Page 25 of Revert (The Royal Chronicles #4)
T hat prince .
I didn’t stop walking until the corridor twisted into another, until the hush of the palace closed in on all sides and I was sure no one—especially him —had followed. Only then did I pause, pressing my back to the cold stone, fingers gripping the folds of my skirt to steady my trembling hands.
I squeezed my eyes shut, focusing on each shallow breath.
Yet try as I might to distract myself, the moment rushed back, unbidden.
The near-kiss. The softness in his voice when he said my name.
The quiet regret in his eyes as he handed me the key.
I pressed a fist hard to my chest, as if I could still each frantic pulse of my confused heart.
I should have been furious…and I was. Furious at his deception, that he’d cornered me, that he’d played whatever game this was, and most of all furious that I’d been foolish enough to feel anything but contempt for this man I knew I couldn’t trust.
And yet, underneath the anger coiled something far more dangerous: disappointment. Because part of me, as foolish and reckless as it was, had wanted it to be real—even just for a heartbeat.
I let out a shaky laugh, smothering the treacherous sound with the back of my hand.
Stars above, what was wrong with me? I was here to survive, to scheme, and ultimately to win…
not only for myself, but for my father and others depending on me.
Not to want softness from the man who had once murdered me, nor to miss the warmth of his gaze the moment it was gone.
Yet as I pushed away from the wall and forced myself forward, each step taking me farther from the room that still pulsed with the tumultuous echo of almost, one thought lodged in my chest like a blade: what would have happened if I’d stayed?
That was one question I could never answer. I didn’t look back out of fear of what I might see, afraid it might change everything…and yet it already had.
Though I didn’t have the luxury of wondering, the uncertainty haunted me in the days that followed long after the moment passed, each one dragging behind it the weight of that interaction, echoing with questions I refused to ask.
I buried the memory beneath strategy and silence, doing everything I could to forget the way his eyes had searched mine, the way something inside me had almost answered.
But no matter how I tried, it clung to me like smoke—unseen, but inescapable.
From the moment the flicker of magic had released its hold, the room unlocked, and we slipped back into the polished corridors of the palace, frustration had knotted tight in my chest, a tangle of resentment impossible to dissipate, haunting me like an ever-present shadow that darkened every thought.
Even as time passed, the uncomfortable sensation remained.
I found myself pressing a hand to my ribs, as if that simple touch could ease the ache that memory stirred beneath—an ache that never seemed to fade.
To think that the entire encounter—the disarming moments, the glimpses of softness, the near-confessions, the tender way he had tucked his cloak around me, the charged brush of his fingers against my cheek—had all been controlled manipulations, staged with calculated care.
He had arranged the entire situation just to be trapped with me. Anger seared like unquenchable flames, and yet…
When I was alone, it was easy to cling to my resentment, to hold it like a shield for my heart. But in the moments I couldn’t escape the object of my annoyance, my emotions softened into something impossible to define.
Whenever I caught his eye across the receiving hall, his gaze would flick to mine—just a fraction of a second—before darting away, jolting my heart with something raw and unwelcome.
Something shifted within me each time—not anger or even resentment, but the echo of a feeling I couldn’t place.
I told myself I hated him. And yet, I hated even more the ache I felt when he looked away.
These and other subtle hints were signs of his awareness and perhaps even of unspoken apology, if one knew where to look, and achingly protective, a man of contradictions. I hated the traitorous part of me that wanted to see them.
For all these glimmers of familiarity, when we sat through formal tea or exchanged careful, rehearsed words before the court, our interactions remained sharp as a chess match.
Unlike the conversation—or lack thereof—while trapped in the enchanted room, and the near-speaking of secrets not meant to be shared, our topics were shallow.
His only show of consideration was when he asked if I’d rested well the night before, his voice cool and his expression unreadable. Though his memory often kept me awake for hours tossing and turning, I always lied with flawless assurances, my smile shaped to deceive.
On the surface, he seemed unbothered by the distance and uninterested in reaching deeper.
But once, when my hands trembled faintly against the porcelain, I caught a glimmer of concern, gone before I could identify it.
And during a formal dinner when Lord Ravenhurst pressed a question too intently in my direction, Castiel’s fingers brushed the table near mine, curling faintly, as if resisting the urge to intervene.
Each time he escorted me through the halls, he offered his arm in the lightest gesture of courtly decorum. There was no space for words, not with the watching guards or the listening walls. But once when I stumbled slightly, his grip tightened—steadying, lingering.
His touch felt too familiar, as though it belonged to another version of us. It was a relief to finally reach my chamber door. Yet instead of turning to leave, he opened his mouth, as if to speak…only to lower his gaze. Somehow, that swallowed explanation burrowed deeper than any words could have.
I watched his back retreat down the corridor, a shadow that never quite belonged to me.
In the silence after, only the hush of my own heartbeat kept me company.
I told myself the distance was for the best, that I should be grateful for it.
Yet some secret part of me knew—this was one mask I wore to hide from myself.
The moment the door closed between us, I pressed my back to the cold wood, chest tight and aching. I missed him.
The bitter truth seared through me. I resented myself for my weakness. I shouldn’t have cared. Ours was a relationship forged of duty, shadowed by suspicion and survival. That was all there should have been. He was the man who had once killed me, and who would likely kill me again.
So why did this quiet, unspoken distance between us hurt so much?
The thought consumed me as I moved through the motions of dressing for bed, so much that I didn’t immediately notice my normally proper and dutiful handmaiden’s faltering composure until the clatter of the brush as it slipped from her fingers.
She murmured a hasty apology and stooped to retrieve it, but not before I saw the slight tremble in her hands, the way she gripped the handle a little too tightly when she rose. Her fingers quivered as she plaited my hair, the light tug of each braid pulling me back from my tangled thoughts.
“Liora?”
She startled, as if I’d yanked her from some faraway place. “Yes, Princess?” Her voice was as composed as ever, but when I caught her reflection in the glass, I noticed the faint sheen in her eyes. With a jolt of alarm, I realized she’d been crying.
I turned in my seat. “Are you well, Liora?”
She smiled, but it was strained and faltering—the kind of insincere smile I myself was expert in crafting. “Of course, Your Highness. Just a little tired.”
She offered a quick, practiced curtsy before resuming her work, a silent plea to let the matter drop. I knew I should. But emotion was a rare crack in my stoic maid, and something in me refused to ignore it.
“Something has happened.”
She froze mid-braid. I saw her eyes widen in the looking glass before she hastily masked her expression, ducking her head to focus on my hair. “Nothing has happened, Your Highness. All is well.” But a slight tremor tainted her voice, the slip of truth beneath practiced calm.
I frowned. I had made a study of lies enough to recognize another. I yearned to press, but I was unsure how when distrust and fear still held her tongue.
Liora and I had always walked a delicate line—between mistress and maid, noblewoman and servant, the crown prince’s betrothed and a girl from the kingdom outside these walls.
When I’d first arrived five years ago, lonely and aching for a friend, I had tried to reach her, eager for a friend I could talk to in this merciless, cold court.
But she had sharply drawn the line that court dictated.
Though I’d been disappointed, I understood.
Wariness was a form of protection. And I, too, had learned not to trust without knowing the shape of someone’s true loyalties.
I wasn’t supposed to care. I wasn’t supposed to reach. But something in me—something still raw and human—refused to remain behind the mask tonight. “You’re a terrible liar,” I said. “I can tell you’ve been crying.”
Her head jerked up, panic flashing in her eyes. “I—no, Your Highness, truly, it’s?—”
“Liora.” I laid my hand lightly over hers, stilling the shaking brush.
Her breath hitched. For a heartbeat, she didn’t meet my gaze—her eyes darted to the door, the corners, the flicker of torchlight along the walls, as if searching for the invisible ears that always lingered just out of sight.
“You can trust me,” I murmured.
She stood frozen, trembling under the weight of the words she couldn’t say. When she finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “I…can’t. I’m afraid, Princess.”