Chapter six,

After so much struggle, I finally reach the heavy metal door of his room to inform him that the evening meal is ready. The guard steps aside silently, his ever-watchful eyes following my every move.

I knock. No response.

I was told they returned some minutes ago, so he must be inside. But why isn’t he answering?

I knock again, louder this time, but the silence remains.

“Is he in?” I ask the guard who stands like a statue at his post. This one rarely speaks, though they all exchange shifts regularly.

He nods, offering no further explanation.

If he’s inside, why isn’t he answering? Unease churns in my stomach as I debate whether to enter. Something feels… off.

Finally, I decide to open the door. The hinges creak as I step inside, my movements hesitant.

He’s standing near the window, his hands clasped behind his back, staring outside toward the field where I had been earlier.

“Your Highness, the evening meal is ready,” I announce, keeping my tone respectful. Despite our usual banter, I know better than to take liberties when his mood is unpredictable.

He doesn’t respond. Not a glance, not a word. It’s as though he hasn’t even heard me.

“Your Highness, the—”

“Since when are you so close to those people?” he cuts me off sharply, his voice low but heavy with an unfamiliar edge.

I freeze. There’s no mistaking the coldness in his tone.

For hours, I had been in the field with the knights, fooling around after training. Running, laughing, and clashing swords in playful combat. Them teaching me some skills.

For the first time in so long, I had felt free—alive. Even Michael had encouraged me, saying this was the happiest he has ever seen me.

I don’t respond. Maybe I should, but the words refuse to come.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he snaps, turning to face me now. His expression is unreadable, caught somewhere between anger and… something else.

I’ve stopped trying to understand Prince Arthur. One moment we’re talking casually, sharing jokes, and the next, he’s so serious it’s suffocating. 

But what troubles me most—what my mind refuses to let go of—is the jealousy I sometimes catch in his eyes.

I don’t know what to make of it. If this behavior continues, I might start believing things I shouldn’t.

“Evening… evening meal is ready,” I stammer, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

“Are you ignoring my question?” he demands.

“I’m not close to them,” I say quickly, my voice defensive. “I was bored, so I thought I could join their training. Is that not allowed?”

“I leave for just a few hours, and you’re already throwing yourself at men?”

His accusation hits me like a slap.

“Throwing myself at men? Are you serious? What have I done to possibly give you the idea of me throwing myself at men, I... Forget it,” I say, turning to leave, my anger bubbling to the surface.

But before I can take another step, he grabs my arm, his grip firm yet careful.

“Who do you think you are to walk out on me?”

I whirl back to face him, my voice tight with frustration. “Is there something else you want me to do for you, your highness?”

“Respect,” he says, his tone cold and unwavering. “Respect me like everyone else in this palace does. If you think you can do whatever you want here, you’re mistaken. I’m the one who hired you, and that means everything you do revolves around this room, not the field and everywhere in the palace, how many times do I have to repeat that?”

“Yes , your highness,” I say simply, my voice small.

The room falls silent, the tension thick between us. My head hangs low as I wait for his permission to leave, my chest tight with the sting of his words. The accusation, the scolding, the audacity to imply I was throwing myself at anyone—it’s all too much.

Then, without warning, his arms are around me. Strong, warm, and unyielding.

I freeze, my heart pounding furiously.

“Your Highness…” I manage, trying to pull away, but he doesn’t let go. My attempts are futile against his strength.

Slowly, my resistance fades. My body betrays me, relaxing into his embrace as if it has a will of its own.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to say those things to you and I didn't mean it when I said you were throwing yourself at men.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I murmur, though my voice wavers. “Can you… can you let me go now?”

“I get jealous,” he admits, his words catching me off guard. “And when I’m jealous, I say things I shouldn’t.”

Jealous? My mind races. Jealous of what?

“What are you jealous of?” I ask, even as a voice in my head warns me not to.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand moves to my back, the other resting gently against the back of my head. He pulls me closer, pressing my face against his broad chest. His heart beats as wildly as mine.

“Do you believe in love at first sight?” he asks softly, his chin resting atop my head.

I don’t know how to respond. My mind feels like it’s spinning out of control, unsure of what’s real or what I’m supposed to feel.

I stay silent.

One of his hands drifts lower, resting lightly at my waist, while the other remains steady at the back of my head. My arms, as if acting of their own accord, wrap around him loosely.

Warmth envelops me, and for a brief moment, I let myself feel it.

A knock on the door shatters the moment.

I jolt, reality crashing back in. I try to pull away, but his arms tighten around me.

“Your Highness, the meal is ready,” a voice calls from the other side.

“I’m coming,” he replies, his tone steady.

Even after the voice fades and the footsteps retreat, he doesn’t let me go.

“Please,” I say, struggling against his hold, my composure returning. “Let me go.”

“Just a little longer,” he pleads softly, his voice almost desperate.

“This is wrong,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

His hold loosens slightly, but he doesn’t release me completely. “Why is it wrong?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My thoughts are a chaotic mess, and staying here any longer feels like stepping too close to the edge of something I can’t control.