Chapter 28: It Burns

Third POV

Sleep would not come.

Maddox had lain in his bed for hours, staring at the canopy above, counting the cracks in the stone ceiling, listening to the wind howl outside his window. His mind would not quiet.

The guilt would not settle. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Odette's pale face or Samantha's tear streaked cheeks or the blood on his own hands.

He rose before midnight and dressed in silence. The castle was dark, the corridors empty, the guards nodding at their posts. He walked without purpose, his footsteps echoing off the stone, his breath misting in the cold air.

Somehow, without meaning to, he found himself outside Hecate's studio.

The door was slightly ajar, golden light spilling through the gap. He could hear the soft clink of glass vials, the gentle rustle of dried herbs, the murmur of a voice speaking words he could not understand.

He pushed the door open without knocking.

Hecate stood at her worktable with her back to him. Her heavy black hair was piled into a messy bun, loose strands curling against her neck.

She wore a simple silk nightgown, black as midnight, the fabric clinging to her slender frame. It was clear she had leapt from her bed with an idea and come straight here, unable to wait for morning.

She was beautiful. He had noticed it before, but tonight, in the flickering candlelight, with her focus entirely on her work, she was something else entirely. Something that made his chest ache.

And then he saw them.

Tattoos. Runes etched into the pale skin of her back, trailing up her spine and disappearing beneath the collar of her nightgown. They were dark, intricate, ancient symbols that seemed to shimmer faintly in the low light.

Some he recognized from old texts, wards of protection, bindings of power. Others were foreign to him, mysterious as the woman who bore them.

He moved closer without thinking. His hand rose, and before he could stop himself, his fingers brushed against her back, tracing the curve of a rune just above her shoulder blade.

She froze.

Then she spun around, her dark eyes wide, her hand pressed to her chest. His hand still hung in the air where it had been, caught in the act.

"I am sorry," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. "I did not mean to startle you."

Hecate exhaled slowly, her posture relaxing. "You move like a wolf, my king. Silent and swift. I did not hear you enter."

"You were focused." He lowered his hand. "You could not sleep either?"

She shook her head and turned back to her table, though she kept him in her peripheral vision. "The queen's condition troubles me. I thought of a new combination of herbs that might speed the healing. I could not wait until morning to test it."

Maddox watched her work, the way her fingers moved with precision and care, the way her brow furrowed in concentration. "Can I help? I need something to distract myself."

She glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "That is peculiar for a king. But I have already learned that you are a peculiar king." A small smile tugged at her lips. "Very well. Crush these seeds into a fine powder. Not too fine, or they lose their potency."

He moved to the other side of the table and set to work. The rhythm of the mortar and pestle was soothing, grounding. For a few minutes, neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the scrape of stone against stone, the soft crackle of candles, the distant moan of the wind.

His eyes kept drifting to her.

To the runes on her arms, barely visible beneath the loose sleeves of her nightgown. To the curve of her neck, the way her pulse beat just beneath her skin. To the concentration on her face, the way she bit her lower lip when she measured a drop of tincture.

"The runes," he said finally. "Will you tell me their secret?"

She laughed, a soft, musical sound. "You cannot take your eyes off me, can you? If you were a common man, I would say you were falling in love."

His heart stuttered. He said nothing.

"They are protection runes," she continued, her voice quieter now. "Every good practitioner of magic keeps their cards close to the chest. These mark me as warded, shielded from harm that seeks me through supernatural means."

"So I am safe when I am near you?" he asked, and there was something almost vulnerable in his tone.

She looked at him then, really looked at him. Her dark eyes seemed to see past his crown, past his curse, past the monster and the king both.

"How can a woman protect a king?" she murmured.

"When that woman is a powerful witch who radiates power." He stepped closer. The table was between them, but the distance felt smaller now. "When that woman makes him forget, for a few precious moments, that he is damned."

Her breath caught.

He reached across the table and took her face in his hands. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones, her skin warm beneath his touch. She did not pull away. She did not speak. She only looked at him with those dark, knowing eyes.

And then he kissed her.

The moment his lips touched hers, something cracked open inside him. A door he had kept locked for three years. A wound he had pretended had healed. His heart pounded against his ribs, and his skin burned with a heat he had not felt since Samantha.

She tasted like honey and herbs and something older, something wild. Her lips were soft but certain, and for a heartbeat, she kissed him back.

Her hands came up to his arms, gripping his biceps. She did not push him away. But she did not pull him closer either. She hesitated, frozen between surrender and retreat, as if she did not know whether to fall into him or flee.

He kissed her deeper, and his chest ached with longing.

Then Samantha's face flashed through his mind.

Her ashen blonde hair spread across his pillow. Her laughter, soft and surprised. The way she had looked at him when she said I love you, her eyes full of trust, full of hope.

He had betrayed that trust. He had lied to her. He had used her for her scent, for her ability to calm the curse, and he had let her believe it was love.

And now he was kissing another woman.

He pulled back as if burned.

His chest heaved. His lips tingled. His hands fell to his sides, and he stared at Hecate, at her flushed cheeks and parted lips, at the confusion in her dark eyes.

"I am sorry," he said, his voice wrecked. "I should go."

He turned and walked toward the door, nearly tripping over his own feet. His hands trembled as he reached for the handle. His heart pounded with shame and confusion and a desperate, clawing loneliness that would not let him go.

He left her standing in the candlelight, alone among her potions and her runes and her secrets.

And as he stumbled down the dark corridor, he cursed himself for the most wretched man on the face of the earth.

He had loved Samantha. He had lost her. And now, he did not know if he deserved to love anyone ever again.