CHAPTER 37: THE MORNING COMMOTION

Lorraine felt his warm breath warming her hair, and just like that, she collapsed. All her arguments. All her traditions. All her second-guessing. Gone.

There was only the quiet sound of his breath, the familiar warmth of his body, and the familiar, sacred hush between them.

He carried her to the bed, still holding her like something delicate. He lay down beside her without letting go after throwing her robe away.

She didn’t resist. She didn’t want to. She pressed her face into the curve of his neck, arms wrapped around him like a child with a secret. There, in the shadow of his body, was the first peace she had felt in years.

After her mother, no one had ever held her like this. Not as Lorraine, the woman. Only he did. Only he could, as her husband.

Once, he did, without knowing who she was, when she was just the discarded daughter of a broken house.

After that, no one else did. Certainly, not when she was the wife of a hostage prince. She never had friends, and her status kept her well-wishers at a distance. She had worn silk and bruises, but never comfort.

Until... him, again.

In the dark, she was no longer royalty or responsibility. Just a woman who needed to be held. And he gave that to her—quietly, instinctively. As if he knew she’d never ask, and yet that was what she wanted.

His arms didn’t loosen.

His breath remained steady.

And something in her broke... softly, finally... in the safest way. This, she thought, is what it must feel like to be held.

Sleep came like honey, slow and sweet. Her body melted into his, her fingers curled gently against his chest. Just before slumber claimed her, she realized he had fallen asleep too.

Still holding her.

Still wrapped around her like she was something precious.

Something he, too, did not want to let go.

Or so she dreamed.

-----

Leroy stirred just as the first rays of sun slipped through the curtains. Something pressed warmly against his chest, not unpleasant, just... unfamiliar.

He cracked open an eye.

Lorraine.

She was curled up on top of him like a kitten seeking warmth, her slender arms loosely draped around his shoulder, her cheek nestled against his skin. Her long hair fanned across his chest in a tangled halo.

No wonder he’d slept better than he had in five years.

He glanced at the window. It was his usual waking hour. Normally, he would rise at first light, go about his routine with machine-like precision. But with her weight gently grounding him, with her breath warming the skin just above his heart... he stayed.

He shifted slightly, one arm curling around her back, the other reaching up to bury his fingers in her messy hair.

And just like that, he fell asleep again.

Meanwhile, Lorraine was having the best dream of her life.

In it, she lay on warm stone in a quiet little cottage, a fire crackling in the hearth. A slow, rhythmic thud pulsed beneath her ear. A heartbeat. Strong, steady. She had never slept so peacefully.

Then something jabbed her in the stomach.

Her dream wavered. She stirred.

Something hard was poking her stomach. Her brows furrowed. Had she rolled off the bed and landed on a rolling pin?

Still half-asleep, she scratched her head, and that’s when she felt the uncomfortable stickiness between her legs and the unmistakable scent of blood.

Ugh. Not again.

She hated her monthlies. Especially the mornings after. Groggy and stiff, she tried to sit up... only to wince when her hair pulled on something. Something had her tangled.

Then it hit her. This wasn’t her bed.

Her eyes snapped open.

She was lying directly on top of Leroy’s bare chest. His arm was still around her waist, fingers tangled in her hair. And worse... her blood had soaked through her nightgown. And quite possibly, into his clothes.

She stared at the red stain spreading across the white of his undershirt, horrified.

Oh, gods. He was soaked in her blood. A small squeak of mortification escaped her lips.

What now? Stay and... clean it up? Or vanish and pretend this never happened?

She chose the second option.

Slowly, so slowly, she began to inch away, trying not to wake him. Her hair, of course, had other plans. His fingers were tangled so securely that she had to move like a spider weaving its web, easing one strand free at a time.

She glanced up. He was still asleep.

Good. He didn’t feel anything. That man could sleep through a thunderstorm.

Hair untangled. Check.

Now all she had to do was sneak off the bed, grab her robe, and flee the scene like a guilty lover in a ballad.

She scanned the room. The sun was already high in the sky. The whole manor must be awake by now. Breakfast was probably over. Everyone would have noticed she wasn’t in her chambers.

She was so... in trouble.

Her robe... where was her robe?

She spotted it at the edge of the bed. Just as she leaned forward to reach for it, she felt a shift behind her.

A breath.

Then the movement. Leroy rolled onto his side.

Their eyes met. She froze.

He was awake. Fully awake. His eyes flicked down, clearly noting the mess, her stained clothes, his stained clothes, and her flaming red face.

One side of his mouth quirked into the faintest, most devilish smile.

Lorraine wanted to melt into the floor.

This was so far from how a princess should present herself. Not only had she ended up in his chambers in the middle of the night, but she had also bled all over him. Her mother had once warned her that getting blood on a man gave him eight years of misfortune.

She’d probably just cursed her own husband.

And yet, he didn’t look angry.

She scrambled for her robe, only to find him already holding it, his longer arm easily beating hers to the reach.

Trapped.

-----

Outside the royal bedchamber, Sylvia was pacing like a cat on hot coals. Cedric stood stiffly against the wall, arms folded, lips pressed in a thin line. Sir Aldric leaned nearby, quiet but visibly unimpressed with Sylvia’s restlessness.

"The princess is with her husband," Aldric said, arching a brow. "Will you relax already?"

Sylvia spun toward him, worry written all over her face. "You don’t understand."

"She’s his wife. It’s not unheard of."

"Exactly. You don’t understand."

She glanced toward the door again. Everyone was calling the princess cursed. And now, if this—if anything—got out...

It would be Lorraine who’d pay the price.

Cedric shifted his weight and frowned. He didn’t like it either, but tradition had never meant much to Prince Leroy. Especially not when it came to Lorraine.

"What’s the commotion here?" A sultry voice broke through the corridor.

Sylvia’s shoulders stiffened.

Zara.