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Clover

A sharp knockon my outer chamber door makes me freeze in the twisted covers of my bed. It’s the middle of the night, long past calling hours. On a normal night, I’d be asleep, dreaming of Henrik.

Not tonight, however.

Pulling on a dressing gown, I leave my room and walk across the sitting area. The stones are cold under my feet, and I fleetingly wonder if I’ll have a chance to buy a rug before I’m executed.

“Who is it?” I call, feeling far more timid than usual.

Is this it? Is the lynch mob here to drag me to the gallows?

Even without the letter, people are casting me suspicious looks. If Henrik gives them a shred of what looks like real evidence, I’ll be done for.

“It’s me,” Henrik says from the other side, his voice dark and forbidden in the deep of night.

Immediately, I unlock the door and swing it open. The commander doesn’t hesitate for even a moment. He brushes past me, stepping inside, and closes the door behind him. Before he utters another word, he works the lock—keeping others out.

And keeping us in.

My confused heart thumps a little faster, unsure where we stand but knowing Henrik looks tempting in the dim light of the low-burning oil lamp flickering on the table by the door.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, a little more breathless than I would like.

Henrik turns back, and I spot the anger on his face. He closes the space between us, roughly taking my shoulders. It doesn’t hurt, but it does make my stomach flip.

“Did you and Camellia have to be so obvious about your rivalry?” he demands at a low growl. In different circumstances, his tone could be confused for seductive.

Scowling at him, I say, “If I’d realized she was going to cause this much chaos, believe me, I would have hidden it better.”

Henrik closes his eyes and lets his head fall forward, looking defeated. “Tell me the truth, Clover. Was it you? I cannot believe you killed that man unassisted, but did you have a part in this?”

I study his dark hair, resisting the urge to run my hand through it. Softly, I ask, “Will you turn me in if I did?”

Stricken, Henrik looks up. His eyes are wide, and they’re a window to his fear and anguish. He believes it was a confession.

“I have to.” So quietly I almost can’t hear him, he adds, “But I don’t think I can.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” I say lightly, fighting to hide my staggering relief. “But, no, I didn’t have anything to do with this. Though, with everything Camellia is putting me through, you best believe I would now have very few qualms about hog-tying the princess and throwing her into the nearest wagon headed for Ferradelle.”

His stormy eyes search mine. “You didn’t do it?”

“I didn’t do it,” I confirm softly, pressing my hand to my chest. “I swear.”

Nodding, Henrik drops my shoulders and steps back. Without so much as a word, he produces a crumpled piece of parchment and holds it over the flame of the lamp.

“What are you doing?” I demand, horrified as I watch the lightweight, floating embers fall to the stones. “You’re going to set the room ablaze!”

Thank goodness I didn’t have time to buy that rug.

“I’m destroying Camellia’s letter,” he says tonelessly. “I’ve just come to terms with the fact that I’m not capable of turning you in either way, so I cannot leave evidence lying around, waiting to be discovered by the wrong person.”

“You believe me?”

I stare at the flickering flame, silently acknowledging what Henrik has just done for me. Camellia’s letter is no more. All that is left are a few ashes and the molten wax of her seal, now indistinguishable.

“I didn’t say that.” Henrik turns back to me. “But I won’t be the one to sign your death warrant.”

I act without thinking. Before I can stop—before I can remember that I swore to myself I’d walk away—I throw my arms around Henrik’s waist. With my cheek pressed against his chest, I murmur, “For now, it’s enough.”