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After a bit of searching, I find a knife, along with a wheel of cheese in a spell-chilled icebox. I keep the door open for a moment longer than necessary, letting the cool air swirl around my face. “Vallen ingenuity is remarkable, isn’t it?”

“When it’s used well.”

I glance back at Henrik, smiling. “Tell me, are you descended from the Ryddleport settlers? You seem to have a strange aversion to the High Vale’s technology.”

“Their creations are useful, but I grew up doing most things manually. We kept perishables in a cellar below the house. If we wanted hot water, we boiled it upon the fire. My father doesn’t even own a lamp. When I was young, if I wanted to read at night, I’d sit by the hearth or light a candle.”

I study him. “You enjoy reading?”

He nods, suppressing a smile.

“What kinds of books do you like?”

“Mostly historical texts and military strategy. Many complain about the amount of studying required to test for a command position, but it was no hardship for me. Gaining access to the royal library was a benefit of becoming a commander.”

For a moment, I allow myself to imagine the two of us spending quiet winter hours in the library, reading together while the snow falls beyond the massive windows—Henrik skimming his solemn tombs and me with my collections of bards’ stories. Sitting by the fire, tucked close, cozy and warm.

It’s a pretty picture, and it makes my heart hurt a little more.

“So many layers under that brawny exterior,” I say with a sigh, turning back to the loaf of bread. “Why couldn’t you have turned out to be Camellia’s dull-as-a-rock lackey as I first assumed? It would make things so much easier if you weren’t so…perfect.”

I wish they were idle words, but they’re not. The more I get to know Henrik, the more I like him. Lyredon said we must find someone who suits us. Why must the man who suits me be Henrik?

Why couldn’t it beLawrence? That would make things far easier.

I think back to the kiss the prince and I shared in the tavern, willing myself to work up some emotion over it, but I feel no rush of emotion, no giddy euphoria.

It’s just the memory of the prince’s lips meeting mine, no more exciting than a handshake.

Henrik steps up right behind me, silently judging my bread-slicing technique from over my shoulder. “You’re going to slice your hand if you attempt it like that.”

If I cut myself, it will be because he’s so close. How am I supposed to focus on a simple task when he’s standing right there?

“You’re distracting me.” I nudge him back with my shoulder. “If you give me some space, I will do a fine job.”

Stubbornly refusing to be moved, he murmurs, “I don’t want to.”

My hand pauses in its task. Henrik’s few words resonate inside me, making me desperate for something I can’t have.

Henrik takes the knife and sets it aside. He rests his hands on the bench on either side of me, but he doesn’t say anything. His chest touches my back, almost close enough to be considered an embrace.

I stare at the abandoned bread, my heart racing.

“What are you doing?” I finally whisper.

“Losing my wretched mind.” And with that, he gently grasps hold of my sides and turns me to face him.

Gulping, I tilt my head back to look up at him.

When our eyes meet, Henrik’s hands tighten. His fingers spread over my sides as if he wants to touch more of me at once. I can feel his control—it’s ready to snap.

“You kissed Lawrence,” he says, sounding frustrated with himself more than me.

“I certainly did not. I wasattacked—you were there. You saw.”

“I did,” he says darkly. “And every time I close my eyes, I see it again.”

“Jealous?” I say the word lightly, but then I hold my breath.