Emma's heart pounded as she watched Prince Leroy step into the bath chamber, his towering figure casting a long shadow across the tiles. She braced for an outburst, a roar to shatter the tense silence.
Instead, a metallic clatter broke the stillness, a bucket skittering across the stone floor. Her breath caught. Someone was there. Perhaps the Princess. Perhaps Sylvia.
Summoning her courage, she crept toward the partition and peered inside. Relief surged through her, warm and dizzying. Sylvia stood before the wooden panel, her skirts wet from the knees down, a steadfast shield.
Emma's knees buckled, not from fear but from gratitude. Her gaze darted to the bathtub, where Princess Lorraine lay submerged, only her eyes visible above the dark water.
Moments earlier, Lorraine had felt the jaws of discovery closing around her. Fear had propelled her into the icy bathwater left from her earlier wash, a desperate bid to erase her outing. She'd slipped beneath the surface just as Leroy's shadow loomed at the threshold.
Sylvia, sharp and swift, had triggered the stone wall to seal the hidden tunnel, stepping in front of the panel as the Prince entered.
The cold water bit into Lorraine's skin, a relentless sting that clashed with her racing pulse. Anxiety and exhaustion made her chest tight, but the chill steadied her frantic heart.
Relief was short-lived as a new dread struck. The stone wall clicked when it closed. Would Leroy hear it? He was a warrior. He definitely would.
Sylvia's quick thinking saved them. She kicked a nearby bucket, its metallic clang masking the tunnel's faint sound. Lorraine clung to hope, holding her breath beneath the water, praying the deception held.
Leroy remained silent, his presence a weight in the air.
"Cold bath at this hour?" His voice sliced through, deep and edged with curiosity.
Lorraine's eyes closed, relief flooding her. He hadn't noticed. She, Sylvia, and Emma had woven a fragile escape, preserving their secret and their lives.
"It calms Her Highness's nerves, Your Highness," Sylvia replied, her tone steady as polished marble.
Another pause, thick with unspoken questions.
"Leave," Leroy commanded.
The soft rustle of Sylvia and Emma's retreat reached Lorraine's ears. Her lungs burned, desperate for air. She surfaced slowly, brushing wet hair from her face, her body shivering in the cold. She opened her eyes, expecting solitude… but froze.
Leroy's golden wolf mask gleamed inches away, its pricked ears stark in the dim light.
Shock sent her reeling backward. Water flooded her mouth as she gasped, sparking a violent coughing fit. Her chest seared, each cough pulling more water into her lungs. Panic gripped her. She flailed, disoriented, unable to breathe.
Strong arms lifted her from the tub. Leroy's grip was firm, his masked face a jarring contrast to his careful hold. He carried her to the couch, laying her chest-down, across his knees. His hand patted her back, steady and gentle, coaxing the water from her lungs.
Few candles flickered in the room, the sweet scent of the vyrnshade blossoms filling the room. The window was open, bringing in the gentle breeze and the sound of the rustles of the trees from far.
As the coughing eased, awareness crashed over her. Lorraine's cheeks blazed. She was sprawled across his lap, utterly bare.
Mortified, she slid off, arms crossing her chest as she backed away, glaring at him. What was he thinking? Ten years married, and they were strangers. Couldn't he have grabbed a towel first? She wasn't dying.
Leroy sat unmoving, his masked gaze fixed on her. She caught the faint glimmer of his eyes, his lips pressed softly together. Unreadable, as always. Lorraine tugged her damp hair forward, letting it fall over her chest and legs, like a curtain.
With a huff, she stomped to the dresser. Bending and reaching for her nightgown, she froze, realizing her back was exposed to him. Back, legs… and everything in between.
He was watching. Heat flooded her face. She swept her hair back, but the wet strands clung to her shoulders, offering no shield. Frustration surged as she fumbled with her nightgown, fingers clumsy in her haste.
Her heart raced, not just from the cold but from her vulnerability. She'd never known a man's touch, yet here she stood, laid bare before her husband, a man whose thoughts remained a locked fortress.
Bashfulness tangled with irritation, her cheeks burning brighter.
A low murmur broke the silence, dark and heavy with regret. "So useless… My mistake…"
Lorraine's fingers tightened around the nightgown, and she straightened, clutching it to her chest. Those words, useless, my mistake, cut deep, an echo of a wound from five years past.
His judgment of her hadn't changed. Pain seared her heart, tears prickling her eyes.
She quickly slipped into her nightgown and turned to him, her voice a trembling whisper locked in her throat, hands signing sharply. "Is that all I am to you? A mistake?"
Leroy's gaze held steady, his wolf mask a cold barrier. He pursed his lips, as if he was contemplating something. But soon, that calmness returned to his face, at least, the part of his face exposed to her.
Silence stretched between them, heavy with a decade of distance and unspoken truths. Lorraine's chest ached, her defiance crumbling under the weight of his indifference.
What was she to him, after all these years?