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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

J essamin sat with Ulric, her hand resting on the warm, solid expanse of his chest once more.

She could feel the tremors that still wracked his powerful frame, each one a testament to the terrible burden he carried alone.

The confession of his nightmare—of becoming a mindless weapon against his own people, against her—had laid bare not only the weight of his crown, but the constant, gnawing fear that the Curse that gave him strength would consume him.

He was a male fighting battles on every front, including within himself.

She bent down and pressed her lips to his shoulder, a gentle kiss meant to offer comfort, to tell him without words that he wasn’t alone.

He stiffened beneath her touch, but then his hand cupped her face, raising it towards him. They looked at each other for a moment, his thumb gently brushing her cheek as her heart began to pound, and then his mouth found hers.

This kiss was different from their first—not a sudden explosion of long-denied desire, but something deeper, more profound. His lips moved against hers with a tenderness that made her heart ache. She leaned into him, her hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair.

The tenderness didn’t last. As if a dam had broken, the kiss transformed, became hungry, desperate. He sat up and lifted her easily onto his lap. The heat of him seared through her thin nightdress, and she gasped as his mouth left hers to trace a burning path down her throat.

“Jessamin,” he growled against her skin, the sound vibrating through her body as his mouth moved lower.

She had no thought of refusing him. This wasn’t the political arrangement that had brought her to Norhaven.

This was something they had forged together through fire and blood and trust. His hands slid up her sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts, and she arched into his touch with a soft moan.

The sudden, sharp intake of his breath made her open her eyes. His face was contorted in a grimace of pain. Looking down, she saw a dark stain spreading across the bandage on his arm—the wound had reopened, blood seeping through the linen.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered, pulling back.

He tried to recapture her mouth. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.” She slid off his lap, her body protesting the loss of his heat. “Let me?—”

“Don’t.” His voice was rough with frustration and desire. “Don’t leave.”

The naked plea in his words stopped her. This proud, powerful king was asking—not commanding—her to stay. She reached for his uninjured hand and brought it to her lips.

“I’m not leaving you,” she promised. “But I won’t be the reason your wound worsens.”

For a moment, she thought he might argue. Then he sighed, a sound of weary acceptance. “Very well.”

She expected him to dismiss her then, to retreat behind his walls as he always did when vulnerability threatened. Instead, he shifted on the bed, making room for her beside him once more.

She sat silently next to him, the only sound their gradually slowing breaths.

The intimacy of the moment was more profound than any physical passion could have been.

Gradually, his breathing evened out, and the tension drained from his broad shoulders.

He turned his hand and covered hers, his large palm engulfing her fingers.

It was an act of trust so profound it made her want to weep.

“I should change your bandage,” she said softly.

“Later,” he murmured, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Just… stay.”

She nodded, and he lay back against the pillows, drawing her with him until her head rested on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear was the most comforting sound she had ever heard.

His arm circled her waist, holding her close, and she felt the exact moment when sleep claimed him.

His body relaxed completely, his breathing deep and even.

She allowed herself to study his face in repose, the fierce lines softened in slumber.

He looked younger, the weight of the crown temporarily lifted.

She didn’t know how long she lay there, memorizing the contours of his face, the pattern of old scars on his chest, the warmth of his skin against hers. It was a gift, this unguarded moment, more precious than any treasure.

Eventually, reluctantly, she eased herself from his embrace. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake. She tucked the blanket around him and pressed a feather-light kiss to his forehead before slipping from the bed.

At the door, she paused for one last look. The mighty King of Norhaven, fierce warrior and bearer of an ancient Curse, slept peacefully, his face smoothed of worry. Her heart swelled with an emotion too big to contain, too profound to name.

She slipped silently back through the darkened passageway, her heart full to bursting. The torches had burned low, casting long shadows on the stone walls, and the stronghold was silent around her.

A sudden movement in the shadows as she entered her chambers made her start.

“Your Majesty?”

Elspeth stepped into the dim light, her face a mask of concern. She wore a simple robe over her nightdress, her hair loose around her shoulders.

“Is the king well? I heard he’d been… restless and came to see if you needed assistance.”

She pressed a hand to her racing heart. “You startled me, Elspeth.”

“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” Elspeth dipped into a curtsy. “I was worried about you.”

The genuine concern in the other woman’s voice touched her. Despite her occasional barbed comments about Norhaven, Elspeth had been a steady presence since her arrival, a link to her homeland and her father.

“The king had a… difficult night,” she said carefully. “But he is resting now.”

Elspeth’s eyes widened slightly, taking in Jessamin’s disheveled appearance—her loose hair, her rumpled nightdress. A faint blush colored her cheeks.

“I’m glad to hear it, Your Majesty.” She hesitated, then reached into the pocket of her robe. “This is the other reason I came to you. A messenger from your father arrived while you were… attending the king. He insisted this be delivered to you immediately.”

Elspeth pressed the folded parchment into her hand. “He said it was urgent, Your Majesty.”

The parchment was sealed with her father’s official seal—the golden sun and sword of Almohad embossed in red wax.

The sight of it sent a pang of homesickness through her, quickly followed by concern.

What could be so urgent that her father would insist on a message being delivered to her in the middle of the night?

“Thank you, Elspeth.” She clutched the letter tightly. “You may return to your rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Should I wait for a response?”

“No. Whatever it is can wait until morning.”

Elspeth hesitated for a moment, then curtseyed again. “Of course, Your Majesty. Sleep well.”

She watched her lady-in-waiting hurry away down the corridor and closed the door behind her. The fire in her sitting room had died to embers, casting the room in a soft, golden glow. She sat at her small writing desk and broke the seal with trembling fingers.

The letter was written in her father’s familiar hand, the elegant script a comfort in this strange land. But as she read, that comfort transformed into cold, creeping horror.

My dearest daughter,

I pray this finds you well. I write with heavy heart but clear purpose. High King Lasseran has approached me with terms for peace between our kingdoms. His demands are many, but reasonable when weighed against the alternative of continued bloodshed.

He asks only for your safe return to Almohad and the wisdom of compliance from Norhaven in certain matters of trade and governance. In exchange, he will lift the blockade and restore our trade routes.

I know you have formed attachments in your new home, but I implore you to consider the greater good. Lasseran’s power grows daily, and I fear what will become of us all should we continue to resist.

A loyal servant awaits your response in the lower chambers. Send word of your decision, and arrangements will be made for your safe passage home.

With all my love and concern,

Your Father

She stared at the parchment, her blood running cold with confusion and horror. This couldn’t be from her father. The Priest King she knew would never bow to Lasseran’s demands, would never suggest she abandon her husband and her duty for political expediency.

And yet, the handwriting was unmistakably his. The seal was perfect. Even the phrasing—“with heavy heart but clear purpose”—was one of his favorite expressions.

She read it again, her mind racing. “Reasonable terms” from Lasseran? “The wisdom of compliance”? It was as if a stranger had written these words, not the father who had raised her to value honor and duty above all else.

A servant waiting for her response… in the lower chambers. Her skin crawled at the thought. Who was this “loyal servant”? And what did they truly want from her?

The letter trembled in her hands. Something was terribly wrong. This message, coming on the heels of the intimacy she had just shared with Ulric, felt like a violation. A shadow cast over the fragile, precious trust they had built.

She should go to him now, wake him and show him the letter. But he was finally resting peacefully after his nightmare. And what if the letter was genuine? What if her father truly had capitulated to Lasseran’s demands? The implications horrified her.

She set the parchment down on her desk, her mind whirling with questions. The seal was real. The handwriting was her father’s. But the message… the message felt wrong, a discordant note in a familiar melody.

The father who had sent her to Norhaven to protect her from Lasseran would never write such things. He would die before suggesting she return to the very danger he had sought to shield her from.

Unless… unless something had happened to change his mind. Unless Lasseran had found some leverage, some threat too terrible to resist.

Or unless this letter was a forgery, a masterful one designed to lure her into a trap.

She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to think through the fog of emotional exhaustion. She needed to be clear-headed, to consider all possibilities. The stakes were too high for hasty decisions.

One thing was certain—she would not respond to this “loyal servant” tonight. Not until she had spoken with Ulric, shown him the letter, sought his counsel. Whatever this was, they would face it together, as king and queen, as husband and wife.

She folded the letter carefully and slipped it into her desk. Tomorrow, in the light of day, with Ulric by her side, she would unravel this mystery.

For now, she needed rest. She banked the fire, climbed into her cold, empty bed, and tried not to think of the warmth she had left behind in Ulric’s chambers. Despite her resolve to wait until morning, one question kept circling in her mind, keeping sleep at bay:

What had Lasseran done to her father to make him send this message?