Clara worked quickly.
She helped Freya wash, then moved to the wardrobe, selecting a dress after only a brief pause.
This one—
longer than before, the fabric falling gracefully past her knees.
But—
more fitted through the bodice and waist.
It followed the natural lines of her figure in a way that was gentle… but unmistakable.
"Lift your arms, my lady."
Freya did, wincing slightly as she shifted.
Clara guided the dress over her, smoothing the fabric carefully once it settled into place.
"There," she said softly.
Freya glanced down.
The material was comfortable. Light. Easy to move in.
Clara only smiled faintly.
"It will do for today."
It didn't bother her.
Clara stepped back, satisfied.
"I'll send the physician in."
Freya nodded, settling against the pillows.
A soft knock.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Lucan stepped inside.
Composed—
until his gaze landed on her.
And paused.
Just slightly.
The difference this time wasn't exposure.
It was the way the fabric followed her shape.
The way it didn't hide it.
Didn't soften it.
Simply… outlined it.
Subtle.
But impossible to ignore.
His gaze shifted almost immediately back to neutral.
"My lady."
Freya nodded.
He stepped closer, setting his case down, then knelt beside the bed.
"May I?"
Freya angled her leg toward him without hesitation.
"Go ahead."
This time, the fabric draped lower.
He had to lift it—
slightly.
Just enough to access her ankle.
His fingers brushed the edge of the dress as he moved it aside.
But the awareness—
was still there.
More… lingering.
His hand settled around her ankle.
"…It's improved," he said after a moment.
Freya relaxed slightly.
"…Good."
"The swelling has reduced."
"Finally."
A pause.
"But it's not fully stable yet."
Freya sighed.
"You'll still need to be careful."
"I've heard that before."
Lucan's mouth almost curved.
Freya watched him for a moment.
Then—
"You're very serious."
"Yes."
"Do you ever relax?"
A pause.
"…When appropriate."
"That still sounds like a no."
Lucan almost exhaled something softer—but it didn't quite form.
"…It's not a priority."
Freya hummed lightly.
"It probably should be."
Lucan finished the examination slowly, then looked at her again.
This time—
her eyes met his.
Clear.
Open.
Unaware.
He held that gaze a moment too long.
Then looked away again.
His grip shifted—
just slightly.
Freya winced faintly.
"Ow."
He immediately eased.
"My apologies."
She waved it off.
"It's fine."
Then, with a small, amused glance—
"See? Not completely in control."
Lucan didn't answer right away.
Because she had no idea.
"…Control isn't always necessary," he said finally.
Freya smiled faintly.
"Sounds like something you're still trying to convince yourself of."
That—
almost broke his composure.
Lucan withdrew his hand more deliberately this time.
Creating space again.
"You're healing well," he said.
Freya nodded.
He set the salve beside her.
"Continue applying this tonight."
"…I will."
Lucan rose, stepping back.
"I'll return tomorrow."
Freya looked up at him—
those impossibly green eyes.
Lucan inclined his head.
"My lady."
And turned to leave.
The door closed behind him.
Freya exhaled softly.
"…He's strange."
Clara smiled faintly.
"Yes, my lady."
Freya leaned back into the pillows.
"…But I don't think he realizes it."
Clara's brow lifted slightly.
"Realizes what?"
Freya shrugged.
"…That he's not as composed as he thinks."
Clara said nothing.
Outside—
Lucan didn't slow.
Didn't stop.
But his composure—
was no longer untouched.
Because this time—
it wasn't carelessness.
It wasn't exposure.
It was something quieter.
Something harder to dismiss.
And far more dangerous.
"…Careless," he muttered under his breath.
Though whether he meant her—
or himself—
was no longer entirely clear.
***
Freya shifted slightly against the pillows, her fingers brushing absently over the fabric of her dress.
she couldn't settle.
Her gaze drifted toward the window.
Toward the open sky beyond it.
It had been so clear before.
She was supposed to leave.
Find a way out.
That had been the plan.
Freya's fingers tightened slightly in the sheets.
"…So why haven't I?" she murmured softly.
No answer came.
Only the quiet and her thoughts.
Because now—
there was Soren.
The way he looked at her.
The way he touched her.
The way he held her—
like she wasn't something temporary.
Like she belonged there.
Freya exhaled slowly, frustration threading through her chest.
"…That's a problem."
It wasn't supposed to feel like that.
None of it was.
And yet—
when she thought about leaving now—
something in her chest pulled tight.
Uncertain.
Reluctant.
She pressed her hand lightly over her heart as if that might steady it.
"…I don't even like him," she muttered.
The words felt weak the moment she said them.
Because they weren't entirely true anymore.
And that—
that was worse than anything else.
Freya leaned back, closing her eyes briefly.
"…I don't know what I'm doing."
***
That evening Freya sat near the edge of the bed again, her ankle resting carefully on the pillow Clara had arranged earlier.
Everything was still arranged for her comfort.
And yet—
something had shifted.
Not in the room.
In her.
She stared at the window.
The glass was open just slightly for air, letting in the faint sound of the gardens below.
People moved freely out there.
Guards.
Servants.
Choices she could see—but not quite reach.
Freya exhaled slowly.
"…It's strange," she murmured.
The words came without permission.
Behind her, Soren looked up from the papers he had been reviewing.
"What is?"
Freya hesitated.
Then turned her head slightly.
"…I keep thinking I have options here," she said.
Soren didn't respond immediately.
That alone made her more aware of her words.
She continued anyway.
"But I don't actually take any of them."
A pause.
Soren set the papers down.
Slowly.
His attention fully on her now.
"Explain," he said.
Not a command.
Just interest.
Freya searched his face.
Trying to read something there.
Anything that would tell her she was wrong.
She found nothing like that.
So she kept going.
"I can go to the gardens," she said.
"But Clara comes with me. Or someone is always nearby."
She paused.
"I can decide what to wear," she added, quieter now, "but only from what's already been chosen for me."
Her fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of the blanket.
"I can even say no to things," she said,
"but it doesn't change what happens next."
Silence.
Soren rose from his seat slowly.
He walked closer—not quickly, not sharply—but with that same controlled inevitability that always made the room feel smaller.
He stopped near her.
Not touching her.
"Do you feel trapped?" he asked quietly.
Freya looked up at him.
That question should have been simple.
It wasn't.
"…I don't know," she admitted.
Then, more honestly:
"I think I feel… managed."
Something flickered in his expression at that.
Not anger.
Not surprise.
Something more contained.
More precise.
"You are not confined," he said.
Freya held his gaze.
"I didn't say I was," she replied softly.
A pause.
Then she added, carefully:
"But I also don't think I'm free."
That landed differently.
Soren didn't respond immediately.
And that silence—
was what confirmed it for her more than anything else.
Finally, he spoke.
"You are safe," he said.
Freya blinked slightly.
"…That's not what I asked."
His gaze didn't move.
"It answers it."
Something tightened in her chest.
Not fear.
Something more frustrating.
More clarifying.
"So my choices don't matter," she said quietly.
"That's not what I said."
"But it's what you mean," she replied.
Silence again.
Longer this time.
Soren stepped closer.
Now he was beside the bed.
Close enough that she could feel him more than see him properly.
Soren didn't speak for a moment.
Then, carefully—
"When you were in your father's court," he said, "you had no choices there either."
Freya went still.
That should have been true.
But it didn't feel right coming from him.
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
"…That's not the same," she said quietly.
Soren's eyes held hers.
"How is it different?"
Freya hesitated.
Because that was the problem.
She didn't know how to explain it yet.
Her voice came softer, more controlled.
"My father didn't give me choices," she said. "I didn't expect them."
A pause.
"And I knew what I was living under."
She looked away briefly.
"That's not what this feels like."
Silence.
Soren didn't interrupt.
Didn't correct her.
Just listened.
Freya exhaled slowly.
"…This feels like I'm being guided into not needing to choose," she said finally.
Her fingers tightened slightly in the fabric.
"And I don't know which one is worse yet."
That landed differently.
Even for him.
Soren's expression didn't change outwardly—
but something in his gaze settled.
"You are safe," he said again.
Freya let out a faint, humorless breath.
"…You keep saying that like it explains everything."
"It does," he said simply.
Freya looked at him then.
Really looked.
And for the first time—
she didn't answer.
Because she didn't agree.
And she didn't fully disagree either.
That was the problem.
Freya stared at him.
Protected.
Not free.
Not equal.
Protected.
And something inside her shifted.
Quietly.
Irreversibly.
Because she finally understood something she hadn't wanted to see clearly before.
Protection… and control could look the same from the inside.
But they didn't feel the same.
And she didn't know which one this was anymore.
Soren reached out then.
Not to grab her.
Just to adjust the blanket slightly around her legs again.
"You don't need to decide everything today," he said quietly.
Freya's hands tightened in the fabric beneath her fingers.
"…That's the problem," she whispered.
Soren paused.
But didn't respond.
Freya looked away toward the window again.
The gardens were still there.
Still open.
Still reachable.
But not for her.
And for the first time—
she didn't just think about leaving.
She started thinking about how to make sure she could.