Page 37 of Revert
He had arranged the entire situation just to be trapped with me. Anger seared like unquenchable flames, and yet…
When I was alone, it was easy to cling to my resentment, to hold it like a shield for my heart. But in the moments I couldn’t escape the object of my annoyance, my emotions softened into something impossible to define.
Whenever I caught his eye across the receiving hall, his gaze would flick to mine—just a fraction of a second—before darting away, jolting my heart with something raw and unwelcome. Something shifted within me each time—not anger or even resentment, but the echo of a feeling I couldn’t place. I told myself I hated him. And yet, I hated even more the ache I felt when he looked away.
These and other subtle hints were signs of his awareness and perhaps even of unspoken apology, if one knew where to look, and achingly protective, a man of contradictions. I hated the traitorous part of me thatwantedto see them.
For all these glimmers of familiarity, when we sat through formal tea or exchanged careful, rehearsed words before the court, our interactions remained sharp as a chess match. Unlike the conversation—or lack thereof—while trapped in the enchanted room, and the near-speaking of secrets not meant to be shared, our topics were shallow.
His only show of consideration was when he asked if I’d rested well the night before, his voice cool and his expression unreadable. Though his memory often kept me awake for hours tossing and turning, I always lied with flawless assurances, my smile shaped to deceive.
On the surface, he seemed unbothered by the distance and uninterested in reaching deeper. But once, when my hands trembled faintly against the porcelain, I caught a glimmer of concern, gone before I could identify it. And during a formal dinner when Lord Ravenhurst pressed a question too intently in my direction, Castiel’s fingers brushed the table near mine, curling faintly, as if resisting the urge to intervene.
Each time he escorted me through the halls, he offered his arm in the lightest gesture of courtly decorum. There was no space for words, not with the watching guards or the listening walls. But once when I stumbled slightly, his grip tightened—steadying, lingering.
His touch felt too familiar, as though it belonged to another version of us. It was a relief to finally reach my chamber door. Yet instead of turning to leave, he opened his mouth, as if to speak…only to lower his gaze. Somehow, that swallowed explanation burrowed deeper than any words could have.
I watched his back retreat down the corridor, a shadow that never quite belonged to me. In the silence after, only the hush of my own heartbeat kept me company. I told myself the distance was for the best, that I should be grateful for it. Yet some secret part of me knew—this was one mask I wore to hide from myself.
The moment the door closed between us, I pressed my back to the cold wood, chest tight and aching. I missed him.
The bitter truth seared through me. I resented myself for my weakness. I shouldn’t have cared. Ours was a relationship forged of duty, shadowed by suspicion and survival. That was all there should have been. He was the man who had once killed me, and who would likely kill me again.
So why did this quiet, unspoken distance between us hurt so much?
The thought consumed me as I moved through the motions of dressing for bed, so much that I didn’t immediately notice mynormally proper and dutiful handmaiden’s faltering composure until the clatter of the brush as it slipped from her fingers.
She murmured a hasty apology and stooped to retrieve it, but not before I saw the slight tremble in her hands, the way she gripped the handle a little too tightly when she rose. Her fingers quivered as she plaited my hair, the light tug of each braid pulling me back from my tangled thoughts.
“Liora?”
She startled, as if I’d yanked her from some faraway place. “Yes, Princess?” Her voice was as composed as ever, but when I caught her reflection in the glass, I noticed the faint sheen in her eyes. With a jolt of alarm, I realized she’d been crying.
I turned in my seat. “Are you well, Liora?”
She smiled, but it was strained and faltering—the kind of insincere smile I myself was expert in crafting. “Of course, Your Highness. Just a little tired.”
She offered a quick, practiced curtsy before resuming her work, a silent plea to let the matter drop. I knew I should. But emotion was a rare crack in my stoic maid, and something in me refused to ignore it.
“Something has happened.”
She froze mid-braid. I saw her eyes widen in the looking glass before she hastily masked her expression, ducking her head to focus on my hair. “Nothing has happened, Your Highness. All is well.” But a slight tremor tainted her voice, the slip of truth beneath practiced calm.
I frowned. I had made a study of lies enough to recognize another. I yearned to press, but I was unsure how when distrust and fear still held her tongue.
Liora and I had always walked a delicate line—between mistress and maid, noblewoman and servant, the crown prince’s betrothed and a girl from the kingdom outside these walls. When I’d first arrived five years ago, lonely and aching for afriend, I had tried to reach her, eager for a friend I could talk to in this merciless, cold court. But she had sharply drawn the line that court dictated. Though I’d been disappointed, I understood. Wariness was a form of protection. And I, too, had learned not to trust without knowing the shape of someone’s true loyalties.
I wasn’t supposed to care. I wasn’t supposed to reach. But something in me—something still raw and human—refused to remain behind the mask tonight. “You’re a terrible liar,” I said. “I can tell you’ve been crying.”
Her head jerked up, panic flashing in her eyes. “I—no, Your Highness, truly, it’s?—”
“Liora.” I laid my hand lightly over hers, stilling the shaking brush.
Her breath hitched. For a heartbeat, she didn’t meet my gaze—her eyes darted to the door, the corners, the flicker of torchlight along the walls, as if searching for the invisible ears that always lingered just out of sight.
“You can trust me,” I murmured.
She stood frozen, trembling under the weight of the words she couldn’t say. When she finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. “I…can’t. I’m afraid, Princess.”
