Soren didn't slow until they reached the private wing.
Freya shifted slightly in his arms.
"…You can put me down now," she muttered.
"No," Soren said simply.
"I'm not going to break the floor."
"I'm aware."
"That was unnecessary."
"And yet," he replied, "here we are."
Freya huffed under her breath.
He carried her straight into their chamber.
Warm light spilled across polished floors, softening the edges of the room. Everything was quiet in that controlled, deliberate way the palace always felt when it belonged only to him.
Soren walked directly to the bed.
he lowered her down carefully.
Freya exhaled as the mattress took her weight, her injured ankle easing slightly.
Soren straightened, his gaze immediately dropping to it.
"You're staying here," he said.
Freya blinked.
"…I was already planning to."
"That's new," he replied mildly.
She narrowed her eyes.
"Are you always this insufferable?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
Soren turned slightly toward the door.
"Clara will bring you something comfortable," he said.
Freya blinked.
"…I already have clothes."
"I know," he replied.
Then, a little more deliberately:
"I had her choose something that won't irritate your ankle."
Freya hesitated slightly at that.
"…That's actually considerate of you."
Soren glanced back at her.
His expression stayed composed—but there was a faint edge of amusement underneath it.
"I'm not inconsiderate," he said.
"I just prefer when you make fewer questionable decisions in heavy fabric."
Freya frowned.
"That sounds like an insult."
"It's observation."
Freya sighed under her breath.
"…You're impossible."
Soren stepped toward the door, then paused.
Just before leaving, he added—
"You'll wear it."
Freya blinked.
"…That sounded like an order."
"It was," he said.
Then, softer—almost casually:
"And you'll find it much easier to deal with than what you're currently used to."
Freya stared at him.
"…That is not comforting."
"It's practical," he corrected.
He reached for the door—
and it opened before he could.
Eugene stood on the other side.
Composed as always.
"My highness," he said with a slight bow, though there was urgency beneath the calm. "Apologies for the interruption."
Soren's expression shifted instantly.
"What is it?"
Eugene stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough.
"There's an issue that requires your attention. It cannot be delayed."
Freya watched the shift happen in real time.
The moment Soren became something else entirely.
Not just her husband.
A king.
Soren was silent for a beat.
Then nodded once.
"I'll be there shortly."
Eugene inclined his head and stepped back.
"I'll prepare the council room."
The door closed again.
Soren turned back to Freya.
For a moment—he didn't speak.
Then he walked back toward the bed.
His gaze dropped briefly to her ankle.
Then to her face.
"I have to handle something," he said.
Freya nodded slightly.
Then, more quietly—
"I'll come back later."
Freya shifted slightly against the pillows.
"…I'll still be here."
His mouth curved faintly.
"I expect you to be."
He reached down—briefly adjusting the blanket over her legs, careful not to disturb her ankle.
Soren studied her for one last moment.
Then turned—
and left.
The door shut behind him.
And just like that—
the room felt quieter.
Freya stared at the ceiling for a moment.
Then muttered:
"…He didn't even deny he was insufferable."
A faint knock came not long after.
Freya turned her head slightly.
"…Come in."
The door opened.
Lucan Vale stepped inside.
His gaze found her immediately.
"My lady," he said evenly.
Freya exhaled softly.
"You don't have to call me that."
"I do," he replied.
He stepped closer to the bed, setting a small case down beside her.
"How is it?"
"It hurts," she said honestly.
"That is expected."
Freya gave him a look.
"…You're very encouraging."
"I'm accurate," he corrected.
Then—
"I need to examine it again."
Freya nodded.
Lucan gestured lightly toward her leg.
"Lift the fabric enough so I can see the ankle."
Freya didn't hesitate.
She gathered the fabric of her dress and lifted it—
Perhaps a little higher than necessary.
But she didn't seem concerned.
Lucan, however—
Paused.
Just slightly.
His gaze flicked—then shifted away just as quickly, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly before he forced his attention back to her ankle.
"…That's fine," he said, voice controlled.
Freya noticed.
And this time—
she didn't look embarrassed.
If anything, there was a flicker of curiosity in her expression.
Lucan crouched beside the bed again, hands steady as he examined her ankle.
"You feel that?"
"Yes."
"And that?"
"That's worse."
"Good."
Freya frowned.
"You keep saying that like it's comforting."
"It means the injury is limited," he replied.
"…Still not comforting."
A faint flicker—almost amusement—touched his expression again.
But as he worked—
something else pressed in.
Unwelcome.
Distracting.
His focus slipped—just slightly.
Not from the injury.
From her.
The warmth of her skin under his hands.
The quiet way she watched him without flinching.
And her light green eyes—
He hadn't noticed them properly at first.
Not when she was just a patient on the ground.
But now—
They were striking.
Clear.
Expressive in a way most people in the palace were not.
He found himself looking at them a second too long and realizing— he was noticing too much.
Lucan's brow tightened faintly.
Unacceptable.
He shifted his grip, grounding himself back in the task.
"You'll need to keep weight off it," he said, tone returning to its usual precision.
"I gathered that."
He continued, finishing the examination.
But there was a moment—
Where his hand lingered just a fraction longer than necessary.
And this time—
he noticed it immediately and stopped.
He pulled back.
"I'll wrap it again," he said.
Freya nodded.
"…Okay."
He worked quickly after that, securing the wrap with clean, efficient movements.
Then reached into his case and pulled out a small container, placing it on the bedside table.
"A salve," he said.
Freya glanced at it.
"…For what?"
"To reduce swelling and pain. Apply it tonight before you rest."
Freya nodded slowly.
"…Alright."
"Light pressure," he added. "Not too much."
"I'll try not to injure myself further while applying it," she said dryly.
"That would be ideal."
Lucan closed his case.
"I'll return tomorrow."
Lucan met her gaze briefly.
And again—
those eyes.
Clear.
He looked away first.
Long enough to feel like something.
Lucan inclined his head.
"Rest."
Freya nodded.
"I will."
He turned and walked toward the door.
Same steady pace.
Same composed posture.
But just before he stepped out—
his hand paused briefly on the handle.
A fraction of a second.
Then he left.
Freya stared at the door for a moment.
Then leaned back into the pillows.
"…He's definitely strange."
Then—
"…But not in a bad way."
Her gaze drifted to the small container of salve.
In the corridor— Lucan walked on.
Until he turned the corner.
And only then— his expression shifted, slightly.
His brow tightening as his thoughts caught again.
Not the injury.
Not the treatment.
Her.
The way she spoke without calculation.
The way she looked at him with those eyes—
Lucan exhaled quietly.
"…Irrelevant," he murmured.
But the word didn't settle the thought.
***
The room had gone quiet again.
Freya shifted slightly against the pillows, careful of her ankle, her gaze drifting lazily toward the window.
A soft knock broke the silence.
"My lady?" Clara's voice came gently from the other side.
Freya turned her head.
"Come in."
The door opened, and Clara stepped inside carrying a neatly folded gown over her arm.
"I brought something more comfortable for you," she said, moving closer.
Freya pushed herself up slightly.
"Please tell me it doesn't weigh ten pounds."
Clara smiled faintly.
"It does not."
Freya let out a small breath.
Clara unfolded the gown.
It was a soft fabric, light, simple and a short length.
It didn't even register as something worth thinking about.
"Let's get you changed," Clara said gently.
Freya nodded.
With Clara's help, she carefully slipped out of her previous dress, mindful of her ankle. The new gown was easy to put on—no tight lacing, no heavy layers, nothing that required effort.
Clara adjusted it into place, smoothing the fabric down.
"There," she said.
Freya leaned back slightly, settling into it.
It was comfortable.
That was all that mattered.
She shifted her leg slightly.
"…This is much better," she admitted.
Clara nodded.
"I thought you might prefer it."
Freya relaxed into the pillows, completely at ease.
The length of the gown never crossed her mind.
Not once.
Not when she moved.
Not when she adjusted.
Not even when the soft fabric rested higher on her legs.
Time passed quietly.
The door opened.
Without warning.
Freya turned instinctively—
And froze.
Soren stepped inside.
His gaze found her instantly.
And for a brief moment—
Her breath caught.
Her body went still.
And without thinking—
her hand moved gripping the edge of the fabric pulling it down.
Her cheeks warmed.
"…You could knock," she said, a little too quickly.
Soren's gaze didn't leave her.
"I did not think it necessary."
"That's not the point."
He stepped further into the room.
Freya shifted again, adjusting the gown—again—though it hadn't bothered her seconds ago.
Now it did.
And she didn't know why.
His gaze lingered on her a moment longer—
then shifted to the bedside table.
He paused.
"…What is that?" he asked.
Freya followed his gaze.
"Oh—Lucan left it," she said.
"It's for my ankle."
Soren didn't respond immediately.
His eyes rested on the small container.
Then Soren moved closer to the bed.
He reached for the salve, picking it up and turning it once in his hand.
As if assessing it.
Or perhaps—
something else entirely.
"You were told how to use it?" he asked.
Freya nodded.
"…Before bed. Light pressure."
Soren hummed quietly.
Then—
he sat down at the edge of the bed.
Freya blinked.
"…What are you doing?"
"Applying it," he said simply.
"I can do it myself."
"I'm aware."
That didn't stop him.
Freya hesitated.
Then slowly shifted, allowing him access to her injured ankle.
Her hand tightened slightly in the fabric of her gown again.
He opened the container, the faint scent of herbs drifting into the air.
Then his hand settled gently around her ankle.
Freya inhaled slightly at the contact.
Not because it hurt.
He applied the salve slowly, working it into the skin with controlled movements.
Freya watched him.
Then looked away.
"…You don't have to do this," she muttered.
"I know."
"Then why are you?"
A pause.
His thumb pressed lightly along the side of her ankle, testing the tension.
Freya's breath caught slightly.
Soren didn't look up.
"Because you're injured," he said.
his grip shifted slightly.
Silence settled again.
Because Soren's movements slowed.
Just slightly.
His attention no longer entirely on the injury.
Freya felt it.
His thumb stroked once over the skin.
Slowly.
Freya's pulse skipped.
Her breathing caught slightly.
Soren's fingers stilled.
Soren's thumb paused against her skin.
His crimson eyes darkened.
The air in the room suddenly felt too thick.
He lowered her foot back onto the bed.
But he didn't pull away.
He kept one hand resting firmly over her ankle.
"…What are you doing?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
A slow, dangerous smile touched his lips.
"Finishing what I started," he murmured, leaning forward.
He shifted his other hand to the mattress beside her hip, caging her in without touching her anywhere else.
"Your punishment," he said.
Her pulse hammered.
"I thought—"
"Freya," he whispered,
"I haven't even begun."
He leaned in closer.
His lips brushed the corner of her mouth.
Freya froze.
Her entire body flushed.
"…You're impossible."
"And you," he murmured, finally closing the small distance between them,
"are far too distracting for your own good."
Then he kissed her.
It was slow.
Deep.
A silent reminder of every unspoken thing between them.
Freya's breath caught.
Her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, slowly uncurled.
She didn't push him away.
She didn't fight.
She simply… let him.
Because she wasn't sure she wanted to.
He deepened the kiss, a soft sigh escaping her as his tongue traced her lower lip, a silent request for entry that she granted without thought. He tasted of wine and something darkly unique, a flavor that was becoming dangerously familiar, dangerously welcome. His hand slid from her ankle up her calf, the touch a slow, deliberate burn that left a trail of fire in its wake.
He waz mapping the curve of her knee, the sensitive skin behind it, the quivering muscles of her thigh.
When his fingers found the hem of her gown, they paused. He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, his breathing ragged. His crimson eyes, when they opened, were a storm of conflict. Desire warred with a raw, possessive tenderness that was far more dangerous than simple lust.
His lips found hers again, and this kiss was different. It was softer and deeper. He kissed her slowly, thoroughly, as if he had all the time in the world, as if this was the only thing that mattered. He pushed her gown higher, his hands now caressing the bare skin of her waist, her back, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.