Chapter 1: A Forbidden Glimpse
The heat hit her first, a thick, perfumed wall of it, carrying the cloying scent of roses and something sharper beneath—sweat, wine, the bitter tang of extinguished candles. Elara pushed the oak door to the prince’s bathing chamber open with her hip, the stack of fresh linen towels in her arms a white, precarious mountain.
“Your Highness? I’ve brought the—”
The words died in her throat.
Prince Caspian wasn’t in the copper tub. He was on the floor, half-propped against its side, naked. The marble was slick, gleaming in the low light of the braziers. One hand was wrapped around himself, moving with a slow, terrible deliberation. His head was tipped back against the tub’s rim, his eyes open, dark and glassy with drink and fixed directly on her.
Elara froze. The towels seemed to fuse to her chest.
He didn’t stop. His gaze held hers, a challenge and an accusation all at once. His breathing was a ragged counter-rhythm to the drip of water from the tap. She saw the tight cord of muscle in his forearm, the water beading on his collarbone, the dark hair plastered to his chest. She should look away. She should drop the towels and flee. Her body refused to obey.
A sound escaped him, a low, rough groan that seemed to vibrate in the steam-heavy air. His hand moved faster, his knuckles white. He was watching her, only her, as if she were the source of some vivid, private fantasy. Her own breath hitched, traitorously loud in the quiet. Heat flooded her cheeks, but a different, shameful heat pooled low in her belly.
His release was sudden, a stark, liquid stripe across his skin. He shuddered, his head lolling to the side, and his hand fell away. Just like that, the intense focus in his eyes shattered. They fluttered closed. A moment later, a soft, drunken snore ruffled the air.
He was unconscious.
Elara stood there, trembling. The silence roared in her ears. She had seen him in every state—temper tantrums as a boy, battle-fevered, sick, hungover. She had laundered the evidence of his countless casual encounters without a blink. This was different. This was a violation he had willingly performed for her witness. A filthy gift she hadn’t asked for.
Her feet moved before her mind caught up. She laid the towels on a dry bench, her movements precise, automatic. She picked up one of the smaller linen cloths, dampened it in the now-tepid bathwater, and knelt on the hard marble beside him.
Up close, the smell of him was overwhelming—wine, yes, and the rose oil, but underneath it, the pure, animal scent of him. Her hand wavered. His chest rose and fell evenly. The evidence of his pleasure was starting to cool on his skin. She began to wipe, her strokes clinical, starting from his sternum, moving outwards.
Her gaze kept slipping downward. He was still hard.
A pulse thrummed deep inside her, urgent and deafening. The cloth in her hand paused. The chamber was silent but for the crackle of the brazier and the thunder of her own heart. Her fingers, bare now, brushed against him as she moved the linen.
It was an accident. It wasn’t.
The skin was surprisingly soft, silken over iron. A jolt went through her, sharp and electric. Her fingertips lingered for a heartbeat, two, tracing the shape of him, learning a secret geography she had no right to know. A gasp stuck in her throat. This was madness. This was treason.
She snatched her hand back as if scalded. Fumbling, she finished cleaning him with rough, efficient strokes, her face burning. She tossed the soiled cloth into a corner, draped a large dry towel over his lap, and fled.
The stone corridors of the keep were cold and dark, a slap after the jungle heat of his chamber. She didn’t feel it. Her skin was on fire. Every step echoed the frantic rhythm in her chest. She passed a guardsman on his rounds; she nodded, a stiff, servant’s gesture, and saw nothing.
Her quarters were a closet, a mere niche off the main servant’s hall. She barreled inside, shut the door, and leaned against it, the wood cool on her back. She could still smell the roses. She could still feel the phantom weight and texture of him against her fingers.
Her body was a taut bowstring, humming. The image was seared behind her eyes: his intent stare, the movement of his hand, the way he had looked at her as he fell apart. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t even lust, not really. It was use. And yet, her own body had responded with a treachery so complete it left her hollow.
She couldn’t stand it. The pressure was unbearable, a sharp, wanting ache. With a sob of frustration, she hiked her simple woolen skirts and shoved her hand beneath her smallclothes. Her touch was desperate, angry. She thought of his arrogant mouth, his careless hands on other women, his eyes glazed and fixed on her in the steam. She chased the feeling, rough and urgent, using the image he’d forced upon her to fuel her own shameful release.
It crashed over her quickly, a wave of tense, shuddering pleasure that felt more like punishment than relief. She bit her knuckle to keep silent, slumping against the door as it subsided, leaving her empty and shaking.
Tears pricked her eyes, hot and furious. He was passed out drunk on a marble floor, likely already forgetting. And she was here, trembling in the dark, her loyalty shattered, her peace destroyed. He had dragged her into the filth with him without a second thought.
Tomorrow, she would have to go back. She would have to bring his breakfast, lay out his clothes, meet his eyes. She would have to kneel and be his servant.
But something had broken. A line had been crossed. As she slid down the door to sit on the cold floor, hugging her knees, Elara knew nothing would ever be simple again. The memory of his skin under her fingers was a brand. And the quiet, seething anger now curling beside her longing was something entirely new.