Chapter Text
Samira has never liked the tournaments.
They’re spectacles, really: men in metal hitting each other with sticks while the court applauds and pretends it’s noble.
She has spent years making excuses to avoid attending. It was easier when the king was still alive; he understood his daughter well, would wink at her across the banquet table as he echoed whatever half-baked reason she had this time.
Lately, though, her excuses fall on unhearing ears. Lately, her mother brings up the practicality of it. The need for Princess Samira to be seen by the kingdom, particularly while her older sibling is elsewhere. She’s a figurehead now.
If she brings a book, hides it in the layers of her skirts and reads while the crowd roars, well— Her mother can chastise her later.
Today, though. Today she looks up.
She’s not sure why, not sure what catches her attention. It might be something as simple as the light glinting off armor in just the right way, maybe, or a lull in the frantic, unending noise. But whatever it is, it makes her look up from the notes and drawing of herbs just as a knight in unmarked armor and a shield with a simple, unadorned crest unhorses his opponent with a single, ruthless pass.
The crowd gasps. The fallen knight doesn’t get up for a long moment.
The victor wheels his horse, and even from the royal box she can see the ease in his posture. He’s not celebrating, not preening like so many of those spoiled men.
He’s just— There. Having finished what appears to be an ordinary task for him, not some triumph.
"Who is that?" she asks a guard.
The man cranes to look down at the crest.
"Sir Jack Abbot, Your Highness."
"He’s good."
The guard nods. "The best, they say. Though they also say he doesn’t care much about it."
Samira watches him ride. He removes his helmet, and she sees red-grey curls, sweat-damp and unruly, the kind that would never fully behave no matter how hard their owner tried to coif them. A face that’s weathered rather than aged: lines around the eyes, a stubborn jaw. Eyes that scan the crowd without really seeing it.
She wants to keep looking, and then, just for a moment, his gaze passes over the royal box. Over her. And their eyes meet.
It’s nothing; it’s a flicker, barely a second. He doesn’t react, just keeps scanning, then looks away.
She's suddenly aware of how she must appear from below: a bored princess half-hidden behind her guards, hair escaping its pins, a book poorly concealed in her lap. Not the image of royal grace her mother would prefer. She goes back to her book, brow furrowed.
Samira’s favorite place is a small cottage at the edge of the castle grounds, where Old Dana Evans tends to the people of the kingdom.
She goes nearly every day.
Her mother would be furious if she knew. Medicine is not befitting of a princess, the queen has told her, once, twice, dozens of times. She is meant to be decorative, political, a piece on a game board.
Not fulfilled. Never fulfilled. Only useful.
Samira has long since stopped arguing. She just got better at hiding.
Today she’s learning to stitch wounds, practicing on a piece of leather while Evans corrects her technique from over by the fireplace. It’s quiet, peaceful. The closest thing to purpose she’s ever felt.
The door opens.
Sir Jack Abbot enters, arm bleeding through a hastily wrapped bandage. Training accident, probably; she’s seen enough of those by now.
He stops when he sees her. She freezes.
"Your Highness."
She nods.
There’s a long pause. His gaze flick to Evans, then back to her, then down to the needle and thread still in her hands.
"You’ll be fine," Evans says to Jack, dry, as she stands. "I’ll be out back."
Samira looks up: does Evans intend for her to—
The older woman is already gone. So. Yes.
Samira gestures to the other seat at the table.
"I shouldn’t." Jack shakes his head. "You’re— A princess. This is improper."
Despite his words, he sits down at the table and offers his arm. She notices the way he extends one leg carefully, takes the weight off something. The trousers hide whatever's beneath, but she can read the tension in his body well enough.
Her hands are steadier than she expects as she unwraps the bandage, examines the wound. It’s deep but clean, no debris.
"This will need stitches," she says.
"I assumed."
"It will hurt."
"I assumed that as well."
She looks up at him, and he’s looking back. He nods, like she’s the one who needs comforting.
She threads her needle and begins. He doesn’t flinch, not once, not even when she pulls the thread through his skin and the wound closes under her fingers. He just watches her work, utterly still, like he's afraid any movement might break the spell.
"You can breathe," she says dryly.
"I know." His voice is rough. "I just— don’t want you to stop."
She glances up. His expression is strange: open, almost vulnerable. He’s looking at her through his eyelashes, up from his ducked head.
"I mean—" He clears his throat. "You have steady hands. It's... soothing."
She doesn't know what to do with that. With the way he's looking at her, like her touch is something precious.
She goes back to stitching and pretends she can't feel him watching her. She tries her hardest not to notice the breadth of his shoulders, the way his shirt is tight around his chest. Tries not to notice the freckles scattered across his forearms, or the old scars layered beneath them, or the way his hands — broad, calloused, capable — lie perfectly still on the table.
She notices all of it.
"You’re skilled," he says quietly when she ties off the last stitch.
"You sound surprised."
"I’m not."
"I’ve had time to practice." She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear — a nervous habit she's never been able to break — and acts she can't feel him watching her do it. "Second children have to find ways to be useful. Since we’re not needed for anything else."
He is silent for a moment, thinking, then: "You were at the last tournament."
She looks up, startled. He saw her? Remembered her? She thought she was invisible in that royal box, hidden behind her guards and books and boredom.
"Yes. I— I didn’t think you saw me."
"I saw."
There’s a noise outside, and it jolts her back into normality. She stands to grab a fresh bandage.
"Will you tell anyone I was here?" Samira asks.
"No."
"Why not?"
He considers this. "Because you looked peaceful when I walked in. I suspect you don’t get to look like that very often."
She doesn’t know what to say to that either. What a curious man. He rises, flexes his arm, and bows. Properly, correctly, the exact depth required for her station.
"Thank you, Your Highness. For your care."
"Samira," she says, before she can stop herself. "If we’re alone. You can call me Samira."
A pause. His jaw works.
"That would be improper."
"Yes. It would."
He holds her gaze again, intent, then turns and leaves.
She thinks about him for the rest of the week.
Samira goes to the stables at dawn. It’s the only time she can ride without an escort, without someone watching, without being Princess Samira.
Sir Abbot is there, brushing down his horse.
They’re both clearly there for the same reason: solitude. They should leave each other alone.
Then he looks up.
"You ride early," he says.
"So do you."
"I don’t sleep well."
"Neither do I."
They look at each other for a moment. Two people in the grey-pink of dawn seeking refuge in the quiet hours.
"Would you like company?" he asks. "I know a path through the eastern woods. It’s quiet."
She should say no. A princess, alone with a knight? Before dawn? The scandal would be tremendous.
"Yes," she says instead. "I’d like that."
The ride out together as the sky shifts, pale gold and bright. He leads her through the trees, along paths she’s never seen, and she follows without question.
He brings her to a meadow tucked behind the eastern woods, carpeted with wild bluebells and clover.
She pulls her horse to a stop. Stares.
"How did you find this place?"
"I don’t sleep well," Jack says again. "I ride a lot. You— find things."
She dismounts, walks into the flowers until they brush her knees. The morning light catches the dew on the petals, and everything glitters.
"Your— Samira. Are you alright?"
She realizes she is standing very still.
"My father." The words come out soft.
"The king." Unspoken: I know what happened.
"Yes. He used to bring me to a place like this when I was small. There was a clearing near the summer palace, full of bluebells, and he’d—" She has to stop, swallow. "He’d pick one and put it behind my ear."
"I’m sorry for your loss. We can leave. If this is too—"
"No," she says quickly. "No. I want to stay. It’s just— I had forgotten. How much I miss him."
Jack dismounts, ties up their horses and joins her in the field. Stands nearby, steady and present.
"Tell me about him," he says quietly. "If you wish to do so."
So she does. She tells him about her father’s unending encouragement, the way he saw her when no one else did. She tells him about the chess games and the time he let her sit in on a council meeting because he cared about her opinions, wanted her curiosity nourished, not extinguished. How he helped her procure herbs and materials for her early interest in healing.
And Jack listens like no one has listened to her before: no interruptions, no attempts to fix or minimize. The weight of his attention is heady, his eyes never leaving her face, his whole body oriented toward her like she’s the only thing worth focusing on.
"My brother is the heir," she says. "The important one. Always off with tutors and diplomats. But I was his. My father made time for me."
"He sounds remarkable."
"He was." She wipes her eyes. "My mother is… different. She loves me, I think, but she doesn’t see me. Not the way he did. She sees a princess who needs to sit up straight and smile prettily and stop asking so many questions."
"Is that why you study with Evans in secret?"
"Partially." Samira looks down at the flowers. "My father encouraged it. He said a ruler should understand how people live, not just how to give them orders. Even though I’m second in line for the throne, the spare— He said I needed to understand the weight of what my family carried. But after he died, my mother found out and forbade it. She said it was unseemly. That princesses don’t tend wounds; they commission medical wings and let the physicians do the work."
"But you kept going."
"I did." She smiles softly, rueful. "Sometimes I think she resents me for being so much like him. For reminding her of what she lost."
"That isn’t fair."
"On that we agree. There are expectations, though. For a princess. She is not wrong about that. There are— Rules. About who I can be."
"Who do you want to be, Samira?"
No one has asked her that in some time. Not since her father died. She blinks.
"I don’t know. I don’t—"
He doesn’t say anything as he holds her gaze with that steady, warm attention, and she feels like she may be the only person left in the world, like the kingdom and its people could have faded away and she would not know, not care, if he looked at her still.
"My father would have liked you," she says softly.
"You think so?"
"I know so. He valued people who listened more than they spoke. Who paid attention." She gestures at the flowers around their feet. "Who found beautiful places and sought to share them."
"And your mother?"
Samira laughs. "My mother would say you are a knight with no lands, no title of significance, and no political value. A waste of time for me to be even conversing with."
"She’d be right. About the land and titles, at least."
"She’d be wrong about all of it." Samira steps closer, close enough that she could touch him if she lifted her hand. "This is the least wasted time I’ve spent in years."
He ducks his head to look at her, and his eyes are half-lidded and heavy, and something warm flickers in his expression before he straightens again, stares over her head.
"We should head back," he says. "Before you’re missed."
"Probably."
Before they go, she picks a bluebell, tucks it behind her ear.
Jack watches her do it with a smile. He reaches down to pick one too, twirls it between his fingers.
"They suit you. The bluebells," he says.
She doesn’t know what to say to that. So she mounts her horse and rides beside him back to the castle, and she doesn’t take the flower out of her hair until she’s entering the royal wing.
The next day, she sneaks out again and finds him in the exact same spot in the stables.
It becomes their habit: riding at dawn, this field, this secret. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they don’t.
She never takes another bluebell home. They’d wilt in her chambers, and someone would ask questions.
But she thinks about them constantly. About the field. About him.
She's in her chambers, reviewing her notes on poultices, when the knock comes.
"Enter," she calls, expecting her handmaiden.
It’s… not her handmaiden.
Jack stands in the doorway, a cloth-wrapped bundle in his hands. He's in simple clothes — just a linen shirt and trousers, no armor, no tunic — and there's a flush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with exertion.
"Sir Abbot." She sets down her notes, startled. "What are you—"
"Evans sent these." He holds out the bundle, not quite meeting her eyes. "The herbs you mentioned needing. For your studies. She said you'd asked about restocking your supply, and I was—" He clears his throat. "I offered to bring them up. Since I was already heading to the castle.”
She's still in her morning dress, hair loose down her back, not yet pinned and proper for the day. She should be embarrassed: she’s not dressed to receive visitors, certainly not male ones, but he's looking at her from the corner of his eye with something like awe. Like she's perfectly presentable. More than presentable.
"I'm not—" She gestures at herself. "I wasn't expecting company."
"You—" He stops. Swallows. "You don't need to apologize."
"I wasn't apologizing. I was explaining."
“You look…“ His cheeks flush. “Very nice.”
She blinks, reaches out for the bundle with a jerk of her hand, still staring at him. Then she remembers his earlier words: ”You were already heading to the castle."
"Yes."
"From Evans' cottage. Which is in the opposite direction from the training grounds where you spend your mornings."
A pause. His jaw tightens, and the flush spreads to his cheeks.
"I may have... made a detour," he admits.
"A detour."
"Evans mentioned she was busy. And you needed the herbs. And I—" He's looking at the doorframe now, very intently, like the wood grain holds some long-hunted secrets. "I offered. Perhaps somewhat... forcefully."
Something warm blooms in her chest, and she can feel her cheeks heat.
"You eagerly volunteered to be an errand boy," she says. "For herbs."
"It sounds foolish when you say it like that."
"It sounds sweet."
His gaze snaps to hers. She watches him struggle with that, with being called sweet, with the implication behind it.
"I should go," he says. "I only meant to deliver—"
"Would you like to come in?" The words are out before she can stop them. "Just for a moment. I could show you what the herbs are for. If you're interested."
"I shouldn't. It wouldn't be proper."
"You've already been improper once today." She steps back from the doorway. "Might as well commit to it."
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. "Is that an order, Your Highness?"
"Consider it a strong suggestion.”
He hesitates. She watches him weigh the options, and she knows deeply, instinctively that he is fighting the same war she's been fighting since the first ride to the bluebell field. He looks wrong here, surrounded by her delicate furniture and silk cushions. Too large, too real, and his hands hang at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
She finds herself staring: the scars across his knuckles, the callouses, the way his fingers curl and uncurl with nervous energy. She wonders what his hands would feel like on her skin. The thought comes unbidden. She pushes it away.
"A few minutes," he says finally, stepping inside. "I should ensure the herbs are satisfactory. Evans would want to know."
"Of course." She closes the door behind him, not all the way, leaving it cracked. Proper enough. "Very practical of you."
"I'm a practical man."
"Clearly." She moves to her worktable, unwrapping the bundle. Chamomile, dried carefully. Lavender. Comfrey root. "That's why you walked a mile out of your way to deliver chamomile."
"Evans needed—"
"Evans could have sent a servant." She glances over her shoulder at him. He's standing awkwardly in the center of her sitting room, looking like he doesn't know what to do with himself. "You came yourself. Why?"
A long pause.
"I wanted to see you," he says quietly. "I've been wanting to see you, and I couldn't think of another excuse."
The honesty of it steals her breath.
"You don't need an excuse," she says. "You can just—" She stops. What is she saying? That he can just visit her? That she wants him to seek her out, to find reasons to be near her?
Yes. That's exactly what she's saying.
"I shouldn't," he says again, but softer now.
"Probably not." She turns back to the herbs, gives herself something to do with her hands. "But I'm glad you did."
Silence. She hears him move: a step closer, maybe, or just a shift of weight.
"The bluebells," he says. "When you tucked one behind your ear. You looked—" He stops.
"I looked what?"
"Happy." The word is quiet. "You looked happy. I keep thinking about it. About making you look like that again."
She sets down the chamomile. Turns to face him.
He's closer than she realized. Close enough that she could reach out and touch him. Close enough to see the way his pulse jumps in his throat.
"The herbs were very thoughtful," she says.
"It was nothing."
"It wasn't nothing." She gestures at the bundle. "This is exactly what I needed. And you walked quite out of your way to bring them."
"I wanted to help." His flush deepens. "You work hard. With Evans. Learning things most princesses wouldn't bother with. I thought—" He shrugs awkwardly. "I wanted to help."
"You thought about what I might need."
"I can't seem to stop." He looks down at his boots. "Thinking about you. I've tried. Believe me, I've tried."
"Why would you try to stop?"
"Because you're a princess, and I'm—" He shakes his head. "This can't end well. We both know that."
"Maybe not." She takes a step closer. "But it hasn't ended yet."
He looks at her then, really looks, and she sees everything he's not saying written on his face. The same want she knows is on her own.
"I should go," he says.
"You said that already."
"I mean it this time."
"Do you?"
A long pause. When he meets her eyes again, something in them has shifted. Softened.
"No," he admits. "But I'm going to go anyway. Before I do something we both regret."
"What if I wouldn't regret it?"
"Then I'd regret it enough for both of us." He steps back toward the door. Reluctantly, she can tell. "You deserve better than a knight with no lands and no future, sneaking herbs to your chambers like an infatuated fool."
"What if I like infatuated fools?"
He laughs, a real laugh, surprised out of him, and it transforms his face. Makes him look younger. Lighter.
"You're stubborn," he says.
"I've been told it's my worst quality."
"I think it might be your best." He pauses at the door, hand on the frame. "The comfrey, by the way. Evans said it's good for sore hands. From... from stitching practice. If you ever need it."
He asked Evans about her hands. He remembered that she practices stitches. He thought about what might help her.
"Thank you," she says softly. "For thinking of me."
"As I said." He ducks his head, almost shy. "I can't seem to stop."
Then he's gone, the door clicking softly shut behind him, and Samira is left standing in her chambers with a bundle of herbs and a warmth in her chest that won't fade.
He walked nearly a mile out of his way to see her. He forcefully volunteered to bring her herbs. He stood in her sitting room and told her he can't stop thinking about her, and then he left before either of them could do something about it.
She picks up the comfrey root, turns it over in her hands.
Evans said it's good for sore hands.
She doesn’t bring a book this time.
She tells herself it’s her duty to watch occasionally. She tells herself it’s because her mother had glanced over one too many times the previous tournament, suspecting something, and she has no desire for another lecture on studying being unbecoming for a princess.
She tells herself it has nothing at all to do with Sir Jack Abbot and the way he moves like he’s flirting with death.
He wins, of course. Three passes, three opponents, three victories. The last one is almost boring: Sir Robinavitch yields before contact, and she can’t entirely blame him.
When it’s over, he rides to the center of the court. The crowd waits.
This is the part Samira has always found most absurd: the bowing, the theatrical devotion to some lady or another. It’s politics dressed up as romance, and everyone knows it.
Sir Abbot approaches the stands. He stops before Lady Al-Hashimi and lays his ribbon at her feet.
Lady Al-Hashimi coos. The crowd cheers. Jack’s expression doesn’t change.
Samira’s does. Her brow furrows.
Which is ridiculous. She knows it; she does. Why should she care who some knight bows down to? She has learned more about him: he is a widower a decade her senior with nothing to his name but a sword and a reputation. She is a princess. She should not be thinking about the way his jaw tightened before he bowed, or the way he didn’t smile, or the way it looked like—
Like he was performing a duty. Not declaring devotion.
She tells herself that’s not her concern. She tells herself the tightness in her chest is indigestion rather than jealousy.
She tells herself a lot of things.
Evans sends word that Jack’s stitches need removing.
"You should do it," the healer says when Samira arrives. "Good practice. I’ll supervise."
Samira tells herself the flutter in her chest is nervousness about the procedure. She's never removed stitches before. It requires precision, care, a steady hand.
It has nothing to do with the fact that Jack is already there, sitting on the wooden table, rolling up his sleeve.
"Your Highness." He inclines his head.
"Sir Abbot."
Evans bustles around the cottage, gathering supplies. "Sit there, girl. Close enough to work. And you, arm out. That's it."
Samira settles onto the stool beside him. He extends his arm, and she takes it — carefully, professionally — and rests it across her lap.
The wound has healed well. Her stitches are neat, even, exactly as Evans taught her. In a few months, there will be barely a scar.
"Small scissors," Evans instructs. "Tweezers. Good. Now, you'll want to snip each stitch close to the skin, then pull the thread through with the tweezers. Gently. Don't tug."
"I understand."
She bends over his arm, focusing on the task. The first stitch parts easily under her scissors. She grips the thread with tweezers and pulls, slow and steady, and it slides free.
His forearm is warm and solid in her lap. She can see the fine hairs, red-gold in the light, and the muscles that shift beneath his skin when his fingers flex. There’s a small scar near his elbow she hasn’t noticed before: old, faded, a story she hasn’t heard. She wants to hear it. Wants to hear every story he could tell.
"Good," Evans says. "Keep going. I need to check on the poultice in the back. Don't rush."
She disappears through a rear door, and suddenly they're alone.
Samira keeps working. Snip. Pull. Snip. Pull. She doesn't look at his face, doesn't acknowledge the way the air has changed now that it's just the two of them.
"You're very good at this," he says quietly.
"You said that before. When I stitched you up."
"It's still true."
Snip. Pull. Her fingers brush his skin, and she feels him tense. Just slightly, just for a moment.
"Hold still," she murmurs.
"I'm trying."
She glances up. He's not looking at his arm. He's looking at her, at her face, her hair falling loose from its pins, her teeth worrying at her lower lip as she concentrates.
She looks back down quickly.
“You’re staring,” she notes.
“I’m watching. There’s a difference.” A pause. “Your hair is coming loose.”
She reaches up, feels the freed strand curling against her cheek. “And that bothers you?”
“No. It doesn’t bother me at all.”
Snip. Pull. Three stitches left. Her thumb brushes along his forearm, steadying her work, and goosebumps rise in its wake.
"Cold?" she asks.
"No."
She doesn't ask what it is, then. She doesn't need to.
Two stitches left. She works slower than she needs to, taking her time, letting her fingers linger against his skin longer than strictly necessary. His arm is warm in her lap. She can feel the strength in it, the muscles beneath the surface, the evidence of years of training.
"Why her?" Samira asks, and she sees him cock his head questioningly from the corner of her eye. "Lady Al-Hashimi. Why do you always bow to her?"
"Politics. Expectations."
"And if there were no politics?" She pulls the final thread free, sets down her tools, but doesn’t release his arm. "If you could bow to anyone you wanted?"
He doesn’t answer.
"You're very still," she observes a few moments later.
"You told me to hold still."
"I didn't realize you'd be so obedient."
His breath catches. She glances up and finds him staring at her with an expression she can't quite name. It’s hungry, almost desperate.
"When you ask me to do something," he says roughly, "I find I want to do it. Very much."
"Is that so?"
"It's becoming a problem."
"I don't think it's a problem at all," she says softly.
She runs her thumb down the healed wound, a thin, pink line now. Nearly invisible. Her work, her mark on him. Goosebumps follower her touch.
"Good as new," she murmurs.
"I owe you quite a debt, Your Highness." He hasn’t pulled his arm away.
"Samira." She looks up, meets his eyes. "And you don’t owe me anything."
"I disagree."
The words sit. His arm in her lap. Her fingers on his skin.
"Then repay me," she whispers. "Next tournament, when you win—"
"If I win."
"When you win. Don’t bow to her."
"Then who should I bow to?
She doesn’t answer, just holds his gaze.
He swallows hard.
"I am a knight with nothing," he says roughly. "You are a princess. If I bow to you— If I show favor to you— Your mother—"
"I don’t care about my mother."
He laughs hollowly. "You should."
"I care about you."
His breath catches. The back door creaks. Evans’ footsteps shuffle closer.
Jack pulls his arm from hers, starts to roll down his sleeve. By the time the healer appears, his posture is perfect, face carefully blank.
"All done?" Evans peers at his arm. "Excellent work, girl. Clean removal, no tearing. You have a gift."
"Thank you." Samira stands, brushes off her skirt. "I should return to the castle."
"Of course. Sir Abbot, you’re free to go as well."
He stands, flexes his arm, feels for any pain. "Thank you. Both of you. For your care."
He leaves first, and Samira tidies for a moment before following. Proper.
She finds him outside, waiting.
"You didn’t answer my question," she says.
"Which?"
"If you could bow to anyone. Who would you choose?"
He looks at her for a long moment. The morning light catches the grey in his hair, the lines around his eyes, the careful restraint he's holding onto by a thread.
"I think you know," he says quietly.
She does. That is precisely the problem.
Then he turns and walks away, and she watches him go with her heart pounding and her skin still tingling where she touched him.
Her horse stumbles halfway back from the bluebell field.
Samira feels it immediately: the hitch in the mare’s gait, the way she pulls up short and shifts her weight. She reins in, dismounts before Jack can say anything, and runs her hand down the horse’s foreleg.
"Easy, girl. Easy."
Jack is beside her in moments, his own horse tethered to a low branch. He kneels in the dirt, fingers probing gently at the mare’s leg.
"Strained," he says. "Not serious, but she can’t carry you back."
Samira strokes the horse’s mane. "Poor girl."
"She’ll be fine soon. She can follow us back, but for now—"
He trails off. They both look at his horse, then at each other.
"I can walk," Samira says quickly.
"Two miles? In riding boots? Through uneven terrain?"
"I’m not fragile."
At that, he smiles, maddeningly amused. "I did not say you were. But it’ll take over an hour on foot, and the sun’s getting higher. You’ll be missed."
She knows he’s right. She hates that he’s right.
"Then what do you suggest, Sir Abbot?" Snotty, perhaps, but she’s earned it.
He doesn’t answer immediately, just looks at his horse, jaw tight, working something through in his head. She knows he’s considering whether he can make the trek without pain, without his prosthetic chafing his skin raw.
So she answers for him: "Your horse can carry two."
The words hang between them.
"That would be improper," he says.
"Yes."
"Someone might see."
"We’ll take the back paths as always. No rides this early but us."
"Your Highness—" He shakes his head. "I’ll walk back. While you ride."
She should say yes to that. It would be the proper thing, the safe thing, the— The thing that wouldn’t involve her pressing herself against his back for two miles.
"No. We’ll ride together."
He presses his lips together. "As you say."
He mounts first, then offers her his hand. His grip is strong and sure as he helps her swing up behind him.
And then she’s there, seated behind him on the horse, and there’s nowhere to put her hands except—
"Hold on," he says. His voice is rougher than before.
She wraps her arms around his waist, and— Oh.
She can feel him through his shirt: the warmth of him, the solid plane of his stomach beneath her palms. Her chest presses against his back. Her thighs bracket his hips. Every inch of her front is pressed against every inch of his back, and there's no possible way to pretend this is anything but overwhelming.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Yes," she manages.
He nudges the horse forward.
The first few minutes are agony. Every movement of the horse shifts her against him, forward, back, side to side. She tries to hold herself slightly apart, to maintain some sliver of distance, but it's impossible. The motion of the ride keeps pressing her closer.
His stomach tightens beneath her hands. She feels it, feels the way his muscles clench every time she shifts her grip.
Neither of them speaks.
They take the back path, as promised, winding through the trees, avoiding the main roads. The forest is quiet except for birdsongs and the soft thud of hooves on packed earth.
A tree root. The horse stumbles slightly, nothing serious, but Samira gasps and clutches tighter, her fingers splaying across his abdomen.
He makes a sound. A whimper. Barely audible, quickly suppressed, but she hears it. Feels the sharp intake of breath, the way his whole body goes taut.
"Sorry," she murmurs. Her mouth is very close to his shoulder blade. She can smell him, leather and horse and something warm beneath it, something that's just him. She feels drunk on it.
"Don't be." His voice is strained. "Just... hold on."
She holds on.
The ride continues. The sun climbs higher, dappling through the leaves. She should be thinking about getting back, about being missed, about all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Instead, she's thinking about how solid he feels. How safe. How her hands are pressed flat against his stomach and she can feel him breathing, feel the rise and fall of his ribs, feel the way his heart is beating just a little too fast.
Or maybe that's hers. She can't tell anymore.
"Your Highness," he says quietly.
"Mhmm?"
"You're..." He stops. Clears his throat. "Your grip is very... firm."
She realizes, suddenly, that her fingers have curled into the fabric of his shirt. That she's been holding onto him like he might disappear.
She should let go. She should loosen her grip, apologize, restore some semblance of propriety.
"Is that a problem?" she asks instead.
A long pause.
"No," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "It's not a problem. You can— You can hold on as tightly as you like."
There's something in his tone. Something that sounds almost like pleading.
She holds on tighter, and she feels him shudder. She doesn't loosen her grip for the rest of the ride.
They ride in silence after that, but something has shifted. The air between them feels charged, electric. She's aware of every place their bodies touch: her arms around his waist, her chest against his back, her thighs pressed to his.
When they finally reach the stables, he dismounts first and reaches up to help her down.
His hands grip her waist. He lifts her easily, and for a moment — just a moment — he holds her there, suspended between the horse and the ground.
Their eyes meet.
He sets her down slowly. Too slowly. His hands stay on her waist, and she doesn't step back, and they're standing so close she can see the flecks in his eyes, the fine lines at their corners, the way his gaze drops to her mouth and lingers there.
"Samira," he breathes.
"Jack."
His fingers tighten on her waist. She sees him lean forward — just slightly, just a fraction — and her breath catches, and she thinks yes, finally, please—
A horse whinnies in the next stall. Hooves stamp. Somewhere outside, a stable boy calls to another.
Jack releases her like she's burned him.
"Forgive me." He steps back, runs a hand through his hair, and her eyes catch on the way the curls curve. "I shouldn't have— That was—"
"Don't." She reaches out, catches his wrist before he can retreat further. "Don't apologize. Not for that."
"Your Highness—"
"Samira." She tightens her grip. "And you didn't do anything wrong."
"I almost—"
"I know." She holds his gaze. "I wanted you to."
He stares at her. She watches his throat work, watches him struggle with something.
"This is dangerous," he says finally.
"I know."
"If anyone saw—"
"They didn't."
"But if they had—"
"They didn’t."
He's quiet for a long moment. The stable sounds continue around them; horses shift, birds coo in the rafters.
"I should go," she says finally. "Before I'm missed."
"Yes." He doesn't move to stop her. But his eyes follow her, heavy with something unspoken.
She walks back to the castle on unsteady legs. She can still feel the ghost of his hands on her waist, still feel the warmth of his breath on her lips.
He almost kissed her. He wanted to kiss her. And she wanted him to, so badly she can barely think straight.
The third tournament, she doesn't even pretend.
She dresses carefully: a blue gown that brings out her eyes, the silver circlet, the pearls that were her grandmother’s. She tells her handmaiden it's because the visiting duke deserves proper respect.
She's lying.
She takes her seat in the royal box and watches the lists with sharp attention. When Sir Abbot rides out for his first pass, she leans forward without meaning to.
He wins. Of course he wins. And again, and again, and when he approaches the stands afterward, she holds her breath—
Lady Al-Hashimi. Again.
The ribbon drops. Lady Al-Hashimi smiles. Sir Abbot bows.
And this time, Samira doesn't pretend the feeling in her chest is anything other than what it is.
She's jealous. She's jealous, of a political gesture that means nothing, given by a man she has no claim to. She wants him to bow to her.
The realization is horrifying. It's also undeniable.
She excuses herself early, claiming a headache. In her chambers, she presses her hands to her flushed cheeks and stares at herself in the mirror.
"This is absurd," she tells her reflection. "He's a knight with nothing."
Her reflection doesn't look convinced.
Neither is she.
She finds him in the training yard at dawn, before the squires arrive. He's practicing alone, running through forms with a focus that makes her feel like an intruder.
She clears her throat.
He turns, sees her, and bows. "Your Highness."
"Sir Abbot." She crosses her arms. "I want you to teach me to hold a sword."
A beat. "That's... unconventional."
"I'm an unconventional princess."
"I've noticed."
She bristles slightly. He says it neutrally, but still: she doesn't want to be merely noticed by him. She wants to be— Well.
"Will you teach me or not?"
"May I ask why?"
"Because I should know how to defend myself." She lifts her chin. "Because the world is dangerous. Because I'm tired of being a spectator. Take your pick."
He considers this, then nods. "Come with me."
He leads her to a rack of practice swords, selects two wooden blades, and hands her one. She takes it, grips it the way she's seen the squires do.
"Your grip is wrong."
"Of course it is," she mutters.
He raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. Just moves toward her and— Stops.
"May I?"
"May you what?"
"Adjust your hands."
"Fine."
He steps behind her, and suddenly he's close, so close she can feel the warmth of him through her dress. His hands cover hers on the hilt, adjusting her fingers one by one. So gently. She can feel the strength he’s holding back: this is a knight, a soldier, and yet he touches her like she’s something delicate.
"Firm, but not rigid," he says. "You need to move with the blade, not fight against it."
She is not thinking about swords.
"Now your stance."
He nudges her foot with his boot, and his hand brushes her hip — barely a touch, pure instruction — and she feels it like a brand.
She shifts her weight deliberately, pressing back against him just slightly. Testing.
His breath catches. His hands tighten on hers.
"Like this?" she asks innocently.
"Yes." The word comes out strangled. "Just— Just like that."
She rolls her hips again, barely a movement, and he makes a sound, low, involuntary, almost pained.
"Your Highness—"
"Samira."
"Samira." It sounds like a prayer. Like he's begging. "You need to— I can't—"
"Can't what?"
He releases her abruptly, steps back. His chest is heaving. His eyes are wild.
"I can't think when you do that," he says roughly. "I can’t— I am trying to be proper, and you—"
"Maybe I don't want you to be proper."
He stares at her. She watches his throat work, watches him wage some internal war.
"You don't know what you're asking," he manages.
"Don't I?"
She turns back to the practice dummy, lifts her sword, and doesn't look at him.
"Teach me to swing," she says. "Unless you're too distracted."
He's silent for a long moment. Then he steps behind her again, and his hands are shaking when they cover hers.
"Your Highness." His voice is quiet. "I am a knight with no lands, no title of worth, no future. There are... boundaries I cannot cross."
"And if I asked you to cross them?"
His hands tighten on hers for just a moment. Then they release.
"Then I would tell you," he says roughly, stepping back, "that you deserve better than a broken man who can offer you nothing but his sword and his life."
She turns to face him. He's not looking at her, deliberately not looking, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides.
"What if that's what I want?"
"Then you would be a fool." He finally meets her eyes, and she sees something raw there, something desperate. "And so would I. Because I would give you both without hesitation, and that terrifies me more than anything I've faced in battle."
Silence stretches between them.
"You bowed to Lady Al-Hashimi again," she says finally.
"I did. Yes."
She hums. And then: "Let’s continue, then."
They do. And for the next hour, his body moves with hers, his hands guide hers, and neither of them speaks again.
When she leaves, her arms ache and her heart pounds.
"Can I ask you something?" Samira says.
They're sitting in the bluebells, horses grazing nearby, the morning sun warm on their faces. These dawn rides have become the best part of her days. The only part where she feels like herself.
"Anything," Jack says.
"Your wife. Diane." She watches his face carefully. "What was she like?"
He goes still. For a moment she thinks she's overstepped, that he'll close off the way he does whenever the conversation turns too personal.
But then he exhales, long and slow, and something in his shoulders loosens.
"She laughed," he says quietly. "At everything. Not because things were funny, but because she found joy in small things. A bird on the windowsill. The way the light hit the water at a certain time of day." He pauses. "She'd laugh and it would fill the whole room. I used to do stupid things just to hear it."
"Like what?"
"Once I tried to make her breakfast. I'd never cooked anything in my life. I burned the bread so badly we had to throw out the pan." A faint smile crosses his face. "She laughed for ten minutes. Then she kissed me and told me to never set foot in the kitchen again."
Samira smiles, but there's an ache in her chest. She can see it: a younger Jack, less grey, less guarded, doing foolish things to make a woman laugh.
"How long were you married?"
"Four years. Not long enough." He picks a bluebell, twirls it between his fingers. "She got sick during the fourth winter after we married. A fever that wouldn't break. I sat by her bedside for two weeks, holding her hand, bargaining with anything that might listen."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. I had four years with her. Some people never get that." He's quiet for a moment. "She made me promise, at the end. That I wouldn't close myself off. That I'd find someone else, eventually. She said—" His voice cracks. "She said I had too much love in me to waste it on grief."
"She sounds wise."
"She was. I didn't listen, of course. I spent three years doing exactly what she told me not to do." He looks at Samira then, and something in his expression makes her breath catch. "And then I met you."
"Jack—"
"I'm sorry. I didn’t mean—" He shakes his head. "She would have liked you. She would have said you were exactly the kind of person I needed. Someone who wouldn't let me brood."
"Do you brood?"
"Constantly, apparently. Diane said it was my worst quality." He almost smiles. "She said I had a face like a storm cloud and a heart like a stray dog. All I needed was someone to take me in."
"And did she? Take you in?"
"She did. She saw me and decided I was worth keeping anyway. Even with the leg. Even with the nightmares. Even with all of it." He drops the bluebell, watches it fall into the sea of flowers. "I never thought anyone would do that again."
The words hang between them. She wants to say I see you too. She wants to say I would keep you. She wants to say so many things.
Instead, she picks up the bluebell he dropped and tucks it behind his ear.
He blinks at her, startled, and smiles, a slow, cautious motion.
"There," she says.
He's still smiling when they ride back to the castle, and she thinks about what Diane said, that he had too much love in him to waste on grief.
She thinks maybe Diane was right.
The feast is horrible.
Three hours of forced smiles and polite conversation, of Lord Driscoll droning on about his hunting dogs, of her mother's pointed glances every time Samira fails to laugh at the right moment.
She escapes the moment she can, slipping out a side door while the musicians strike up another dance, fleeing through the torchlit corridors until she finds the small courtyard near the stables.
It's quiet here. Dark. The music is a distant murmur, and the night air is cool against her flushed cheeks.
"Insufferable," she mutters, pacing along the stone wall. "Absolutely insufferable. Three hours of hearing about hounds. As if I care about hounds. As if anyone cares about hounds—"
"I don't know. Some people are quite passionate about hounds."
She spins.
Jack is leaning in the doorway of the stable, arms crossed, watching her with something that looks dangerously close to amusement.
"Were you eavesdropping?"
"I was checking on my horse. You were talking to yourself rather loudly." He pushes off the doorframe, moves closer. "Rough evening?"
"You have no idea." She slumps against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "I've spent three hours being paraded before every eligible lord in the kingdom while my mother watches like a hawk. I've smiled until my face aches. I've laughed at jokes that weren't funny. I've pretended to be fascinated by hunting dogs and land disputes and—" She breaks off, shaking her head. "I'm sorry. You don't need to hear this."
"I don't mind."
"You're just being polite."
He shakes his head. He stops a few feet away, and in the moonlight she can see the concern in his expression. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. That's the problem. Nothing ever happens. I just stand there and smile and let people look through me, and I'm so tired of it, Jack. I'm so tired of being invisible."
"You're not invisible to me."
The words are quiet. Simple. But they hit her like a blow. She's spent her whole life being invisible: the second child, the spare, the one people look through on their way to someone more important. But now—
"Don't," she whispers.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that. Not if you don't mean them."
"I always mean what I say." He steps closer, and now he's near enough to touch. "I've never been good at saying things I don't mean. It's a flaw, apparently."
"It's not a flaw."
"My late wife would disagree. She always said I was too honest. That I should learn to soften things, to—" He stops. Shakes his head. "I don't know why I'm telling you this."
"Because we're friends?"
"Is that what we are?"
The question hangs between them. She thinks about the dawn rides, the bluebell field, the tandem ride with her arms wrapped around him, the almost-kiss afterward.
"I don't know what we are," she admits. "But I know you're the only person who makes me feel like myself. The only person who asks what I want instead of telling me what I should want. And I know that when I'm with you, I don't feel invisible anymore."
He's staring at her with that expression again, the raw, desperate one from the training yard.
"Samira," he says roughly. "You should go back inside."
"I don't want to go back inside."
"If someone sees us—"
"No one's going to see us. Everyone's at the feast." She pushes off the wall, moves toward him, and stumbles slightly, her delicate slippers catching on the uneven cobblestones.
He steadies her immediately, hands on her elbows. "Careful."
"These ridiculous shoes." She glances down, grimacing. "They're completely impractical. And now I've got half the stable yard stuck in them."
She's not wrong: straw and debris have caught in the delicate fabric, wedged along the straps. She starts to bend down to brush them off, but he's already moving.
"Allow me."
Before she can protest, he sinks to one knee before her.
The sight of him there — this knight, this warrior, kneeling at her feet in the starlight — steals the breath from her lungs. He lifts her foot gently, cradling her ankle in one hand while the other brushes away the straw with careful, deliberate movements.
"You don't have to—" she starts.
"I know." He moves to the other foot, just as gentle, just as thorough. "But I want to."
She watches his bowed head, the silver threading through his hair, the curve of his shoulders. He's kneeling for her like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.
"Jack."
He looks up at her, still on his knees, and his expression makes her heart stutter. Reverent. Devoted. Like she's something holy.
"Your Highness?"
"Don't call me that. Not right now." She reaches down, takes his chin in her fingers. "And get up."
"I'm not finished—"
"Yes, you are." She tugs gently, urging him to rise. "Get up, Jack."
He rises slowly, but she doesn't release his face. They're close now, so close she can feel his breath, see the pulse jumping in his throat.
“Your dress,” he manages, “is— Lovely. It suits you.” He gestures vaguely at her, and she finds herself smiling.
“Oh?”
“You’re very difficult to stop looking at, Your Highness. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“No. No one has. And you need to call me Samira, Jack.”
“I shouldn’t—" He stops, jaw tight. "You deserve better."
"Better than what? A man who sees me? A man who listens to me? A man who makes me feel like I matter?" She's close now, close enough to see the moonlight reflected in his eyes. "What exactly am I supposed to be looking for that's better than that?"
"Someone who can give you more than a sword and a life."
"You keep saying that. As if those things are nothing," she says, and he flinches like she's burned him, but he doesn't pull away. "What if they're everything? What if they're all I want?"
"Then you'd be a fool." He’s used those words before.
She scoffs. "I've been called worse."
He laughs, a broken, desperate sound, and his hands fall to her waist, touch impossibly light.
"I have tried so hard," he says quietly, "to stay away from you. To be proper. To remember my place. But you make it impossible. You make everything impossible."
"Good."
"Samira—"
"Stop talking," she whispers. "Just this once. Stop thinking about what you should do and do what you want."
"What I want," he repeats slowly, "is dangerous."
"I told you. I'm not afraid of danger."
"You should be." His thumbs trace along her cheekbones. "I should be. This could ruin everything. Your reputation, your future, your—"
"Jack."
"Yes?"
"Kiss me."
For a long moment, he doesn't move. She can see him fighting with himself, duty against desire.
"That’s an order," she whispers. "From your princess."
Then something in him breaks.
He kisses her.
It's nothing like she imagined. And oh, she has been imagining it, has spent most of the nights since they’ve met wondering what his mouth would feel like against hers. And this is better. It's more.
His lips are soft, tentative at first, questioning. She answers by pressing closer, threading her fingers through his hair, and finds it’s softer than she imagined, the curls wrapping around her knuckles like they want to hold her there. His stubble scrapes against her chin, and his mouth is warm, and he tastes like wine and something sweeter, and he whines against her mouth and pulls her flush against him.
"Samira," he breathes between kisses. "We shouldn't—"
"I know."
"If anyone—"
"I know." She kisses him again, harder. "I don't care."
His hands slide from her waist to her back, pulling her closer, and she can feel the desperation in his grip, like he's been holding back for so long and now that he's let go, he can't stop.
She doesn't want him to stop.
"I've wanted this," he says against her mouth. "Since the first moment. Since you stitched my arm, since you first called me Jack instead of Sir Abbot. Since you sat behind me on that horse and held on like you'd never let go. I've wanted—"
"I know." She pulls back just enough to look at him. His eyes are dark, his breathing ragged, his careful composure completely shattered. "I've wanted it too."
"This is madness."
"Probably."
"I have nothing to offer you."
"You have everything I want."
He stares at her, and she watches something shift in his expression, the resistance crumbling, the walls coming down.
"Okay," he whispers, and kisses her again.
They stay like that for what feels like hours, trading kisses in the moonlight, hidden in the shadow of the stables while the feast continues without them. His hands in her hair, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. Every touch feels like a revelation. Every breath feels like a promise.
When they finally break apart, he presses his forehead to hers.
"I am still just a knight," he whispers.
"You are my knight."
"Yes." It sounds like a vow. "Always. Whatever happens. I am yours."
They stand together in the moonlight, and for the first time in her life, Samira doesn't feel like a spare.
She feels like the only thing that matters.
"You should return to the feast," he says, voice low. Reluctant.
"Probably."
"Before someone notices you're gone."
"Probably."
Neither of them moves.
She kisses him one more time, soft, slow, full of promise, and then she makes herself step back.
"Tomorrow," she says. "Dawn. The bluebell field."
"I'll be there."
She walks back to the feast with her heart pounding and his taste still on her lips, and when her mother asks where she's been, she lies smoothly and doesn't feel guilty at all.
Some secrets are worth keeping.
The storm rolls in fast.
One moment they're riding through the woods, an easy dawn escape, the sky a pale orange above them. The next moment the clouds split open and rain hammers down, soaking them in seconds.
"There!" Jack shouts over the thunder, pointing toward a structure barely visible through the trees. "Groundskeeper's cottage!"
They ride hard, horses' hooves splashing through rapidly forming puddles. They dismount quickly, tie their steeds under the overhang, and burst through the cottage door in a tangle of wet limbs and breathless laughter.
The cottage is abandoned, dusty, sparse, barely more than four walls and a roof. A cold fireplace, a rickety table, a single chair missing a leg. But it's dry, and right now that's all that matters.
"That came out of nowhere," Samira gasps, pushing wet hair from her face.
"Summer storms." Jack is wringing water from his cloak, his back to her. "Unpredictable."
She looks at him, really looks, and has to press her lips together to keep from laughing again. His curls are plastered to his forehead. His shirt clings to his chest, nearly translucent. He looks like a drowned cat, if the cat were distractingly handsome and completely unaware of it.
"What?" he asks, catching her expression.
"Nothing. You just look—" She gestures vaguely.
"Like an idiot?"
"Like you lost a fight with a river."
"Ah." His lips twitch. "You're one to talk."
She looks down at herself. Her riding cloak is ruined, clinging to her body in ways that are probably improper. Her hair has come loose from its pins, hanging in wet ropes around her face.
"We're both ridiculous," she decides.
"Agreed."
Lightning flashes, bright enough to make her flinch. Thunder follows immediately, close, so close the cottage walls shudder with it.
"That was—" she starts.
"Right overhead." He moves to the window, peers out at the pouring rain. "It'll pass. An hour, maybe two."
"And until then?"
"We wait."
An hour. Maybe two. Alone with him in a cottage no one knows about, both of them soaked through, the memory of their kiss in the garden still burning on her lips.
She should be worried about propriety. About reputation. About all the reasons this is dangerous.
She's not.
"There might be blankets," he says, nodding toward a chest in the corner. "You should— You'll catch a cold if you stay in those wet clothes."
"So will you."
A pause. The rain drums against the roof, relentless.
"I'll turn around," he says.
He does. Samira opens the chest and finds a few old blankets, musty but dry. She hesitates, then strips off her sodden jacket, her overskirt, leaving just her chemise. It's still damp, but less so. She wraps a blanket around her shoulders.
"Your turn," she says.
She should turn around. Give him the same privacy he gave her, should—
She doesn't.
He peels off his shirt, and she watches the muscles of his back flex, watches water drip down his spine. His body is a map of survival. Scars she finally gets to see: a long slash across from his hipbone to the center of his back, the puckered circle near his shoulder that looks like it came from an arrow, the scattered marks of a life spent near violence. He's not young — there's grey in the hair on his chest, and his skin shows the wear of years and weather — but he's solid. Built to last. Built to protect.
She wants to trace every scar with her fingers. Wants to learn the story of each one. Wants—
He reaches for a blanket, hesitates. She sees him realize she's watching.
He doesn't tell her to look away.
He turns, blanket clutched to his chest, and their eyes meet across the small room. Lightning flashes again, illuminating him in stark white: the breadth of his shoulders, the grey at his temples, the way he's looking at her like she's something terrifying.
"We should sit," she says. "Conserve warmth."
"Yes."
She settles onto the floor, back against the wall. After a moment, he sits beside her, close, but not quite touching. Maintaining distance. Always maintaining distance.
The cold seeps in despite the blanket. She shivers.
"You're freezing," he says.
"I'm fine."
"You're shivering."
"I said I'm—"
"Samira." The name stops her. He's never said it like that before, raw, worried, almost desperate. "Please. Let me help."
"How?"
He doesn't answer. Just shifts closer, opens his blanket. An invitation.
She should say no. She should maintain the distance, the propriety, the careful boundaries they've been dancing around for weeks.
She moves into his warmth instead.
His arm comes around her shoulders, tentative at first, then tighter when she presses against his side. She can feel the heat of him through the thin fabric of her chemise. Can feel his heart pounding against her shoulder.
"Better?" he asks.
"Better."
They sit in silence, listening to the rain. His thumb traces absent patterns on her shoulder, and she knows it's probably unconscious, probably just nerves. It makes her shiver for reasons that have nothing to do with cold.
"Jack," she whispers.
"We shouldn't."
She pulls back enough to look at him. "Shouldn't what?"
"Whatever you're thinking. Whatever you're about to ask for." His jaw is tight. "We shouldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because you're a princess." His voice is strained. "Because I'm a knight with nothing to offer you. Because if anyone found out—"
"No one will find out."
"You don't know that."
"I know we're alone in a cottage in the middle of a storm, and no one knows we're here, and no one is coming to look for us." She reaches up, touches his face. He flinches like she's burned him. "I know I've wanted this since the garden. Since before the garden. I know you have too."
"What I want doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"Samira—" His hand comes up, wraps around her wrist. Not pulling away. Just holding. "You don't understand. If I start this — if I let myself have you — I won't be able to stop. I won't be able to go back to pretending I don't feel this way. I'll be ruined."
"Then be ruined." She turns her hand in his grip, presses her palm to his cheek. "Be ruined with me."
He closes his eyes. She watches him fight with himself, every line of his body taut with the effort of holding back.
“I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman right now.”
“Is it working?”
“No. I've already lost one woman I loved," he says quietly. "I held her hand while she died, and I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought I would never recover. I thought that part of me was dead forever."
"Jack—"
"And then I walked into the healing hut expecting Evans and I saw you, and I—" He opens his eyes. They're wet. "I felt something I thought I'd never feel again. And it terrifies me."
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise right now." She shifts, moves to face him properly, her knees pressing against his thigh. "I can promise this moment. This storm. This cottage. I can promise that I want you, and I'm not afraid, and if you want me too—"
"If." He laughs, broken. "If I want you. I've wanted you since the first moment I saw you. I've wanted you through every dawn ride and every sword lesson and every time you touched me and I had to pretend it didn't set me on fire. I want you so much I can barely breathe when you're near me. If is not the question."
"Then what is?"
"Whether I have the right." He takes her face in his hands, rough, calloused, trembling. "You are a princess. You should have a prince. Someone with lands and titles and a future to offer you. Not a broken knight with a lost leg and a heart full of ghosts."
"I don't want a prince." She leans into his touch. "I want you."
"Why?"
"Because you see me." Her voice cracks. "Because everyone else looks at me and sees the spare, the second choice, the princess who's too opinionated and too sharp and not quite good enough. But you look at me like I matter. You look at me like I'm the only thing in the room. And I have never—" She has to stop, breathe. "I have never felt like this before. Like I'm enough. Like I'm exactly right."
He stares at her. The rain hammers against the roof. The thunder rolls, distant now, the storm moving away.
"You're everything," he says quietly. "You're so much more than enough. You're—" He shakes his head. "I don't have words. I've never been good with words. I only know how to serve. To follow orders. To—"
"Then follow mine." She grips his wrists. "Kiss me."
"Samira—"
"That's an order, my knight."
Something shifts in his expression. The resistance crumbles. Not all at once, but slowly, like a dam opening.
He kisses her.
The kiss is different from the garden. That was questioning, tentative, both of them testing the waters. This is a flood. His mouth opens against hers and his hands slide into her hair and she's drowning in him, gasping, clutching at his shoulders like he's the only solid thing in the world.
"Tell me to stop," he says against her lips. "Samira, please— If we go any further, I won't be able to— You should tell me to stop—"
"Don't stop." She pulls him closer. "Don't you dare stop."
He groans, and then she's on her back and he's over her, and the blankets are tangled around them and his weight is pressing her into the hard floor and she doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything except the feeling of him against her, the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of her chemise.
His mouth trails down her neck, and she arches into him, gasping.
"I've dreamed about this," he murmurs against her throat. "Every night since the garden. I've dreamed about touching you, tasting you, hearing you say my name—"
"Jack—"
"Like that." He shudders, full-body, and she feels it everywhere they're pressed together. "Yes, just like that. Do you have any idea what you do to me? What your voice does to me?"
"Tell me."
"It makes me want to do anything you ask." His mouth drags lower, across her collarbone. "Everything you ask. I want to be good for you, Samira. I want to make you feel so good you forget anyone else exists. I want—" His voice breaks. "I want to be worthy of you. Even though I'm not. Even though I never will be."
"You are." She tugs at his hair, pulls his face up to hers. "You're everything I want. Now stop talking about worthy and show me."
His hands find the hem of her chemise, and he stops. Looks up at her with desperate eyes.
"May I?"
"Yes."
"You're sure? Because if we do this, I— I won't be able to go back. I won't be able to pretend. Every time I look at you, I'll be thinking about this, about you, about—"
"Jack." She frames his face with her hands. "I want you to think about me. I want you to think about nothing else. Now take this off."
He pulls it up slowly, reverently, exposing her inch by inch. The cool air hits her skin, and she shivers, but his gaze is hot enough to warm her, traveling over her body like he's memorizing every detail.
"You're so beautiful," he breathes. "You're so— I can’t— I don't deserve—"
"Stop." She grips his chin, forces him to meet her eyes. "No more talk of deserving. You're here because I want you here. That's all that matters."
Something flickers in his expression: wonder, maybe. Gratitude.
"Tell me what you need," he says roughly. "Anything. I'll do anything. Just tell me."
"Touch me."
He does. His hands skim over her ribs, her waist, the curve of her hips. He touches her like she's precious, like she’s fragile, and she doesn't want that. She wants—
"More," she demands. "I won't break."
"I might." His voice is ragged. "I'm trying to— I want this to be good for you, I want to take my time, I want to make you feel—"
"You are. You're making me feel everything. Now stop holding back."
Something in him snaps. His touch turns firmer, more certain. He learns her with his hands and his mouth, traces every curve, every dip, every sensitive spot that makes her gasp. He finds the place below her ear that makes her moan, the spot on her ribs that makes her squirm, the curve of her hip that makes her dig her nails into his shoulders.
And all the while, he talks, a steady stream of wonder and worship that makes her feel like the center of the universe.
"Here," he murmurs, kissing her collarbone. "You're so soft here. I've wanted to kiss this spot since the day you bandaged my arm. You were leaning over me and I could see—" He groans. "I had to think about battle formations to keep myself composed."
"And what about here?" She guides his mouth to her breast.
"Yes." He mouths at her, tongue circling, and she cries out. "Like this? Is this good? Tell me if it's good, I need to know—"
"It's good." She arches into him. "It's so good, Jack, don't stop—"
"Never." He switches to the other breast, lavishes it with the same attention. "I'll never stop. I'll spend the rest of my life making you feel like this if you let me. Just tell me what you want. Tell me how to please you.”
"Lower," she gasps. "I want your mouth lower.”
“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes against her stomach. “You’re so— I can’t— I don’t have words.”
“You’re doing fine without them.”
“I want them anyway. I want to tell you—“ He presses a kiss just below her navel. “Here. You’re beautiful here.” Another kiss, higher and to the right. “And here.” Lower again, near her hip. “And here. And here. Every inch of you, Samira. I’ve dreamt about every part of you.” He looks up at her, eyes dark, chin against her skin. “About the way you’re looking at me now. About—“
“Jack, please.”
He groans like she's wounded him and kisses back down her stomach, worshipful, reverent, pausing to taste every inch of skin. When he reaches the curve of her hip, he stops. Looks up at her.
"Here?" His voice is wrecked. "Can I— I want to taste you. Please, Samira, let me—"
"Yes."
He settles between her thighs like he belongs there, and when his mouth finds her, she cries out so loud the sound echoes off the cottage walls.
"Good?" he asks against her, and the vibration makes her gasp.
"Yes, yes, don't stop—"
He doesn't. He explores her with his tongue, learns what makes her gasp and what makes her moan, adjusts his rhythm when her hips buck against his face. He's attentive — of course he's attentive, he's always attentive — and he quickly figures out exactly how to take her apart.
"You taste incredible," he murmurs against her. "I could do this forever. I could stay here for hours, days, just making you feel—"
"Jack—" She's close, so close. "I need—"
"Tell me. Tell me what you need."
"More. Faster. I need—"
He gives her more. Gives her faster. His tongue works against her relentlessly, and she's shaking, climbing, about to shatter—
"Please," he breathes against her. "Please come for me. I want to feel it. I want to taste it. Please, Samira, let me make you—"
She breaks.
The orgasm crashes through her, and she's crying out his name, gripping his hair so hard it must hurt, and he works her through it, gentling but not stopping, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until she's gasping, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his shoulders.
He pulls back, kisses her thigh, and looks up at her with eyes that are almost black.
"Was that—" He swallows. "Was that good? Did I—"
"Come here." She pulls at him until he crawls up her body, and she can feel how hard he is against her thigh, straining, desperate. "That was perfect. You were perfect."
"I wanted to be good for you." His voice cracks. "I need to be good for you."
"You are." She kisses him, tastes herself on his tongue. "Now I want you inside me."
He makes a sound like he's dying. "I— Yes. Yes, please—"
"Take off your trousers."
He scrambles to obey, hands shaking, and then he's bare above her and she can see all of him: the scars, the muscles, the place where his leg ends and the straps of his prosthetic dig into his thigh, and above that, the hard, flushed length of him, already leaking.
"You're beautiful," she tells him, and he looks at her like she's lost her mind.
"I'm not—"
"You are. Every part of you. Even the parts you think are broken." She reaches down, wraps her hand around him, and he gasps, hips jerking. "Now come here. I'm tired of waiting."
He positions himself between her thighs, and she feels him there, hot and hard and trembling with the effort of holding back.
"Tell me if it hurts," he says. "Tell me if you want me to stop. I'll stop, I’ll—"
"Jack."
"Yes?"
"Stop talking." She pulls his hips forward. "And start moving."
He pushes into her slowly — so slowly, and oh, he’s big, thick and hard inside her — and she gasps at the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming sensation of being filled by him. He stills immediately.
"Are you—"
"I'm fine." She wraps her legs around him, pulls him deeper. "More. I want more."
He gives her more. Slowly at first, letting her adjust, but then faster as she urges him on with her hands and her hips and her voice. He buries his face in her neck and murmurs her name like a prayer, and she holds him and moves with him and thinks: this is what it feels like to matter. This is what it feels like to be the center of someone's world.
He kisses her, deep and desperate, and she feels him losing control, his rhythm faltering, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"I'm close," he manages. "I can’t— I need to—"
"Not yet." She doesn't know where the instinct comes from, but it feels right. Feels necessary. "Wait for me. Can you do that?"
"I—" He shudders, full-body, and she sees the desperation in his eyes. "I don't know if I can—"
"Try. For me. I want us to come together."
His jaw clenches. His whole body goes taut with the effort of holding back. She can see what it costs him, the sweat beading on his forehead, the tremble in his arms, the way his hips stutter and slow when all he wants is to let go.
"That's it," she breathes. "You're doing so well. You're being so good for me."
He makes a sound like a sob. "Samira, Your Highness, please, I need—"
"I know." She reaches between them, finds the place where they're joined, and circles her clit. "I know. Just a little longer. Can you hold on a little longer?"
"Yes." It comes out broken, desperate. "Yes, for you, anything—"
She watches him obey her — this knight, this soldier, trembling with the effort of denying himself because she asked him to — and something clicks into place. This is what she wants. This is what they both need. Him surrendering. Her holding the reins.
He adjusts his angle, changes his rhythm, and his hand joins hers between them, working her clit while he moves inside her. The dual sensation is overwhelming, and she's climbing again, faster this time, higher—
"I can't hold on much longer," he gasps. "Samira, please— Please let me—"
"Almost— I'm almost—"
"Please." He's begging now, openly begging, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "Please, I need to come, I need to feel you, please tell me I can—"
"Now," she gasps. "Now, Jack, with me—"
She breaks apart, and he follows, both of them crying out, holding each other, shaking with the force of it. She feels him yank himself out of her, grip himself and stroke once, twice, and then he’s spilling, spilling onto her stomach with a sob, and she doesn't care about anything except the way he's clinging to her like she's the only thing keeping him alive.
When it's over, he collapses against her, face buried in her neck, breathing hard. She strokes his hair and feels his heart pounding against her chest.
Eventually, he lifts his head, looks at her. His eyes are wet, his face raw with emotion.
"I'm yours," he says quietly. "Completely. Whatever you want. Whatever you need. Just tell me, and it's yours."
"I just want you." She traces the line of his jaw. "That's all I've ever wanted."
He kisses her palm, and she feels him smile against her skin.
"Was I—" He hesitates. "Was I good? For you?"
"You were perfect." She pulls him close. "You were everything I needed."
"I want to be." His voice is fierce. "I want to be everything you need. Always. In every way. Whatever you want from me, I'll give it. Whatever you tell me to do, I'll do it. I just want—" He swallows. "I want to be good enough. For you."
"You are." She kisses his forehead. "You always have been."
She pulls him down to rest against her again. Outside, the rain has slowed to a gentle drizzle. The storm has passed, but something else has begun.
They lie tangled together afterward, blankets pulled over them, listening to the last of the rain drip from the eaves.
"We should go back soon," she murmurs. "Before we're missed."
"I know."
Neither of them moves.
She traces patterns on his back, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He plays with her hair, winding a damp curl around his finger.
"What happens now?" she asks.
"I don't know." He presses a kiss to her forehead. "I only know I can't go back to pretending I don't want you."
"Then don't."
"It's not that simple."
"Isn't it?"
He's quiet for a long moment. "You deserve more than secret meetings and stolen hours. You deserve someone who can claim you publicly. Who can give you everything."
"You've already given me everything." She props herself up on an elbow to look at him. "Your sword. Your life. Remember?"
He smiles faintly. "I remember."
"Then stop trying to talk yourself out of this." She kisses him, soft and sweet. "Just be here. With me. For as long as we have."
"And when the world intrudes?"
"Then we'll face it together."
He pulls her close, and she settles against his chest, and they stay like that until the rain stops entirely and the sun breaks through the clouds.
When they finally dress and ride back to the castle, she can't stop smiling.
She doesn't know what comes next. She doesn't know how to make this work, or if it even can. But for the first time in her life, she feels found, and that's enough, for now.
She can't sleep.
Every time she closes her eyes, she's back in the cottage with his hands on her skin, his mouth on hers, the sound of her name on his lips like a prayer.
She shouldn't go to him. It's the middle of the night, and the castle is full of eyes, and if anyone saw her—
She goes anyway.
He's in the stables, because of course he is. She finds him sitting on a hay bale, his prosthetic removed, rubbing at the scarred flesh where it usually sits.
"You shouldn't be here," he says without looking up.
"Neither should you." She closes the stable door behind her. "The leg?"
"The storm. The ride back. The straps were wet and they—" He shakes his head. "It's fine."
"It's not fine. You're in pain."
"I'm always in pain." He says it matter-of-factly. "You learn to live with it."
She crosses to him, kneels in the straw. He goes still.
"What are you doing?"
"Let me see."
"Samira—"
She looks up at him, holds his gaze. "Jack."
Something flickers in his expression, that look she's starting to recognize. The one that says he wants to obey her more than he wants to breathe. He simply swallows.
The scarring is angry, red and raw where the straps rubbed wrong. She's seen wounds before, but this feels different. This is him. His body. His pain.
"I can help," she says. "If you'll let me."
"You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to. I want to." She meets his eyes again. "Let me take care of you. Please."
He stares at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nods.
She works in silence, using techniques Evans taught her: gentle massage to ease the cramped muscles, careful attention to the raw spots where the prosthetic chafed. He hisses once, when she hits a particularly tender area, but otherwise he's silent. Trusting.
And as she does, she thinks about the cottage, about the way he waited for her permission, the way he held back until she told him to let go. She'd thought that was about the moment, about the intensity of it.
But watching him now — the way he yields to her touch, the way he trusts her with this vulnerability — she’s starting to understand it's something deeper. Something in him needs this. Needs to give himself over. Needs someone to take care of him the way he's spent his whole life taking care of everyone else.
She wants to be that person. She wants it so much it scares her.
When she's done, she doesn't pull away. Just rests her hands on his thigh, feeling the warmth of him.
"No one's ever done that before," he says quietly.
"Tended to your leg?"
"Wanted to." He swallows.
"I’m not going to stop wanting to."
"I know." He reaches down, covers her hands with his. "That's what worries me."
"Why?"
"Because it means you see all of me. Even the broken parts. And you're still here." His voice cracks. "I don't know what to do with that."
"You don't have to do anything." She rises, kisses his forehead. "Just let me want you. All of you. Even the parts that hurt."
He pulls her into his lap, buries his face in her neck, and holds on like she's the only solid thing in the world.
They stay like that until the sky starts to lighten. Then she slips away, back to her chambers, carrying the weight of him with her.
She wears red to the next tournament.
It's a deliberate choice: the crimson gown that makes her skin glow, the rubies at her throat, the way the fabric clings to her waist. She tells herself it's for the visiting ambassador. She tells herself it's about diplomacy.
She's lying to herself again.
When she takes her seat in the royal box, she sees him across the lists, preparing for his first pass. He glances up, just a flicker, barely noticeable.
He looks back a second time.
Good.
The trumpet sounds. He rides.
She doesn't know what happens exactly. One moment he's charging, lance steady, posture perfect. The next moment his horse stumbles — or he does? — and his lance wavers, and his opponent's blow catches his shield at an awkward angle, and he's falling—
The crowd gasps. Samira is on her feet before she realizes she's moved.
He hits the ground hard. His horse wheels away. He doesn't move.
One second. Two. Three.
She can't breathe. She can't—
He stirs. Pushes himself up on one arm, then slowly stands. The crowd applauds, relieved, but Samira can see the way he's favoring his good side, the careful way he moves.
He looks up at the royal box. Finds her, still standing, still stricken.
Their eyes meet.
She sits down quickly, heart pounding, and pretends she wasn't just watching her entire world almost collapse.
He stands, and she sees him test his weight on his leg, and something in his posture tells her it's bad. The prosthetic shifted, maybe, or the fall jarred the joint where flesh meets wood.
But he remounts. Because of course he does. Because he's stubborn and proud and determined to win even when he's pained.
She's going to kill him. If he doesn't kill himself first.
He wins, of course. He always wins. But afterward, when he bows to Lady Al-Hashimi, his gaze drifts to the royal box one more time.
To her.
She doesn't sleep that night. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees him falling.
She finds him in the stables at dawn, the way she always does. But this time he's not brushing down his horse. He's sitting on a hay bale, shirt off, examining a bruise that spreads across his ribs like spilled wine.
"You're hurt."
He looks up. Doesn't bother hiding it. "I've had worse."
"That's not comforting." She crosses to him, kneels in the straw without thinking about her dress. "Let me see."
"Samira—"
"Jack." She holds his gaze. "Let me see."
He exhales and drops his hands.
The bruise is worse up close, deep purple at the center, yellow-green at the edges, spreading from his ribs around to his back. She presses gently, feeling for breaks, and he hisses.
"Nothing's broken," she says. "But you're lucky."
"I'm always lucky."
"You fell off a horse in front of the entire kingdom. That's not luck."
"I got back on. I won." He catches her wrist when she presses too hard. "That's luck."
"That's stupidity." She's angry, she realizes. Furious. "You could have been killed. You hit the ground and you didn't move and I was in that box watching and I couldn't—" Her voice breaks. "I couldn't breathe. I couldn't do anything. I just had to sit there and watch and pretend I didn't—"
"Samira."
"Don't." She pulls her wrist free. "Don't tell me you're fine. Don't tell me it doesn't matter. I watched you fall and I thought—" She has to stop. Breathe. "I thought I was going to lose you. Before I ever really had you."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he reaches out, cups her face in his hands.
"I'm here," he says softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
"You can't promise that."
"I can promise I'll try." He strokes his thumb across her cheekbone. "I can promise that every time I ride into that arena, I'm thinking about riding back out. To you."
"Then why did you remount? You were hurt. Anyone could see—"
"Because you were watching." His voice drops. "Because I needed to win. For you."
"That's—"
"Stupid. I know." He almost smiles. "But I've never wanted to impress anyone the way I want to impress you. I've never wanted to be worthy of anyone the way I want to be worthy of you. And if that means taking a few bruises—"
"A few bruises? Jack, your ribs—"
"Will heal." He pulls her closer, rests his forehead against hers. "Everything heals. As long as I have you to come back to."
She wants to stay angry. She wants to lecture him about recklessness, about self-preservation, about all the reasons he needs to be more careful.
Instead, she kisses him.
It's gentler than the cottage, softer, slower, full of relief rather than desperation. He's here. He's alive. He's hers.
"Don't do that again," she whispers against his mouth.
"I'll try not to."
"I mean it. If you fall again, I'm coming down there myself. I don't care who sees."
"That would cause quite a scandal."
"I don't care."
He pulls back, looks at her. Something shifts in his expression, and his eyes go a little hazy.
"You really don't, do you?" he says quietly. "Care about the scandal. The consequences."
"Not when it comes to you." She traces the edge of his bruise, gentle, shakes her head.
He catches her hand, brings it to his lips. "Whatever happens. I'm yours, Princess Samira. Completely.”
She believes him. That's the terrifying part.
She believes him, and she knows it's not enough. That the world won't let them have this. That something is going to tear them apart.
But for now — for this moment — she pushes that thought away and lets herself be held.
She doesn’t mean to find him in the bath.
She's looking for Evans: she has a question about a poultice, something she can't remember the proportions for, and she takes a wrong turn somewhere, ends up in the part of the castle where the knights have their quarters.
The door is ajar. Steam curls through the gap. And she hears—
Splashing. A low groan. The sound of someone in pain.
She should leave. She should absolutely leave.
She pushes the door open instead.
Jack is in the copper tub, head tipped back against the rim, eyes closed. The water is cloudy with healing herbs — Evans' doing, certainly, so she was here recently — and she can see the dark shape of his prosthetic propped against the wall. His leg ends just below the knee, the scarring pink and puckered, disappearing beneath the water.
He opens his eyes. Sees her. Goes absolutely still.
"Your Highness."
"Sir Abbot." She doesn't move from the doorway. "You're in pain."
"I'm fine."
"You were groaning."
"I was—" He shifts in the tub, and she sees him wince. "Relaxing."
"That didn't sound like relaxing."
"The water is hot. It helps with the—" He gestures vaguely at his leg, his ribs, all the places where his body is failing him. "Everything."
She should leave. She should definitely, absolutely leave.
She steps inside and closes the door behind her.
Steam curls around him, shiny in the air, and it makes him look somehow mystical, unreal.
"Samira—"
"Don't." She crosses to the tub, kneels beside it. The position puts her eye-level with him, close enough to see the water droplets clinging to his shoulders, the flush the heat has brought to his skin. "Don't tell me I shouldn't be here. I know I shouldn't be here."
"Then why—"
"Because I'm worried about you. Because you’re still bruised from your fall, and I—" She reaches out, touches his shoulder. He flinches, but not from pain. “I heard you, and I needed to know you're alright."
"I'm alright."
"You're not. You're bruised and battered and sitting in a medicinal bath in the middle of the afternoon." Her hand slides down his arm, under the water. "Let me help."
"Help how?"
"However you need."
His breath catches. She watches his throat work, watches him struggle with himself.
"You shouldn't touch me," he says roughly. "Not here. Not like this."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm—" He stops. Swallows. "Because I want you too much. And if you touch me, I won't be able to—"
"Won't be able to what?"
He doesn't answer. But she sees the way the water shifts. The way his hands grip the sides of the tub.
"Jack." She leans closer, her lips brushing his ear. "What if I want you to lose control?"
He makes a sound, low, desperate, almost pained.
"You're going to ruin me," he says.
"Yes." She pulls back, meets his eyes. "And you're going to thank me for it."
She stands. Smooths her skirts. And walks to the door without looking back.
"Samira—"
"Rest," she says over her shoulder. "Heal. And next time you're in pain, send for me. I want to be the one who takes care of you."
She closes the door behind her, and she's smiling all the way back to her chambers.
Let him think about that. Let him stew in it.
She's learning something about power. About what it means to have someone who wants to obey her.
Samira likes it. She likes it very much.
Days later, she hears it from the hallway.
Her mother's voice, sharp and clear, carrying through the council chamber's heavy doors.
"—within the spring. The tournament will determine—"
Samira stops walking. Presses herself against the wall. Listens.
"Your Majesty, is that not rather sudden?" A councilor's voice, unfamiliar.
"Sudden circumstances require sudden action. Lord Driscoll has made his interest clear, and his family's alliance would secure our eastern borders for a generation. The princess has been of age for nearly a decade. It's time."
"And the other suitors? Surely there will be interest—"
"There will be a tournament, as is tradition. Any knight may enter. But Lord Driscoll is—" A pause. "Motivated. I expect him to prevail."
Samira's blood runs cold.
"And the princess? Has she been informed?"
"She will be."
Samira doesn't wait to hear more. She turns and walks — not runs, she will not run — back to her chambers, where she locks the door and sinks onto her bed and stares at the wall.
A tournament. For her hand.
Lord Driscoll — that damned fool who talks about nothing but hunting dogs — will win. Her mother will make sure of it.
And Jack—
Jack is a knight with nothing. No lands, no title, no political value. He could enter, but what would be the point? Driscoll’s family has wealth enough to buy every other competitor out of the running. The whole thing will be rigged from the start.
She has weeks.
Weeks before she belongs to someone else. Before she has to smile and wave and pretend she doesn't have Jack's touch burned into her skin, his voice echoing in her memory, his—
She presses her hands to her face and does not cry.
She will not cry. She will find him. She will tell him. And together, they will figure out—
What? What can they possibly figure out?
He's a knight with nothing but a sword and his life. She's a princess with a mother who sees her as a chess piece.
She's spent her whole life being the spare. The backup. The one who exists in case something happens to her sibling, who is off at the eastern court learning to rule, while Samira learns to smile and curtsy and wait.
She used to think being ignored was the worst of it. Now she knows better. Being ignored meant freedom: dawn rides, healing studies, hours in the library with no one checking on her. Being noticed means being sold.
But she goes to find him anyway. Because she has to. Because he deserves to know.
Because if these are her last days of freedom, she's going to spend them with him.
And as she sprints down the halls of the castle, down and out of the royal halls, all she can think is: there’s no version of this story where they win.