Page 8 of His Forbidden Princess
"Pretty," I manage, the word inadequate for what I really want to say.
She replaces them carefully and continues her exploration, shoulders relaxed, steps lighter than I've ever seen at the palace. Out here, away from duty and expectation, she's transformed. The weight of the crown lifts from her, and I glimpse the woman she might have been in another life—carefree, curious, unbound by protocol.
It's dangerous, how much I prefer this version of her.
"Are you hungry?" she asks, pausing at a stall selling skewered meat that fills the air with spicy fragrance.
I nod, reaching for my coin pouch, but she's already handing over money, proud of this small act of self-sufficiency. I accept the food she offers, our fingers brushing in the exchange. She doesn't pull away immediately, and for one reckless moment, I imagine trapping those delicate fingers against the rough skin of my palm.
The spell breaks when she steps away, continuing her tour of the market. I follow, tasting nothing of the food, aware only of her and the potential threats surrounding us.
And there are threats. I catch the appreciative glances from men we pass, the way eyes linger on the curve of her hip, the slender column of her neck when she tilts her head back to laugh at something. She doesn't notice, or perhaps chooses not to, but I catalog each look, each potential danger.
She leads us toward the sound of music drifting from further down the street. A tavern—more raucous than the Crown and Sheaf, spilling light and noise into the night. The Drunken Sailor, according to the weathered sign swinging above the door.
"No," I say, stepping closer to block her path. "Not this one."
Her chin lifts in that stubborn way I know too well. "You promised not to interfere."
"I promised to keep you safe. That place isn't safe."
"How would you know?" Challenge flashes in her eyes. "Have you spent many nights in taverns like this, Captain Vorex?"
The formal title is a reminder of our respective positions, a barrier she throws between us when she feels cornered. But tonight I'm not her captain, not her guard. I'm simply a man following a woman who owns his soul without knowing it.
"Enough to know it's no place for you," I growl, stepping closer. "Choose another."
For a moment I think she'll argue, but then she shrugs, a casual gesture that doesn't match the mulish set of her mouth. "Fine. That one, then." She points to another tavern across the street—slightly less rowdy, but still not what I'd choose.
Before I can object, she's already moving toward it, leaving me to follow or lose sight of her in the crowd. I swallow a curse and lengthen my stride to catch up.
Inside, the air is thick with smoke and the smell of bodies pressed too close together. A small space has been cleared for dancing, and several couples twirl to the lively music of a three-piece band. The rest crowd around tables or the long bar that spans one wall.
Lirien weaves through the press of people to secure a small table in the corner, looking pleased with herself as she claims a seat. I remain standing, scanning the room for threats, positioning myself so my back is to the wall and my eyes can track every movement.
"Sit down," she says, patting the stool beside her. "You look like you're about to murder someone."
"That remains to be seen," I mutter, but I take the seat, my thigh brushing against hers in the cramped space.
A serving girl appears with remarkable speed. "What'll it be?"
"Ale," Lirien says confidently, as if she orders it every day instead of the watered wine she's served at court.
"Two," I amend, not trusting the quality of anything stronger in a place like this.
When the drinks arrive, I watch her take a tentative sip, then a longer one, licking foam from her upper lip in a way that makes heat pool in my gut. She grimaces slightly at the bitter taste but takes another drink, determined to embrace the experience.
"Well?" she asks, setting down her mug. "Aren't you going to lecture me about royal dignity and proper behavior?"
"Would it make any difference?"
A small smile tugs at her lips. "No."
"Then I'll save my breath." I scan the room again, noting a group of sailors getting progressively louder at a nearby table. "Drink your ale, Princess. Dawn comes sooner than you think."
She follows my gaze to the sailors, then turns back to me. "Have you ever wanted something you couldn't have, Dain?"
The question catches me off guard. We don't have personal conversations. We don't discuss wants or desires. We exist in carefully delineated spaces that never intersect, except in my darkest dreams.
