This is madness.
And yet, her skin tingled where his hand wrapped around her arm.
Why wasn't she pulling away? Why was she leaning back—subtly, shamefully—just to feel more of his solid form?
No. This was betrayal.
Betrayal to her heart. To Granny.
She had to remember—he was the reason for her exile, the reason she had left home and now going to a place that had rejected her. All because of one command from his lips.
And still, her body betrayed her, aching to lean into his chest.
She closed her eyes and drew in a breath, slow and deep. Her hands trembled at her sides—but not from the horse galloping beneath them or the cold wind rushing past. No, it was the weight of hesitation, the battle within her. Should she push his hand away… or let it stay?
"This is madness," she whispered.
"What?" His voice dipped low against her ear, brushing her skin. She shivered.
"What did you say?" he repeated, louder this time, his voice carried slightly by the wind.
Karina's lips quivered. "You're riding too fast."
He didn't seem to catch it. Instead, he leaned in—closer. His breath, his scent, tangled with hers, warm and maddening.
"What did you say, Karina?" he asked again.
The sound of her name on his lips made her shiver. It was strange—the way he said it. Like wind brushing against balm, searing and soothing all at once.
When she didn't respond, he pulled the reins, slowing the horse. Then he turned to her, his arm still firm around her waist.
She looked away, avoiding the intensity of his gaze. "You don't have to hold me… I'm not that weak. I've ridden a horse before."
It was true. Among the many gifts the people once brought to her household—back when her voice had been a healing balm—was a horse. She had begged her father to teach her to ride it. In secret, of course. In this world, women weren't often granted the same freedom as men.
"Fallon is quite the aggressive one," he murmured against her ear. "If I let go of your waist, you'll go flying a hundred miles from me. It's the kind of fall that could break your bones—and I won't let that happen."
His voice was a soft whisper, yet it curled around her like smoke. Her toes curled. Why was he so close? He had to know the effect he had on her. But no—she wouldn't let him win. Even if they were sharing a saddle, he needed to keep his distance.
Fallon? So that is the name he calls his horse?
"I won't fall," she replied, her voice tight. "I can hold on to the reins, if it comes to that."
But that only made it worse—because he leaned in even closer.
"Oh. You don't like it when I do this? When I hold you?"
His lips hovered, just a breath away from her cheek. Her body tensed, a shiver running down to her feet like the sudden chill of early dawn.
Her eyes widened, and she pulled back. Gods—what was that? Why would he…?
She turned sharply to glare at him, but that only worsened things. His lips were curved—not quite a smile, not reaching his eyes—but for once, his face wasn't carved in stone. The sight of him, his amber eyes softened, the tight lines of his forehead eased, made her pause. He was… breathtaking. When he didn't look like a soldier marching into war, he was devastatingly handsome.
She cleared her throat and tore her gaze away. If she kept looking into those eyes, she'd forget how to speak. And that would be dangerous. She hated him—hated what he was doing to her.
It was as if the world bent to his will, like the winds and earth moved at his command. Just like her. She had yielded without protest. Did she even have a choice?
It must feel good, being born royal. Arrogance came with their first breath.
"My Prince, I… we should keep a distance, that is.. more appropriate between us." She turned away sharply, unwilling to see his reaction. The gods knew—if he disagreed, he could punish her for speaking so boldly.
"And who says I want to keep a distance?" His grip on her waist tightened, and she gasped.
gods…
"It makes me… rather uncomfortable," she blurted, though her heart was thundering.
He said nothing at first, guiding the horse in silence as it trotted slowly down the road. For a moment, only the sound of hooves filled the air—until his voice came, low and steady.
"What if you fall?"
"Then I will get up," she said with pride. Had she turned, she might have seen the glint that flickered in his eyes—but her gaze stayed fixed on the road ahead.
"That's not the phrase," he murmured. "The right words are: if you fall, then I will catch you."
She snorted. "I do not want to be caught. Especially not by you." Control, she reminded herself. If she didn't master her emotions, then her voice would cause more ruin.
"No one wants to fall and not be caught," he shook his head. "Unless… you want to be injured."
"It makes sense to be injured in this case."
"Why?" His lips pressed into a thin line. The thought of her getting hurt unsettled him—and that was strange. He wasn't the type to care. The palace was filled with scavengers, and he was one of them. He'd watched men beheaded and felt nothing. Often, he had been the one holding the blade. But the thought of her in pain?
That was different.
"Why would you rather be injured—just because I'm the one who'd catch you?"
She hummed in response. A soft sound. Quiet. Her voice, as always, was like balm to his guarded heart.
"I won't let you fall. As the future king, it's my duty to protect my people," he said, his voice steady with conviction.
"Is that what you've been doing? Protecting your people and ensuring their well-being?" Her voice came soft, almost a whisper, but the weight behind it struck deep. He understood exactly where she was coming from.
There would always be a wall between them. He had dragged her here against her will, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't rip the hatred from her heart. It should have been a relief—but it wasn't. It gnawed at him.
"My Prince, your hand…" she said quietly, a gentle reminder.
He let out a low growl. Could she not forget it—just for a moment—and let him hold her?