Chapter 63
Lita
I wasn’t supposed to be in the servants‘ corridor, not this late, not alone, and definitely hot lingering near the warm sliver of light spilling frais die kitchen doors.
But I’d heard them. A pastry maid and one of the older chefs, speaking in hushed tones over cooling racks and sugar glazed parchment.
“He hasn’t requested them in years,” the cook said, pulling something golden from the oven. “Not since his mother died, I’d wager
The pastry maid nodded, eyes a little too round. “But he used to ask for them every week. Would sit at the edge of the counter and steal them hot
“What were they again?” the cook mused. “Cardamom buns?”
“No. Spiced hazelnut tarts. Honey in the crust. A bit of orange zest. Not too sweet. He liked the ones with the caramel cracked on top–said they reminded him of bonfire nights.”
I stood perfectly still, heart pounding like I’d just run a mile, even though I hadn’t moved. Their words painted a picture too easily–one of a boy with fierce eyes and careful hands, sneaking sweets before they cooled.
Damon. Not the King. Not the tyrant. Just the boy who once loved spiced hazelnut tarts.
I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe it was the memory of the greenhouse, his hand in mine. Or maybe it was the way his letter still slept under my pillow, his words offering a chance I didn’t think I deserved.
I wanted to give him something. Not a favor. Not an answer. Just… a memory. Something soft and simple. A moment that asked for nothing in return.
That night, when the halls had emptied and the moon was high above the frost–laced windows, I slipped out of my room with a cloak thrown over my nightdress and the memory of their recipe burned into my head.
A sleepy kitchen aide named Theo found me near the herb shelves, blinking blearily.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he mumbled, though he didn’t sound particularly concerned.
“I need to use the kitchen,” I said softly, slipping a coin into his palm, “Please. Just an hour.”
He stared at the coin. Then at me. Then shrugged. “If you burn it down, I was never here.” Chapter 62
Damon
The numbers stared back at me, neat and sharp and final.
I tapped the edge of the parchment with the corner of my ring, the metallic clink loud in the otherwise quiet chamber. The candidate standings
An elegant way of saying who was rising, and who the court had begun to forget. And who I was supposed to mate with like some royal stud.
Nora was climbing.
She had poise. Confidence. Her Pack was well–positioned politically, and her council performance had been impressive, if a bit rehearsed. The nobles had taken to calling her “the favored flame.” The public polls mirrored the sentiment.
“Strategic alignment with her would be well–received,” Jackson said quietly from across the desk. “She polls highly among the eastern territories, and the nobles in the North have signaled tentative support.”
“And Vanessa?” I asked.
“Still strong,” Ronan said. “But slipping. Her family’s recent trade deals with the Western coast are under scrutiny.”
“And Elena?”
That silence said everything.
“She’s holding,” Ronan offered. “But barely. Her scores are stable, but her visibility is low. She’s not making waves.”
Not anymore, I thought.
Jackson cleared his throat, offering another scroll. “We’ve had requests to spotlight more events featuring the higher–ranked candidates. Public outreach, luncheons, maybe a sponsored charity visit.”
“And you want me to smile for the cameras,” I said flatly.
Jackson winced. “It would help. The Luna selection has always been, a symbol as much as a decision. People want to feel involved.”
I leaned back in my chair, the weight of the proverbial crown pressing a little heavier against my temples. “We’ll approve one event. Gardens. Informal.”
“And the pairing?” Ronan asked.
“Don’t assign it yet,” I said. “Let me think about it.”
They exchanged a glance but said nothing more.
When they finally left, I remained seated, the report still unfurled across the desk. Inked names, carefully ranked. As if that, more than how I felt about, could measure who belonged beside me.
My gaze drifted to the column where she lingered–still “Lady Elena,” still in the running. But just barely.
I still didn’t know who she was. But her unknown/name pulsed under my tongue now, thick with want and warning.
She hadn’t looked back when she walked out of the conservatory.
Her back had been straight, shoulders set, but I remembered the tremor in her voice when she said “If you ever figure out what it means to be loved instead of obeyed…”
That had haunted me. More than I’d admit.
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closed my eyes, leaning forward, pressing both hands against the table’s edge, My grip tightened.
She was a llar. Maybe not in every way, maybe not even in the ways that mattered most–bit enough. There were too many cracks in ker se questions without answers,
And yet, when I closed my eyes, I didn’t see deception. I saw the fighter with fire in her eyes and tremble in her lips. I saw her hande as they she offered me her heart in that quiet, breathless way.
You said I don’t see you. Maybe you’re right. But I want to.
I meant those words. I still did.
Zane shifted restlessly in the back of my mind. He didn’t understand hesitation. He didn’t care about lies or legacy. He only cared that we hadn’t touched her since. That her scent no longer filled these halls.
She left, I told him.
But even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. She had returned. Quietly. Earnestly. And I had barely looked at her.
I opened the drawer to my left, the one I hadn’t touched since the last note she’d read. My hand hovered over the sealed letter inside–unfinished,
unsent.
Instead, I let it go glanced out the window.
The gardens below were empty this time of day. Just shadows stretching over the hedges. Soon we’d hold another trial. Soon she’d be forced to face Nora and Vanessa. Wolves in noble’s clothing.
I wasn’t supposed to care who won. But I did. And that, more than anything, terrified me.
I picked up the reports again and Zane growled the moment Vanessa’s name appeared again. Low. Threatening. Deep enough I felt it in the base of my spine. I didn’t blame him.
She was in four separate reports this time. Two from nobles praising her composure, one from the royal scribes noting her popularity spike in the northeastern packs, and one from an anonymous court whisper suggesting she was “already operating as if she’d won.”
Zane’s reaction didn’t fade. If anything, it coiled tighter in my gut. He didn’t like her scent. He didn’t like her voice. He didn’t like the way she circled Elena
like prey.
Neither do I, I admitted silently.
I shoved the reports to the edge of the desk, letting them scatter across the wood. Names and rankings, performance notes, elegant calligraphy trying to measure chemistry, appeal, viability.
None of it mattered. None of it felt like it mattered.
Because the truth was–I didn’t feel anything for the others.
Not Nora, despite her strength and polish. Not Vanessa, for all her calculated charm. Not the others who fluttered around the court like petals waiting to be plucked.
Only her. Only Elena. Whoever she really was beneath that intoxicating scent and beautiful face.
And that made everything worse.
I stood abruptly, shoving the chair back with a scrape. My shoulders ached from tension I hadn’t noticed I’d been holding all morning. I cr once, twice, then stopped near the table beside the hearth. The fire had burned low again, smoldering but not dead.
I thought about summoning her.
he room
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Thought about sending a page, having her called to my office under some pretense. A strategy debrief. A performance review,
But I knew I wouldn’t ask her about the selection. I would ask why she lied. I would ask what was real.
Or maybe—I wouldn’t ask anything at all. Maybe I’d just stand there and see if the silence between us had changed.
I moved to my desk. reaching for the formal orders. All it would take was one stroke of ink. One line, and she’d be here.
But my hand hovered above the parchment and didn’t move. Because I didn’t know what I wanted from her.
An explanation? An apology? To hear her say she meant the kiss, the song, the way her voice broke in the greenhouse when it was just us?
Or maybe I just wanted her to be innocent.
Zane paced restlessly inside me, teeth flashing in frustration.
He wanted to run. To hunt. To find her and make her speak. Wolves didn’t do diplomacy. They didn’t do denial.
They followed instinct. And my instinct was a mess.
Instead of writing the order, I reached for a blank scrap of parchment. Nothing with a royal crest. No seal. Just plain paper, torn at the edges. Something anonymous. Forgettable.
I picked up the pen, my fingers already smudged with ink from the morning’s reports. And the words came before I had time to question them.
You are not as invisible as you think.
I didn’t sign it. Didn’t date it. I folded it cleanly, pressed it flat.
It wasn’t a summons. It wasn’t a declaration. Just…a whisper in the dark. A hand on a locked door.
I rang the bell for a page, one of the young ones who hadn’t yet learned how to ask questions. I handed him the folded note.
“For Lady Elena,” I said.
“Do you want it delivered now, Sire?” he asked.
I nodded once. “Quietly. No need for anyone to see.”
The boy bobbed his head and slipped from the room.
I stood at the window again, the same damn spot I always ended up in when I couldn’t breathe right.
Outside, the wind curled across the lawn, tugging at the edges of banners and gowns alike. Somewhere out there, she was walking these grounds. Pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Trying to survive in a palace built for predators.
I didn’t know if I wanted her comforted or warned. But I knew I wanted her to know. She wasn’t invisible.
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That made me smile.
The kitchen was warm, the stone walls flickering with leftover heat from the evening’s prep. I rolled up my sleeves and pulled my hair back, trying to remember how my mother used to fold dough for pies when I was small enough to perch beside her on the counter.
The scent of orange zest curled through the air first, bright and sharp. Then the hazelnuts, toasted just enough to darken. I crushed them with the heel of my palm, mixing them into the filling with honey and spice, my fingers sticky and sweet.
There was something meditative in it. Folding, stirring, brushing the tops with cream before sliding them into the oven. I stood barefoot on the cold flagstones, watching as the sugar bubbled into golden glass.
I didn’t realize how much time had passed until the first light of dawn began to peek under the cracks in the shutters.
The tarts cooled on a small tray I found tucked in the pantry. I arranged them carefully. Not perfect–nothing about me was—but good. Honest.
I folded a scrap of parchment in half and wrote a single line. “I thought you might enjoy these.” No signature. No explanation. Just a qui
ing.
I crept through the back corridors like a ghost, the tray wrapped in cloth, my heart beating a little too fast. The council chamber was still locked, but a kitchen steward was wheeling in the breakfast cart.
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I waited until he turned the corner, then slipped the tray onto the edge of the table where Damon usually sat–jost basinta his place
And then I left.
I didn’t wait to see if anyone noticed. I didn’t want to be caught. I just wanted… I don’t know to do something from the heart.
By the time I returned to my room, dawn had fully broken. The palace buzzed with early activity, none of it touching me.
I curled up on the edge of my narrow bed, the scent of caramel still clinging to my fingertips.
After a short nap, I took the long way to the council wing. I told myself it was to avoid Vanessa and her orbit of smug little whispers but really, I just
didn’t want to see too soon.
My steps slowed as I reached the corner corridor that opened into the long table where the early council breakfast was served. The scent of roasted root tea and citrus glaze hung faint in the air. Staff moved briskly between places, laying parchment and polished cutlery
I lingered behind a decorative pillar, heart thudding. There they were. The pastries I made last night.
Arranged neatly at the edge of Damon’s setting, golden with the faint shimmer of sugar. One had been cracked slightly, like someone considered trying it -but the rest sat untouched. Just begging to be eaten.
I watched for another minute. Damon wasn’t in the room, but his chair had been pulled out, scrolls stacked beside his tray. He had eaten, clearly.
But he hadn’t touched the pastries.
I stepped back before I was noticed, ducking into the nearest side hallway, pulse roaring in my ears. I didn’t know what I’d expected–a note? A look? The tray scraped clean?
Anything but silence.
Maybe he didn’t know they were from you, Ruby offered gently.
I didn’t want him to know, I replied. Not exactly.
But I had wanted him to feel it. To recognize something in the taste, the scent. To remember what it felt like to have someone do something just for you
with care.
Apparently, that had been too much to ask.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. Etiquette drills. A history debrief. A failed attempt to sit beside Emma before someone else pulled her into their arbit. I kept my eyes down, my voice neutral. No one noticed.
By the time evening fell, I had gone silent.
Back in my room, I opened the small cabinet where I’d hidden the extra sweets. Six pastries neatly wrapped in cloth, still warm at the core when I tucked them away the night before.
Now they were cold,
I stared at them for a long time, then unwrapped one and took a bite. The crust cracked between my teeth, sugar clinging to my lips. It tasted like effort. Like the best part of me, left out to dry.
Then I picked up the rest and tossed them, one by one, into the waste bin beside the fireplace. Each landing felt like another crack in my heart.
When I turned away, I caught my reflection in the mirror. Shadowed eyes. Tense shoulders. A mouth pressed into silence.
“I’m fine,” I said aloud, as if that could make it true.
Ruby stirred uneasily. You’re allowed to want something back, she said. It wasn’t weakness to offer it.
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It was foolish, I replied. “I keep forgetting that sincerity doesn’t earn anything here?
I moved to the window, pushing it open Just wide enough to feel the night breeze on my skin. The wind smelled of cut grasi vols the content se training yard.
I had offered something real. Something small and soft and completely unguarded.
And it hadn’t mattered.
Of maybe it had–and that was worse. Maybe he knew it was from me. Maybe he didn’t want it.
That ache settled low in my stomach, where the pastry should have landed.
I leaned against the window frame, arms crossed tight across my chest. Tomorrow would be just another trial. Another mask.
But tonight?
Tonight, I let myself ache.
