12: A Red Haired

Natasha’s POV

The past week hadn't been half as bad as I thought it’d be. At least, not in the way I expected. I hadn’t been dragged into dark rooms or forced to kneel for anyone or slapped for blinking too slow like I was back home. No one shouted orders at me. In fact, no one said anything much. I was left alone, like an untouched ornament on a shelf. Dusted once and then forgotten.

The bed was too soft, the pillows too many. The bath was warm every evening. My meals came on time. My clothes were washed and pressed before I even thought of them. But that was the problem. Everything was done for me. No one asked me to scrub, to carry, to run, or to fetch. Nobody handed me a broom. I hadn’t swept a floor or folded a sheet since I got here, not even my own.

And it was driving me insane.

I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’d wake up and just… exist. Stare at the wall. Walk from one end of the room to the other. Pace. Try to read but not understand a thing I was reading. Sometimes I’d even sneak into the kitchen, just to feel a bit normal again, maybe offer to help—cut vegetables or clean something—but the staff there would just bow, smile tight and polite, and tell me no. That they weren’t allowed to let me lift a hand.

The silence was loud. Too loud. My fingers itched to do something—anything—but I didn’t know what. I’d never been this idle in my life. I was raised in the palace, yes, but not as a guest. Not like this. I was raised to serve. I was raised to work. Being still felt unnatural. Wrong. Like I was being punished with comfort.

I thought about talking to him. About asking for something to do. Anything. A task, a chore, a corner of this damn palace I could clean if it meant I’d stop feeling like a ghost. But the thing is—Lucien never really stayed long enough for me to say anything. We saw each other during dinner. That was it. And even then, he barely looked at me. Unlike he'd been doing when we first met and when I first got here. That was probably cause he'd gotten what he wanted, Ownership. 

He ate like time was chasing him. Barely chewed. Barely spoke. And the moment his cup was drained and his plate cleared, he was gone again—like if he lingered a second too long, the whole kingdom would fall apart without him.

It didn’t used to be that way.

The first two nights, he lingered. Watched me more than he ate. Said things that didn’t sound like commands, but questions. Things that felt like him trying to know me, not just study me. But then something shifted. He went cold again. Distant. Just like the King I met the first day. And I hated that I noticed. That I cared enough to notice. But I did.

That evening, I stood by the balcony.

The air was soft. The kind that teased your skin and made you close your eyes without knowing. The garden stretched far below, quiet, peaceful, full of green and white petals that moved gently with the wind. I hadn’t seen him all day, not even at lunch. I wasn’t supposed to miss someone who barely said a word to me, but somehow, I did. Maybe not him, maybe just the idea of finally speaking to someone who could make this feeling go away. The restlessness. The boredom. The growing confusion I was too scared to name.

And then I saw him.

Down in the garden, by the stone bench near the fountain.

Lucien.

He was talking to his Beta. I could tell from the shape of his shoulders and the way his arms moved. Something about him looked lighter today. Like the weight on his chest had shifted a little to the side. Maybe now was my chance.

I didn’t think twice. I turned, left the room, walked fast through the corridor. My bare feet padded softly on the tiles. I took the first stairs I could find, the ones that led toward the garden doors, heart pacing faster the closer I got. I didn’t even know exactly what I was going to say—just that I needed to say something before I lost my mind completely.

But as I reached the end of the hallway—the one that opened into the garden—my feet froze.

There, just ahead, through the open arch, I caught a scene that caught me off guard.

A woman.

Her hair red, thick, falling in soft waves down her back.

Her hands wrapped around Lucien in a warm embrace.

Her hands slid across his back, pulling herself closer into his space like she belonged there. Like it was her place. Like she’d always been allowed to do that.

He didn’t pull away.

He didn’t even move.

He just stood there, letting her wrap him in that soft, warm-looking embrace. His face didn’t show much, but it didn’t need to. He didn’t stop her. He didn’t speak. He just let it happen.

Something twisted deep inside me.

I didn’t understand it at first.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t even sadness.

It was something quieter. Something that scratched beneath the skin and spread in slow, choking waves.

It felt like... I wasn’t allowed to feel this way.

But I did.

Jealousy.

It didn’t fit right inside me. It sat wrong. But it was there, boiling quietly, spilling in sharp breaths I tried to swallow.

Why did it bother me?

Why did I care?

I turned around quickly, before they saw me. My hands clenched at my sides, nails biting into my palm as I walked back up the hallway, slower this time. My legs were heavier now and my thoughts louder.

And the worst part was—I didn’t know how to stop it.