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A silence falls between us. I am not quite sure I believe him yet, but I desperately want to. I need an ally. And if he is correct and our plan works, I will remain safe from the king. For now.

“I think it has been a long night,” he says, breaking the silence. “I have lavender tonic in my drawer if you require a sleep aid. But I understand if you would rather stay of sound mind.”

He gestures to one of the doors.

“The adjoining room is through there. I will have the maids bring your night clothes.” He pauses. “The door locks from the inside.”

My shoulders sag with relief at this peace of mind. I incline my head gratefully at the prince.

“My thanks,” I say and hurriedly make my way over.

“Goodnight, Miss Shivani,” he says as I close the door. I pause a moment before responding.

“Goodnight, Your Highness.”

I quietly close the door and lock it firmly. I am still awake when the maids bring me hot tea and a neat pile of night clothes. Once changed, Isit on the large bed and sip at the scalding liquid. Every so often, I glance at the lock on the door. It is solid and metal, sliding into place with a loudthunk. It would be difficult indeed to break.

For the first night in weeks, I sleep soundly.

Chapter 11

Iwake to the sun filtering through an open window and the birds singing sweetly to each other outside. I groggily open my eyes, my head foggy with sleep. My cheek presses against a warm pillow. A blanket is drawn high up to my neck. I am in a warm cocoon of my own making. But the room is not familiar.

I bolt upright. I blink several times and rub the sleep away. Scanning the room, I see it is mostly bare except for a solitary wardrobe and the bed I am lying on. In fragments, the night before returns to me. I am in the room adjacent to the prince’s chambers. My empty teacup and a mound of last night’s clothes remain untouched on the floor. The lock is secure. I sink back against the pillows with a sigh.

I wonder if the prince truly meant what he said last night or if it was a cruel way to drag out my punishment. Did he really intend to keep such a secret from his father? I thinkof my own father and the secrets I keep from him. Sometimes to make my life easier but, more often, because I do not trust him with even an ounce of information.

Slowly, I creep out of bed and press my ear to the door. There is silence on the other side, except for the tell-tale crackle of the hearth. I stand there a moment, chewing the inside of my cheek, before I take a breath and turn the handle.

“Good morrow, Miss Shivani,” the prince greets me from one of the large sofas in front of the hearth. He closes his book and places it on a side table.

He is not wearing his formal attire, instead wearing a loose white shirt and slim black trousers. The intimacy of seeing him in clothes he casually wears when no one else is around makes an unfamiliar heat crawl up my neck. My mind forces me to take note of his chestnut hair, tousled from sleep. I clear my throat awkwardly.

“Good morrow, Your Highness,” I reply with a small curtsy. I linger in the doorway, hesitant.

“Please, join me for breakfast.” He gestures at the empty seats. I oblige and walk stiffly over before perching on the edge of a plush armchair.

The table in front of the hearth is full of breakfast foods—fresh bread, unsalted butter, a cluster of pond apples and blue grapes. I politelypluck a single grape.

“Are you rested?” he asks, taking a sip of coffee. The aroma is strong but pleasant. I inhale deeply. He must notice my expression because he leans forward to pour me a cup.

“I am, Your Highness,” I reply truthfully. The prince smiles, and his eyes meet mine. For the first time, I notice the colour of them. A clear grey, the colour of a stormy sky. Something thrums between us, and I catch my breath.

“Miss Shivani…” he says. His voice is low, and his eyes do not leave mine. He opens his mouth to continue but there is a knock at the door.

Our eye contact breaks, and the connection between us is severed. I blink, as if waking from a daydream. How odd.

“Come in,” the prince calls. He sits back and upright as his royal posture returns. A guard steps in and bows briefly to the prince.

“The king requests Miss Shivani’s presence for dinner this evening,” he tells us. The prince’s face is a mask. Except for the muscle bouncing at his jaw, which I am quickly coming to realise is his tell.

“Miss Shivani belongs to me,” he grinds out. It is a sentence which would have angered me before but now it is a part of our plan. I nod agreeably.

“The king requests her presence,” the guard repeats firmly. When the prince does notreply, he inclines his head and leaves.

I sit back heavily against the chair.

“What are we to do?”