Chapter 6: The Echo of a Touch

Flora fled, not walking but running through the labyrinthine corridors until she was safely back in the chaotic anonymity of the scullery. The world of boiling pots and shouting chefs had never felt so much like a sanctuary. She slipped back into her station, her movements mechanical, her mind replaying the encounter in the corridor on a torturous loop.

His scent. It was everywhere. It clung to her uniform, a phantom presence that made her dizzy. It was in her lungs, on her skin. Her wolf was still whining, a pitiful, confused creature that couldn’t understand why they had run from their other half. But Flora, the human part of her, was screaming in terror. He was the King. She was nothing. An imposter, a stand-in for her sister. If he found out, if he discovered the deception, she wouldn’t just be sent back to Silver Creek in disgrace; her entire family would be punished. Her sister, sick and vulnerable, would pay the price for her foolishness.

“Where in the seven hells have you been?” Gregor the Chef roared, slamming a cleaver down on a cutting board beside her, making her jump. “That flour was needed ten minutes ago! Do you think the King’s personal guard eats dust?”

“I’m sorry, Chef,” she mumbled, keeping her head down. “I got lost.”

“Lost?” he scoffed, his face red with exertion and anger. “Try to get un-lost before I throw you to the pigs. Now, chop. Those carrots won’t turn themselves into slivers.”

Flora picked up her knife, her hands shaking so badly she was sure she would cut herself. She focused on the rhythmic motion, the simple, repetitive task a balm to her frayed nerves. But she couldn’t escape him. His storm-grey eyes, the low growl of his voice, the shocking warmth of his touch on her cheek—it was all burned into her memory. The way he had looked at her, with that mixture of fierce recognition and utter revulsion, was a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

She was a fool. A stupid, dreaming fool to think, even for a second, that the Moon Goddess would ever gift an omega with a king. It was a cruel joke. A test. And she had nearly failed, nearly succumbed to the dangerous pull of the bond. His command—“You will not speak of this”—was a lifeline. It was a clear boundary. He wanted nothing to do with her. She would obey. She would bury the memory, lock it away, and pretend it never happened. It was the only way to survive.

Hours later, when her shift was finally over, she stumbled to the small, cramped room she shared with a few other castle omegas. She was exhausted, body and soul. As she washed the flour and grime from her face and hands, she caught her reflection in a polished piece of metal hanging on the wall. A pale, frightened girl with wide, haunted eyes stared back at her. A girl who didn’t belong. A girl who had touched a king and been cast aside.

A fresh wave of despair washed over her. What was she going to do? She was stuck here for a month, a ghost in her sister’s place. Every day would be a risk, a chance that she might run into him again. Could she bear it? Could she bear to see him, to know he was near, and have to pretend she felt nothing? Her wolf whimpered at the thought, a sound of pure misery that echoed her own.

She lay on her narrow cot, pulling a thin blanket over her head, trying to block out the world. But she couldn’t block out his scent. It was still there, a tantalizing whisper of what could never be. She curled into a tight ball, tears soaking her pillow, and prayed for the strength to forget the King who was her mate, and the devastating, impossible love that had already begun to take root in her heart.