Chapter Four

It did not happen all at once.

That would have been easier to name, easier to condemn.

Instead, it unfolded the way rot does beneath silk—slow, quiet, almost tender in its deceit.

After our first exchange, I began to see the prince everywhere. Or perhaps, more truthfully, he began to see me.

He would appear in corridors I had just finished polishing, pause beneath archways as I passed with linens in my arms, linger at the edges of rooms where I had no business noticing him. At first, I told myself it was a coincidence. Hawthorne Castle was vast, yes—but it was also a place of habits, and mine had been carved into its stones over years of service. If anyone could predict where I would be, it was someone who paid attention.

And Roman Davenport paid attention.

Each encounter carried the same careful courtesy. He never blocked my path. Never raised his voice. Never spoke to me as though I were less than I was—nor, disturbingly, as though I were only what I was. He asked questions instead. Small ones, harmless ones. Where I was from. How long I had served. Whether I preferred mornings or evenings for my work.

I answered because it felt rude not to. Because he waited, patient as stone, until I did.

And because I liked the sound of my name in his mouth.

Edith, he said once, testing it softly, as though it were a word he meant to keep.

I should have walked away then.

Instead, I lingered.

By the third week, the castle had learned our pattern even if I refused to. I would be sent with ledgers to the east wing and find him already there, leaning against the tall windows as though he had been waiting for the light to change. I would be tasked with arranging the solar and discovering him alone, sleeves rolled, crown nowhere in sight, studying maps he did not truly read.

Always questions. Always listening.

He never touched me.

Not until he did.

It was a small thing. Smaller than it should have been to matter. I had been tasked with re-lacing the curtain ties in the north gallery—an idle duty meant to keep hands busy while nobles dined—and he approached as I stood on the low step stool, arms lifted, fingers clumsy with silk.

“You’ve tied it backwards,” he said quietly.

“I have not,” I replied before thinking, then froze, mortified by my own boldness.

A corner of his mouth curved—not mocking, not displeased. Amused.

“Forgive me,” he said. “May I?”

I hesitated. Then nodded.

He stepped closer than he ever had before, close enough that I became suddenly, painfully aware of him—not as a prince, but as a man. The warmth of his body. The faint scent of cedar and smoke clinging to his clothes. The startling color of his eyes, darker up close, like stormwater caught beneath glass.

He reached past me, fingers brushing the curtain cord—

—and his hand steadied my wrist.

That was all.

His touch was bare, ungloved, warm. Calloused just enough to betray a life not entirely spent behind council doors. He did not grip. Did not pull. He merely held me still, as though the world required it for a breath to pass safely.

I forgot how to breathe.

“I meant no offense,” he murmured, his voice lower now, closer to my ear. “You were doing it well. I only thought—”

He stopped.

So did I.

Because neither of us moved. Because his hand did not leave my wrist. Because something unnamed, something alive, passed between us in the silence.

It should have felt improper.

It did.

And still—I liked it.

The knowledge struck me like cold water. Sharp. Sobering. Damning.

I liked that he touched me as though I mattered. I liked that he did not rush to remove his hand, nor pretend it had been an accident. I liked the way his thumb shifted once, almost unconsciously, against my skin.

When he finally stepped back, the absence was immediate. Painful.

“I should not have,” he said, though there was no regret in his eyes.

“No,” I agreed, though my voice betrayed me.

We did not speak of it again.

But from that day forward, everything changed. His questions lingered longer. His gaze followed me when I turned away. And I—fool that I was—began to wait for him in places I told myself I had no reason to be.

I knew it was wrong.

I knew the ending such things were meant to have.

And yet, each time I felt his presence near, each time I remembered the weight of his hand on my wrist, I found myself telling the same quiet lie.

That I could stop whenever I wished.