Page 68 of The Thornwyck Rose

Seren grabbed both Margot and Isolde’s hands. “I am indebted to you both. I will never send you away, either of you.”

Night came.Isolde and Margot were asleep in their alcove. Seren lit a small candle and ensured they both slept before sneaking down to the nursery through the forgotten staircase.

She peered through the tapestry. The nurses were asleep.She stepped into the room. David curled against his stuffed badger, and Aveline’s ebony hair fanned out across her pillow like a crown. She kissed each child on the forehead, saying a prayer over them, and when she opened her eyes, she saw a single kingcup by Vala’s bedside.

There was no note, just the bloom, but neither the children nor the nurses had been outside that day.

She picked it up and held it to the moonlight. It was dried and pressed, meaning it was from Erik. She’d missed his tokens.

Her fingers curled around the petals. She returned to her chambers and tucked it behind her candle on the nightstand, among the others, as a reminder that even in silence and absence, something could still bloom.

In the quiet that followed, she closed her eyes and remembered the warmth of Erik’s skin beneath her hand and on her cheek and the way his eyes had barely left the fire when she stitched him—like it hurt to look at her. It likely did, just as it hurt her to touch his skin.

But there was nothing she could do about it except pray, so she prayed.

“Lord over all, be with my heart and with Erik’s. Keep them in your hold; let them learn to want nothing until wanting no longer hurts,” she whispered and blew out the candle.

With it went any hope of a future with Erik, as if there had ever been any.

XXV

THE TWISTED BARGAIN

THORNWYCK KEEP, MARCH 1091

Erik crouchedin the attic’s corner. Sweat dripped from his brow. He rolled his shoulder slowly, the scar tugging like a tight thread beneath his skin.

It still ached, even a month later. Seren had stitched him up in excellence, with steady hands and a gentle touch that made him want it again.

He couldn’t forget the warmth of her breath on his neck or the brush of her fingers when she wiped the blood from his back. He remembered her voice when she whispered that she would choose him.

Had she said it to raise his spirits as a friend would? Had she meant it? Had her tears been solely for her family? Were some of them for him?

He’d read her eyes—they longed for something. Was it him or her family? Both?

It was a question that plagued his mind because for six months, he’d hated himself after the stairwell. But the one night in the council chamber upon his return made him wonder whether she had pushed him away because she had to. If her kiss upon his cheek wasn’t forgiveness, but a sympathetic message, she loved him too.

It didn’t matter, though.

He was likely misunderstanding her good nature, once again. Reading too much into her actions, the spaces between her words.

And if he wasn’t, what would come of it? A stolen night here and there, and if found, scandal, torture, and death to follow.

He had tried to push Seren far from his mind, but she was stuck in his heart.

The healed wound ached as he raised his makeshift training blade toward his son.

Ragnar was fast. Baldwin had taught him well.

The daylight flickered across the stone wall from the attic’s narrow window slit.

Henry had let Erik visit his son every week since he’d come home from the six-month campaign. But he’d never given either Erik or Baldwin permission to train Ragnar to fight.

If Reynard stood guard, Erik did not teach Ragnar. Reynard was too hard to read, too quiet to tell where his loyalty or care resided. But that day, Baldwin stood outside Ragnar’s attic door.

The wolf carving Seren had given Ragnar stood on the bedside next to Erik’s bear trinket, both a little worn now, a little darker from the oils from Ragnar’s hand.

The first thing Ragnar told him was about the wolf and the tale Seren told him. Erik reiterated the importance of knowing when to strike, when to wait, and when to move.