Page 8 of Broken Vow

Eventually, he shifted to my side, keeping his arm draped across my waist and his hand resting in my hair.

I turned my head to look at him. His expression was open and quiet, stripped of his usual royal reserve.

“I love you,” he said, the words clear and absolute.

I kissed him in response, offering the only answer that made sense.

* * *

We remained beside the water for a long time. I drifted in a peaceful half-sleep, surrounded by his warmth and the scent of the grove.

Drystan shifted slightly, tracing faint, invisible lines across my skin with his fingertips. His touch trailed down my collarbone, coming to rest at the center of my chest.

He stopped.

Over my solar plexus, a faint pattern had surfaced on my skin, a unique mark that only appeared during moments of intense emotional shifting. I had not seen it since the day my mother died of the fever that swept through our village.

His fingers hovered over the mark, which resembled an ancient sigil.

When I looked at his face, the colour had drained from his skin. His eyes were wide, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his brow. He pulled his hand back as if burned. His jaw set in a rigid, hard line, the sharp expression I had only seen once before when we were trailed by a wolf pack in the forest.

Yet behind that hardness lay a profound, incomprehensible sorrow, reminiscent of the grief I had felt when putting on the white ashes for my mother’s funeral.

In a heartbeat, the anguish was masked behind the controlled facade of a king. He recovered quickly, a practiced discipline taking over, though the effort it took to offer a small smile was evident in his eyes.

“Is everything alright, my Drystan?” I asked.

He broadened the smile, reaching up to gently cup my jaw. “The light is moving,” he said, his voice steady once more. “We should go.”

“Already?”

“The road back is long, and I want you home before dark.”

“Will you ride with me?”

“To the road fork,” he replied. “Then I must ride ahead. There is much I need to arrange before tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow you ride for the capital,” he said, looking at me directly. “I will send word ahead. You will be received at the gates and brought to me. You will not arrive as a peasant girl, but as my chosen, with a household prepared for you.”

The certainty in his tone smoothed away my sudden unease. “I will come tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he repeated.

* * *

He rose first, gathering my dress from the folded pile with the same care he had shown earlier. Bringing it over, he guided the cotton over my head and carefully fastened each button down the back. When he finished, he smoothed the fabric across my shoulders and waist, his touch slow and lingering.

He dressed efficiently, pulling on his velvet shirt, trousers, and boots with quiet precision. He retrieved my shoes from the base of the tree, helped me into them, and walked with me toward the horses.

The golden light of late afternoon stretched long shadows across the clearing. With effortless strength, he lifted me into the mare’s saddle, holding his hands at my waist a second longer than necessary before adjusting my skirts.

He mounted his stallion, and we rode out of the grove together. We moved in silence, a quiet understanding settling between us as the path wound through the trees.

When we reached the fork in the road where the path split toward my village and the capital, he brought his horse to a stop beside mine.

He leaned across the space between our mounts, taking my face in his hand to press a long, deep kiss to my lips.