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My stomach flips over. I press my hand against the window, leaning closer to the glass for a better look.
His outfit matches Ken’s in style, but his layers are black—leather vest and boots included. Once again, he’s an otherwise bleak contrast to the vibrant green yards and colorful flower beds.
Rainer unsheathes a sword from his scabbard, and my eyes widen when I see that even his blade is matte-black. But it would be a lie to say it wasn’t utterly intriguing.
Ken follows suit, drawing a gleaming silver blade. They exchange words, and Ken’s deep laugh floats up to the third story where I watch.
I try to push open the window to eavesdrop, but sure enough, it’s sealed shut. A flurry of frustration blows through me and I scoff.
The two cease their conversation anyways and begin circling one another. Their faces grow serious as they angle their weapons. Then, without warning, they begin clashing their swords in a flurry of attacks and blocks.
Rainer moves like a shadow, a dark blur of lethal grace. Though Ken is broader and taller, he’s almost equally as quick on his feet. He reminds me of an animal, a beast, even in his humanoid form.
Engrossed in their skillful battle, I stay glued to the window. I’m not sure how much time passes, but both males are drenched in sweat by the time they shake hands and sheath their swords. They toss their scabbards and vests to the ground, likely for a break.
I’m in awe, my mouth agape.
They chat, their voices still too low to make out. As Ken tilts his head back to laugh, he glances up at my window, and it’s too late to duck. He gives me an animated wave before nudging Rainer with his elbow.
Ever so slowly, Rainer’s head tilts to the side. Whatever joy was on his face a moment ago melts away, replaced by a cruel scowl. He lifts his shirt, using the hem to wipe the sweat off his brow. A preview of his chiseled abs and tattooed chest comes into sight and my breath catches in my throat.
Heat overcomes my cheeks, but I can’t look away. The blaze spreads, encompassing my entire body. I’m glued to the spot as I stare. When he’s finished wiping his face, he cocks his head at me.
Breaking free from whatever weird spell I was under, I jump up and yank the curtains shut, bathing the room in darkness.
“Great,” I mutter to myself.
The last thing I need is the rude faerie prince to think I was ogling him.
I pace back and forth in my room, the hardwoods creaking beneath my feet every few steps.
Raised—if that’s what one could even call it—by Lyson’s lord and lady, I learned how to be patient. When Lord Edvin would strike me during my punishments, or lessons as he so fondly referred to them, I couldn’t fight back. When I was younger, I tried. It never ended well for me. Crying, fighting, squirming, or any sort of protesting made it worse. My lashings would multiply, the strikes would grow harder and faster. My meals would get smaller.
Instead, I learned to bide my time, focus my mind, and patiently wait for the moment to pass without making it worse for myself. I bit back my words and learned to control my temper, because Char taught me neither would do me good.
Then, the remainder of my time was spent patiently waiting to finish chores. Patiently waiting for the nights Lord Edvin and Lady Nilda left the estate. Patiently waiting for Felix to sneak in and distract me.
Patience. Patience. Patience.
I’ve been patient for my entire life, and look where it has gotten me: a fresh start in a familiar situation.
Another day. Another owner. Another dolly—someone’s plaything.
And though I tell myself I must be patient a little longer, bide my time and come up with a viable plan, I’m bursting out of my skin.
Perhaps my self-restraint is finally running out. My fingers tap incessantly against my leg, and I do the only thing I’ve been able to do the past couple weeks: distract myself and try not to dwell on the hollow ache left behind from Char’s death.
In the early afternoon, a short series of raps on my door startles me.
“Fern?” I ask as the door slowly creaks open. “Is that you?”
When Rainer steps inside my room, a sharp look in his eyes, I perk up.
“Enjoying your stay, human?”
My pulse pounds in my head as the prince crosses the room, slinking into the chaise by the fire mantle, with an unbothered arrogance. Hints of clove and rose drift into the room with him. He leans back, resting an ankle on his opposite knee, branding me with his gaze.
The first few buttons of his shirt are undone and his slightly wrinkled slacks could use ironing. His onyx hair is tussled. I’d expect the owner of this castle to be primped and proper, not as disheveled as this.
