Chapter Seven – The Wall

The hall outside the seamstress chamber was silent.

No one looked at me as I walked. No one spoke. But I felt their stares—burning down my back, trailing over the place where Helena’s slap still echoed like a drumbeat beneath my skin.

I kept my head low and moved fast, heart thudding. I needed to get back to the kitchens. To the tunnels. To something familiar, something cold and stone and safe.

The passage narrowed as I ducked into the servants’ corridor, where torchlight flickered over the walls and footsteps disappeared in echo. I knew this route—knew the shadowed corners and damp breath of stone.

I did not know the hand that caught my arm.

I was yanked sideways with such force that my back slammed against the wall, knocking the breath from my lungs.

And then he was there.

Caelan.

His body caged mine against the rough stone, one hand braced beside my head, the other still gripping my forearm.

He didn’t speak right away.

His eyes searched my face like I was a riddle only he could solve. Like he was angry—no, worse. Curious.

I tried to speak, but no sound came.

"Why do you keep showing up in my dreams?" he asked, voice low and raw. "What are you doing to me?"

My lips parted, but I had no answer.

Because I could’ve asked him the same thing.

He stepped closer, the heat of him rolling over me like a tide. His breath touched my cheek. His scent—pine and power and something darker—wrapped around me like rope.

"You don’t belong in my head," he muttered. His eyes narrowed. "Where did you come from? Who are your people?"

My heart stumbled. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

"You act like you’re no one," he said, voice low but sharp, but his words started to drift as he leaned in closer. His nose brushed against my temple, then lower, trailing just above the line of my jaw.

He inhaled.

And something in him shifted.

His entire body stilled—tightened—like he’d been struck. His fingers flexed around my forearm. His eyes darkened, hunger flickering there like something primal waking beneath his skin.

"You walk through my mind like you were built to live there," he breathed, now almost dazed, intoxicated. "Every time I try to shut you out, you're already inside. Gods... what are you?"

He bent his head again, closer to my throat, his breath hot. I could feel him trembling, like his restraint was fraying by the second."

I didn’t know how to answer. Because I didn’t know who I was either—not anymore.

"I don’t know what you're talking about," I whispered, eyes wide, voice shaky. It wasn’t a lie. Not completely. Because even if I did know—if I had felt the same pull, dreamed the same dreams—I couldn’t tell him. Not when I didn’t understand it myself. Not when I wasn’t sure it wouldn’t get me killed.

His gaze dropped to my mouth.

I felt it then—something alive and unspoken passing between us, coiled and waiting, like a creature with teeth just beneath the surface. It wasn’t just attraction—it was recognition. Like my body knew something my mind couldn’t name. Like static before a storm, yes—but this storm wanted to consume.

He exhaled hard, jaw tightening, but he didn’t move—not right away. His eyes lingered on my mouth, and his hand twitched like he was fighting some internal war. I could feel the pull between us—thick, electric, wrong in all the ways that made it impossible to ignore. His fingers grazed my waist before he caught himself.

He made a low sound in his throat, frustrated, maybe even desperate.

Then, finally, like it cost him everything, he stepped back. Not because he wanted to.

Because he had to.

"Stay out of trouble," he said, but his voice had lost its usual edge. It sounded hoarse, like he hated the distance he was forcing between us. Like he wasn’t sure if he meant it—as if trouble was exactly what he wanted from me.

And then he was gone.

But my back still burned where he’d pressed me.

And for the first time, I realized it wasn’t just the dreams that were dangerous.

It was him.