23. Chapter 23

twenty-three

N evander had watched Kallessa long enough. Her eyes had fluttered closed, her face pale and tired from the emotional turmoil. He could barely tear his gaze away from her. Feelings he could no longer deny washed over him in a wave. He wanted to protect her, to hold her, to shield her from any more harm.

Before he could act on his impulse, before he could wake her and beg for her hand in marriage for real, Nevander tore himself away from the library. His boots echoed hollowly down the corridor as he made his way to Castien’s chambers.

He found the prince lounging in an overstuffed chair, a blanket draped over his lap, newspaper obscuring his face. Before Nevander could speak, Castien’s voice drifted from behind the pages.

“I saw your fiancée in the library earlier, ripping my mother’s favorite poetry book to shreds.” There was a rustle as he turned a page. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Was that what Kallessa had done before he arrived? It was hard to imagine her gentle hands tearing apart one of Queen Lyra’s favorite poetry books. But he had ripped apart her painful past, the loss of her family and the life she once knew. How else did he expect her to react ?

He strode to the fireplace and stared into the flames as they danced. “It wouldn’t have been by the poet, Tynan Respa, would it?”

“Indeed, that would be the one.” Castien’s cavalier tone grated on Nevander’s already frayed nerves.

Anger flared hot in his chest. Castien hadn’t been there when Tynan confessed to murdering Kallessa’s family. He wasn’t the one who had to break her heart with the truth. In two quick strides, Nevander crossed the room and ripped the newspaper from Castien’s hands.

“Did you know all along?” he demanded, voice low and dangerous. “Who she was?”

Castien met his gaze, unflinching. “Of course I did. I told you I knew everyone visiting my estate.”

The implications hit Nevander like a physical blow. “Are you trying to manipulate me?”

For once, Castien remained silent, his gaze drifting to the wall. When he finally looked back at Nevander, his eyes were unreadable. “Are you in love with her?”

The question twisted something deep in Nevander’s gut. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to lash out. “No,” he ground out. “And even if I were, I have too many duties to the country to act on it.”

Castien rubbed his forehead and pushed his hair back. “Despite what the girl might say, she is titled. You could marry her.”

Nevander hurled the crumpled newspaper to the floor. “This is ridiculous. You need to butt out of my personal life. I can take care of myself. I don’t need you meddling in it.”

Castien raised a brow. “Are you sure? ”

Nevander inhaled slowly, trying to rein in his temper. He exhaled, counted to three, and tried again. But the words burst forth, anyway. “Is that what you’re doing with your time nowadays, instead of preparing to rule? Playing matchmaker?”

Something dangerous flashed in Castien’s eyes. He rose from his chair, body rigid with barely contained fury.

“Get. Out.” He bit off each word.

Nevander squared his shoulders, legs spread. “No.”

They glared at each other, neither willing to back down. The tension crackled between them like lightning before a storm.

Finally, Castien spoke, his voice low and bitter. “You have no idea what I suffer, Prince Nevander, third in place to the throne.”

The venom in his words hit home. Nevander’s shoulders sagged. “Well, why don’t you tell me, instead of just leaving us all in the dark? I do care about you, I want to see you well, yet here you are, just withering away right before our eyes!”

Castien’s face paled. “You think I’m manipulating you? Have you ever thought that I want to see you and the others I love, happy?” He turned away, staring out the window at the fading light. “Ciana told me what kind of man you were for the past year. That you drank yourself into a stupor with Tarrick and rutted every wench you could grab. That you walked around as a shell of your former self, hollow-eyed and vacant.”

He gripped the sash, as if he would throw it open, but he didn’t. “You fought the war I should have fought. You carry all that violence in your heart. Yet this past week, I saw a glimmer in your eye when you looked at Kallessa. I saw you laugh, I saw you start to live again. ”

Castien released the sash and faced Nevander again. His voice dropped. “Now tell me again how you feel.”

A lump formed in Nevander’s throat as the weight of Castien’s words sank in. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.” Castien snatched the paper from the floor and settled back into his chair. “Go on, get out. I have to catch up on my gossip.” He buried his face in the newspaper, dismissing Nevander.

Nevander lingered for a moment, the silence stretching between them. Then he turned and left the room.

In the hallway, he leaned against the cool stone wall, his jaw clenched. Castien was right. Nevander had been so absorbed in his own pain, he’d failed to see his friend’s suffering. Kallessa had rekindled something in him, a spark of life he’d long forgotten.

Unbidden images of her flooded his mind: the way her eyes glowed when she smiled, the melodic lilt of her laughter, the graceful curve of her neck. Every aspect of her captivated him.

He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts away. A relationship with Kallessa would only lead to heartache for them both. He had responsibilities, duties that couldn’t be ignored.

And yet...

The thought of never seeing her again, of letting her slip through his fingers, tore at him in ways he refused to define.

Nevander sat rigid in his chair, the lone lamp on his desk casting long shadows across the room. He’d sent a maid to tend to Kallessa in the library, but her presence lingered in his mind like a stubborn perfume.

His fingers cramped around the quill, poised to write the missive that would set Kallessa free, no matter her circumstances. The irony wasn’t lost on him. For two years, he’d shirked every governmental duty, leaving the realm’s affairs to his father and eldest brother. But this... this he couldn’t ignore.

In reality, his own freedom was a short-lived reprieve, a time to heal from his injuries at war. But the war was over. At least that’s what he told himself every night before sleep held him captive.

He dipped the pen, the scratch of nib against parchment unnaturally loud in the quiet room. By the time he returned to Vaston, he vowed, he’d unravel the mystery of Kallessa’s fall from grace.