Page 27 of His Forbidden Princess
"I read." I secure the makeshift bandage. "Extensively. On many subjects not considered appropriate for princesses."
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Of course you did."
I move to the gash on his arm, binding it with similar efficiency. His blood stains my hands, warm and viscous, a visceral reminder of what he was willing to sacrifice for me. When I reach for the cut on his forehead, his hand captures my wrist.
"Enough. I'll survive." His eyes search mine, intense despite his weakened state. "Are you certain about this? About returning? We could still make a run for the river."
I look at his battered body, the guards surrounding us, the slim chance of escape. "And then what? You bleed to death insome foreign village? I watch you die knowing I could have prevented it?" I shake my head firmly. "No. We return together. We face what comes together."
He studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "Together, then."
I help him back to his horse, supporting him as he mounts with a barely suppressed groan of pain. When I'm certain he won't fall, I return to my own horse and swing into the saddle.
"We're ready," I call to Thorne, who signals his men to form up around us.
As we begin the long ride back toward the palace, dawn breaks fully over the forest. Sunlight filters through the trees, turning dew drops to diamonds on the undergrowth. It should be beautiful, this new day, but all I can think about is what awaits us at its end.
Dain rides beside me, straight-backed despite his injuries, eyes alert for any opportunity. I know he hasn't given up, know that he's still calculating odds and escape routes. But he respects my choice enough not to act on those calculations.
"Whatever happens," I say quietly, for his ears alone, "I don't regret this. Any of it."
His hand reaches across the space between us, briefly clasping mine before returning to his reins. "Nor do I."
We ride toward an uncertain future, surrounded by guards who were once Dain's brothers-in-arms. But for the first time in my life, I'm not facing that future alone. For the first time, I have something—someone—worth fighting for.
And fight I will, with every weapon at my disposal. Because Dain Vorex has spilled his blood to protect me, and now I will use every ounce of my position and power to protect him in return.
ten
. . .
Dain
I sitin the palace dungeon, counting heartbeats like a miser counts coins. Each pulse that continues to drive blood through my veins feels like stolen time—hours and minutes and seconds that should have ended with a headsman's axe. My wounds have been dressed by a palace physician who worked in stony silence, unwilling to meet the eyes of a traitor. The stone bench beneath me is cold and unyielding, much like the fate I've accepted. But I regret nothing—not the escape, not the fight, not loving a woman I had no right to love.
They separated us immediately upon our return to the palace. Lirien was escorted to her chambers—a prisoner in silk rather than iron—while I was brought here, to the cold cells beneath the palace where enemies of the crown await judgment. The irony doesn't escape me. Fifteen years of loyal service, of risking my life for king and country, erased by one night of defiance.
One night of choosing love over duty.
My leg throbs where the sword caught me, but the pain is distant, unimportant. All that matters is that she's safe, that in my final act of service I protected what truly needed protection—not her body, which has never been in danger, but her spirit, her right to choose her own path.
The guards posted outside my cell are men I've trained, men I've fought beside. They avoid looking at me directly, whether from respect or disgust I cannot tell. They've brought food and water, which sits untouched on the floor beside me. Condemned men have little appetite.
I wonder what she's doing now. Is she still fighting for me, as she promised? Or has reality reasserted itself—the reality of her position, her duty, the weight of a kingdom's expectations? I wouldn't blame her if she surrendered to it. What we shared was beautiful but brief, a flash of lightning in an otherwise darkened sky. Perhaps it was always meant to fade.
The thought brings a physical ache to my chest, but I push it aside. Better to focus on the memory of her in my arms, her lips beneath mine, her voice whispering my name in the darkness. If these are to be my final hours, I choose to fill them with her.
A commotion outside my cell draws me from my thoughts. Keys rattle, voices murmur. I rise to my feet, ignoring the pain that shoots through my injured leg. Whatever comes next, I will meet it standing.
The door swings open to reveal Captain Merritt, his expression unreadable. "The king demands your presence."
No "captain" before my name, no acknowledgment of rank. I have been stripped of everything, as expected.
Two guards flank me as we climb the stairs from the dungeon, Merritt leading the way. They haven't bound my hands—a small courtesy or simple practicality, given my wounded state. The palace corridors are unnaturally empty, cleared ofservants and courtiers who might witness a disgraced captain's final walk.
We approach the throne room, its massive doors guarded by four of the elite royal guard. They salute Merritt but regard me with stony faces. The doors swing open, revealing the vast chamber beyond.
The king sits on his throne, crown gleaming in the light that streams through the high windows. His council members are arrayed to his right, their expressions ranging from solemn to openly hostile. To his left stands Prince Aldric, looking vaguely uncomfortable but determined to maintain his claim.
