Page 48 of Thorns of Deceit: The Beast Within

“Wha…?” Arye mumbled, his eyes losing focus. “Don’t go…”

“Shh,” Skylar soothed, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. “It’s alright. Just rest.”

“Stay,” he pleaded, his hand searching for hers. “Please.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice made Skylar’s heart clench. Who was he seeing? Who did he think she was? She wantedto ask, to understand, but she knew she couldn’t. It wasn’t her place.

“Rest easy,” she whispered instead, stroking his head gently. “It’s just a dream, I’m not going anywhere.”

It was a lie, but a kind one. Arye’s eyes fluttered closed, his breathing evening out as he succumbed to sleep. Skylar remained kneeling next to him, memorizing every detail of his face—the curve of his lips, the arch of his brows, the faint scar on his chin from a childhood accident.

She wanted to kiss him just one last time, to curl up beside him and pretend, just for a few minutes, that this could be real. But she couldn’t be that selfish.

This stolen moment would have to be enough. It was all she could ever have.

With trembling legs, she forced herself to stand. Her body still thrummed with unfulfilled desire, but her heart ached with a pain far deeper than physical longing. She took one last look at Arye, committing the sight to memory, before turning and running back to the palace.

Night air, sharp and refreshing, whipped against her flushed skin, reminding her of what she was leaving behind. Wet grass and gravel alternated beneath her bare feet as she ran, each step sending small shocks up her legs. Her nightgown clung to her body, heavy with rain and the lingering heat of Arye’s touch.

She found Melody pacing anxiously near the guest annex’s entrance, a thick cloak clutched in her hands. The older woman’s face was etched with worry, her eyes darting nervously between Skylar and the gardens she’d emerged from.

“Your Grace!” Melody exclaimed, relief evident in her voice. “I’ve managed to send the guards away, but I’ve been worried sick! What happened?”

Skylar opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. How could she possibly explain what had transpired? How could she put into words the exquisite joy and crushing despair?

Melody’s eyes widened as she took in Skylar’s appearance—her disheveled hair, the obvious red spots on her neck. To her credit, she didn’t comment. Instead, she quickly draped the cloak over Skylar’s shoulders, ensuring it covered her tresses and body. The heavy fabric settled around her like a shield, hiding the evidence of her indiscretion from the world.

“Melody,” Skylar managed, her voice hoarse. “Please inform Anthony that the Crown Prince needs assistance in the garden. He’s… indisposed.”

Understanding dawned in Melody’s eyes. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll see to it immediately.” She hesitated, concern etched on her face. “Will you be alright?”

Skylar nodded, not trusting herself to speak. As soon as Melody left to carry out her request, she fled to her chambers, locking the door behind her with trembling hands.

Her reflection stared back at her from the ornate mirror—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and tangled hair. Droplets of water still adorned her fair skin, catching the candlelight and making her shimmer. The woman that stared back was a stranger, someone Skylar barely recognized. She looked wild, alive in a way she’d never allowed herself to be before.

Was that her real self?

Her fingers traced the angry red marks on her neck where Arye had marked the noblewoman he thought her to be. Each one sent a jolt through her being, a bittersweet reminder of what had transpired. What could never happen again.

The reality of what she’d done crashed over her like a tidal wave. A sob tore from her throat, then another. She sank to the floor, her legs no longer able to support her weight. The plush carpet cushioned her fall, soft against her rain-chilled skin.

For the first time in years, Skylar allowed herself to cry without restraint. She wept for the love she could never have, for the lie she was forced to live, and for the future that seemed to slip further from her grasp with each passing day. She cried for the little girl who had to become someone she wasn’t, for the woman she could never be, and for the man who would never truly know her.

But the memory of his kiss, of his touch, would stay with her forever—a secret treasure to hold close in the lonely days to come.

21

The scent of old parchment, citrus, and freshly spilled ink permeated the air as Skylar entered Arye’s study. Her fingers absently traced the high collar of her formal attire, the stiff fabric chafing against the tender skin of her neck. She swallowed hard, willing away the memory of Arye’s lips on that very spot less than a day ago. The mark burned on her skin, a secret brand that threatened to undo her at any moment.

A mark that was meant for someone else.

Skylar surveyed the tense room, her senses on high alert. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows across the ornate table where a large map of Regalclaw lay unfurled. Its parchment was yellowed and crinkled at the edges, the ink lines of borders and territories etched deep into its surface. The scratching of quills and the rustle of papers filled the air, punctuated by hushed whispers.

Advisor Hannington hunched over his notes, thin fingers tracing imaginary shapes as he muttered to himself. Captain Knox leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his expression set in a scowl. Anthony bustled about, the soft clink of gobletsaccompanying his quiet efficiency. Two guards flanked the entrance, their armor creaking softly with each subtle shift of their rigid postures.

And then there was Arye.

He stood at the head of the table, his usual regal bearing somewhat diminished. His raven hair was disheveled, as if he’d run his hands through it countless times. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, hinting at sleepless nights. Their gazes met briefly, and Skylar felt a jolt course through her.

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