle. "Aveline?"
He shifted onto his knees, adjusting his bulging crotch with an irritated breath before moving a little closer.
"You're not telling me why he bought me…" Aveline said, her voice quieter now, stripped of its earlier defiance. "But can you ask him not to sell me to someone else… or pass me around?"
The words trembled despite her effort to steady them.
Whatever awaited her, she would endure it.
But if it meant being handed from man to man—used, bartered, displayed…
Her stomach twisted.
Her mind, traitorous and cruel, conjured images she could not stop: voices whispering, hands reaching, shadows closing in.
She shivered beneath the blanket.
Theron swallowed, something tight lodging in his chest. He couldn't understand her. He used to read her like a book. Now every word from her sounded like it belonged to someone else.
"What are you even saying?" he asked, sharper than he intended. "Pass you around? What do you think this is?"
"I want to stay far away from the court," she said quickly, as if the thought itself was her only shield. "I don't want anything to do with it."
"That can't be done," Theron answered immediately. "What are you even saying?" he repeated, frustration leaking through.
He reached for her shoulder.
She scooted away from his touch as though it burned.
Aveline pressed her lips together, forcing back the sob climbing up her throat.
So that was it. She would be paraded in the court of Greenvale. Displayed, measured and humiliated… as if treated as lower than a slave in her own family home was not enough, she had to be paraded in another realm's court.
"Aveline," he said again, more quietly this time, his hand finally resting on her shoulder.
"Go away," she choked, tears spilling over despite her effort to stop them. "Why are you touching me now?"
The words struck harder than any blade.
Theron stilled.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then another.
Slowly… he followed the jagged path her thoughts had taken, each broken assumption leading to the next.
Did she think… Did she truly think I didn't want her? His lips curved, just slightly. I have never wanted anything more dangerously.
So… his little hare hadn't lost her pride, after all. Good. Anger meant fight. Pride meant she was still alive inside.
That was something he could work with.
Before she could pull away again, he caught her wrist and drew her down onto the bed. In the same breath, he followed, caging her beneath him, one knee pressing into the mattress beside her hip, one hand braced near her shoulder.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lashes damp, the tip of her nose flushed from crying. She looked fragile… Breakable.
His jaw tightened.
He slipped his arm beneath her neck and turned her face toward him, his fingers firm but careful.
"Look at me," he said, low, almost a growl.
Aveline obeyed. Her breath hitched as their gazes locked.
His eyes moved… from her eyes… to her lips… and back again, as though memorizing her. His own lips parted, breath steady but heavy with something restrained.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then he leaned closer.
Closer.
The warmth of him closed in around her… the faint scent of steel and smoke and something that was unmistakably him.
Aveline's heart slammed against her ribs.
Is he… going to kiss me?
The thought fluttered through her, wild and uncertain, carrying with it a strange mix of fear… and something softer. Something dangerously close to hope.