Theron stopped just short of her lips. So close, she could feel his breath brush against her skin.
And still… he didn't close the distance.
"Is that what you think?" he murmured, his voice rough, low enough to be felt more than heard. "That I didn't want you?"
His thumb lifted, brushing just beneath her eye, catching the tear before it could fall.
"Foolish girl…"
His forehead rested lightly against hers, intimate and restrained, like a promise he refused to claim.
Aveline's heart pounded wildly. Slowly… his words sank in.
Does that mean…
Her lashes fluttered.
"I'm your mistress now?" she asked.
The question landed like a stone in still water.
Theron shot upright as if burned. His eyes widened with raw, incredulous exasperation as he stared down at her.
Of all the things she could have understood from that moment…
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. And… Nothing came out.
He had just laid his heart bare, and this infuriating woman had reduced it to a transaction. Before he could gather the words to respond, a sharp knock landed on the door.
Aveline froze. Then, she shuddered. Her fingers clutched at him instinctively as fear flooded her face.
"Is that him?" she whispered, panic rising. "Is he here? Prince Vaelor?"
She tried to scramble away, trying to slip past him, half-looking toward the bed as if she might hide beneath it like a hunted child.
Theron caught her before she could move far.
His arms came around her, firm… anchoring.
"He's not there," he said quietly, close to her ear. "You're safe."
She didn't believe him. He felt it in the way she trembled. So he said it again. And again. Slower. Softer… Until the rigid tension in her shoulders eased just a little.
Only then did he pull back.
He draped his cloak over her shoulders, the same cloak she had refused to touch before, and tucked it around her like armor.
"Stay," he said, low but gentle.
Then he crossed to the door. He opened it only a fraction, blocking the room from view with his broad frame.
A servant stood outside, head bowed, holding a tray, with food, clean clothes, and a basin. Theron took them without a word. The door shut again with a soft, decisive click.
Behind him, the room fell quiet once more, save for the faint, uneven sound of Aveline's breathing beneath his cloak.
Wrapped tightly in his cloak, only her eyes visible above the heavy fabric, Aveline watched the tray approach as if nothing else in the world existed.
The room blurred.
The bed, the walls, Theron… All gone.
Only the bowl remained.
Steam curled upward in soft white spirals, carrying the scent of something warm and savory. Her stomach growled loudly. She hadn't realized how hollow she was until now. The smell alone made her dizzy.
The moment Theron held the bowl out, she seized it. She didn't wait. Didn't test it. Didn't breathe. It had a golden glow to it, and that was all she needed to see.
She tipped it toward her mouth and swallowed.
It was scalding. She didn't react, didn't taste it… and didn't care.
Food was food. Warmth was warmth. It needed to be inside her before someone decided she didn't deserve it.
Theron stared.
"Aveline— isn't that hot?" he reached toward her instinctively. "Slow down."
But she flinched at the movement. The bowl came closer to her chest, guarded. Defensive. And then, she abandoned the spoon entirely, lifting the bowl with both hands and drinking straight from it, swallowing greedily.
Like something feral. Like something that had learned the hard way that hesitation meant loss.
Theron's hands slowly withdrew. His fingers trembled.
"Aveline…" he called again, quieter this time.
She shuffled farther away from him, still gulping down the porridge, breath hitching between swallows.
He called her name twice more.
Only when the bowl was scraped clean, did she finally look up. There was a faint redness around her mouth from the heat.
"You want seconds?" he asked.
Her fingers tightened around the bowl.
Seconds.
The word wasn't simple.
Back home, sometimes asking for more meant mercy. Other times… it meant punishment.
What would it mean here?
She searched his face, trying to decipher it… trying to survive it.
He reached toward the bowl. She flinched violently, her forearm flying up to shield her face. Her body braced for impact… for the crack of pain and humiliation.
But nothing came.
Seconds passed.
Long ones.
Slowly… very slowly, she peeked through her arms. Theron was no longer facing her. He sat with his back turned, shoulders rigid.
"Change into this," he said, his voice tight, pointing to the folded nightgown on the bed.
Aveline followed his gesture.
Silk.
Soft, pale, new.
Her fingers hovered over it like it might vanish if touched.
"It's silk," she murmured, disbelief slipping into her voice.
"You don't like silk?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
His eyes were red. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just… red.
She tried to read him. She used to be good at that. She could recognize anger in a twitch. Cruelty in a smile.
But this expression… She didn't know it. Even if she knew it in the past, she had forgotten there were others.
"You don't want this?" he asked again.
She quickly grabbed the gown. "I do," she said quietly.
He had given her food, clothes, and warmth. That meant something would be taken in return. It always worked that way.
But he said nothing more and walked to the door.
"Get changed," he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Don't jump out the window. There are dogs."
And he left.
The door shut softly behind him.
Aveline stared at it for a long moment. Maybe he wasn't angry. Or… Maybe she just didn't know what anger looked like anymore.
She slipped out of the cloak and into the nightgown. The silk slid over her skin like water. She inhaled sharply. It smelled faintly of lavender, clean and fresh.
She had forgotten what it felt like to wear something that hadn't already belonged to someone else.
She pressed her palm to her stomach. It was full. Warmth spread slowly through her body.
For the first time in a long while… She felt human.
But the feeling frightened her. Because good things never lasted.
She stood and walked cautiously to the window. She needed to know where she was. She peered out. She was in th second floor.
Below, horses shifted in the yard… And dogs. Large ones. The moment they spotted her silhouette, they barked sharply.
She startled, heart leaping into her throat, and stumbled back from the window. She rushed to the bed and climbed onto it, hugging her knees tightly to her chest. Silk rustled softly around her. She stared at the door.
She had to stay alert.
She didn't know what he would take from her.
And she refused to be surprised.
-----
Theron stood just outside the door, the wood cool against his back.
His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles blanched white. His jaw worked once, twice, a muscle ticking violently near his temple.
Two men knelt before him in the dim corridor.
"Find out what happened in the Willowgrave mansion these past ten years," he said, his voice low, but lethal in its steadiness. "I want every name. Every incident. Every servant who worked there. I want to know what she endured."
The men did not hesitate.
They bowed their heads and withdrew quickly, boots fading down the hall.
Silence returned.
Theron remained where he was.
For a moment, the controlled mask slipped. His hand rose to his chest. It hurt.
A dull, relentless pressure beneath his ribs, as though something inside him had been struck and left cracked.
He closed his eyes.
That girl.
That proud, stubborn girl who used to hop ahead of him in the gardens, laughing, colorful silk skirts caught in her hands like a reckless little hare…
The girl who would glare at him if he teased her. The girl who would never lower her head for anyone…
Inside that room was someone else. Someone who flinched… Someone who braced for pain…
His breathing grew shallow.
What had they done to her?
And whoever had done it… would answer for it.
His hands dropped to his sides slowly.