Page 22 of Stolen Magic (All That Glitters #2)

I was horrified by how easily I’d allowed myself to slip—to succumb to a moment of vulnerability, as if the roles between us had been reversed and I was the prey instead of the hunter.

As if he—rather than I—were the master manipulator in this deadly game, allowing me to forget it was nothing more than an elaborate tournament in which we were opponents.

This man was far more dangerous than I had imagined. I would have to be more vigilant.

I tried to strengthen the shield protecting my heart and steel myself against his disarming warmth, but it was difficult with the violets’ gentle perfume bathing me in nostalgia and sweet memories of my childhood in the woods with Mother, surrounded by the magic I had loved.

Unlike the necklace he’d given me, this gift felt far less calculated—a gesture born of kindness, of care, emotions I didn’t want to notice.

He wasn’t supposed to be this considerate, not the son of a king whose throne was stained with my mother’s and so many others’ blood, not to mention the countless other atrocities to his name.

Prince Callan was meant to be as cold, calculated, and cruel as his father.

Yet the look on his face now wasn’t deceit, nor, despite my opinion of his motives, did it seem to be a performance.

It was hope.

“You’re smiling,” he said with a hint of wonder. “Does that mean you like them?” His pleasure at my reaction to his gift caused an unexpected twinge in my chest, clouding my mind with further confusion.

Startled, I touched my lips, tracing the faint smile I hadn’t realized had formed. I shook my head in denial, but he only stepped closer, his own easy grin tugging at his mouth.

“But you are,” he insisted gently. “See? Right there.”

He pressed the corner of my mouth lightly with his fingertip. Warmth spread from the simple touch, as if he’d cast a spell to encourage my smile. The sensation was overwhelming and frightening, leaving me lightheaded—not an ideal state to plot and calculate strategy.

As his supposed fiancée I allowed the touch, telling myself I had the fortitude to bear it for these agonizing, seemingly endless seconds.

But though he eventually withdrew his hand, he didn’t immediately step back.

Instead he remained far too close, his presence wrapping around me like a cloak of warmth I couldn’t shake.

His gaze drifted lower, landing on the pendant at my throat—not the one he had given Princess Gwendolyn, but the one he had crafted for me the night before.

His eyes widened as he reached out to softly brush the chain, cradling the pendant lightly in his palm.

He looked at me expectantly, as if awaiting for a response that would forge the connection he seemed keen on painstakingly building.

I was in no condition to pretend, nor summon the distance I desperately needed.

Still clinging to the crumbling remnants of my script, I lifted the violets to my nose once more and inhaled their sweet scent.

I used the moment to gather my composure before peering up at him with a soft smile that, to my horror, felt far less rehearsed than it should have.

“Since my arrival I’ve already been the recipient of two thoughtful gestures. You must be careful lest I grow spoiled. Is there a specific reason behind such generosity?”

He shrugged, the movement easy and unguarded. “None in particular. I just wanted to make you happy.”

I blinked, momentarily at a loss for words, unable to understand such a simple apparent motive. “You wanted to make me… happy? ”

He nodded without hesitation. “Isn’t that a husband’s job for his beloved wife?”

The word beloved sent a pleasant ripple down my spine and I desperately hoped I wasn’t flushed crimson. “Does that duty truly exist in a political arrangement?” In my fluster my voice emerged more sharply than I intended.

Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps, or confusion; maybe even a little hurt. “It doesn’t matter how our union began,” he said quietly. “Marriage should be something more than obligation.”

Obligation . The word tasted bitter on my tongue, condemning.

Whether he truly yearned for such a relationship, such a sentiment was impossible while I wove lies between every breath.

Even if he was as kind and honorable as the facade he portrayed, we could never have a true relationship, considering I was not the princess he thought he was wooing.

“I want the same thing too,” I said. Another lie.

This seemed to be the answer he had been hoping for.

He stared into my eyes, searching for something he seemed desperate to find.

Reflected in his was a surprising flicker of vulnerability that mirrored my own.

For a single, fragile moment, it felt as though the charade between us had vanished, leaving something real—raw and unguarded, shared between two people who had no business sharing anything at all.

He released a breath, as if relieved. “I’m so glad. With that in mind, I hoped we could spend more time together. I don’t want to wait until after we’re married to truly get to know you.”

I bit the inside of my lip to suppress a sigh.

I couldn’t afford to waste time charming the prince—not when every moment risked exposing my deception.

I didn’t know how long my ruse would hold, or how soon suspicion might creep in.

Every second spent playing the princess was a second stolen from what truly mattered: reclaiming my lost magic.

It was an incredibly dangerous game of balance—moving cautiously to avoid suspicion, while in a frantic race against the clock as we approached the yet-unknown moment when my disguise would tumble apart.

I was certain my magic resided somewhere within the palace, sealed away, waiting for me.

Though I couldn’t see it, I could feel it—subtle as the hush before a storm, as familiar as the scent of spring carried on a restless breeze.

It stirred faintly through the corridors, brushing against my skin like a half-remembered touch, tugging at something deep inside me.

The closer I drew to it, the more it shimmered at the edges of my senses, like a forgotten melody just out of reach.

It was maddening to be so close yet so powerless to seize it, but I couldn’t give up and abandon my role.

Not yet. To keep suspicion at bay, I had to play the part of the devoted bride-to-be, smiling at the prince, dancing through court functions, and whispering soft endearments I barely understood after years of anger and loneliness.

If I slipped even once, the entire charade could unravel.

I was bound to this performance of courtship, no matter how it grated against every instinct urging me to escape.

Myst, ever attuned to the silent yearning I dared not voice, brushed against my leg and met my gaze with a knowing look.

Without a sound, she slipped out of my chambers and away into the shadows, disappearing with the quiet confidence of one who had conducted this search many times before.

She would do what I could not: follow the faint threads of my stolen magic through the forbidden corners of the palace, slipping through cracks and whispers where I could not venture without drawing questions.

While I stayed behind, locked in a dance of lies and courtly smiles, Myst would hunt.

While the prince waited respectfully in my doorway, I stepped inside to fill the pitcher with water and set it on a low table next to the comfortable chair that was becoming my favorite place to think.

With a forced smile I accepted the prince’s offered arm, clutching the pendant he had given me as if it might somehow anchor me through the exhausting performance ahead.

He guided me through the glittering corridors towards the private dining room for our breakfast.

This dining room was smaller than the grand halls but no less opulent, an intimate prison wrapped in gold.

A round table set for two glittered beneath the soft golden light of a crystal chandelier.

Prince Callan helped me into my chair with an awkward, earnest gallantry that scraped against my already fraying nerves.

I sat stiffly, willing my heart to slow.

The meal arrived in courses—fresh fruits, sweet pastries, delicate cuts of meat—but like the night before I barely tasted a morsel.

Every bite was an effort, every sip of tea a battle to control my trembling hands.

We ate in blessed silence for a time before Prince Callan summoned enough courage to speak.

“I hope the gardens brought you some comfort last night.” Though his voice wavered—evidence of his own nerves—he spoke gently.

I forced another thin smile “They were...pleasant.” Even though the emotional turmoil and Myst’s unwelcome insights that resulted had been anything but; the falseness of the claim scraped against my throat.

He didn’t press me to expand upon my meager answer.

He continued speaking easily from his place across the table, trying to draw me into conversation with gentle, open-ended questions with a patience that was beginning to overwhelm me—harmless topics meant to set me at ease, yet each one wore at the fragile shield I was desperately trying to hold in place.

I offered vague answers, forced smiles, and laughed when required…

but my mind wandered, instead fixed on Myst and the magic hidden somewhere within the palace walls.

I kept one ear trained on his conversation, the other attuned to the faint tremor of my stolen power that filled the air, searching every nook and cranny in the elegant surroundings for where it might be tucked away.

By the time the final plate was cleared, I’d grown exhausted from the effort of maintaining the illusion. Urgency pulsed through me like a second heartbeat, tempting me to abandon our shallow conversation when my magic was so close, merely a search away.