"Your Highness," the old man bowed with a deep creak in his spine, one that made me fear he might snap in two if he bent any lower. "The gods be praised, Your Highness. What an honour to have you here."
Gerald didn't even look at him as he asked, "This boy yours?"
"Yes, Your Highness. He is my grandson. One and only grandchild. I just lost his father to a strange illness some months ago—"
"Save me the sob story, Rob," Gerald cut in, setting the boy down gently.
Kingsley scurried over to his grandfather's side like a startled fawn. "Papa,"
Ignoring the young boy, Hobart asked, "Did his mouth run faster than his brain as usual?" Sir Robinson asked, glancing nervously between Gerald and the boy who stood sheepishly by his leg. "But he is a good lad, I swear. Just gets carried away sometimes—most times."
"You don't say," Gerald replied flatly.
I limped forward, biting back a wince with each step. "Is it true that all your rooms are taken for the night, sire?"
Rob glanced at Gerald before answering. "Yes, my lady." Then, clearing his throat, he added, "But we can work out something. How many rooms do you need?"
"Thirty rooms with adequate services for the night," Gerald interjected without a hint of consideration for the chaos he was about to cause.
Hobart's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "Your Highness, that is exactly the total number of rooms we have," he stammered. "I'm sure we can work something—"
Gerald tossed a hefty bag of coins to the ground, interrupting him. It hit the floor with a heavy clink, just a few feet away from Hobart's feet. The sound rang louder than thunder in the silence that followed.
I couldn't help the eye that followed. Of course, he one of those people who throw coins at people's faces to get the work done. "You don't expect him to send all of them out into the night, do you?" I searched his face for an ounce of empathy. "What if something happens to them?"
I looked to Hobart for support, but the old man only lowered his gaze. So did the rest of the men in the hall—every last one of them, silent as statues.
"How about we check out the inn mentioned earlier?" I asked, grasping for a reasonable solution.
Gerald scoffed. "Are you sure you're up for another two-hour ride? You look like you'll pass out any minute."
I glared up at him, my teeth grinding together. "And that is all thanks to you, Your Highness," I hissed, muttering a handful of curses under my breath. Colourful ones. Inventive ones. He was lucky I didn't spit them into his smug, handsome face.
His only response was that damned raised brow. Oh, how I hated it. May the gods smite that brow off his face with holy fire!
He turned to Rob as if I hadn't spoken at all. "That's for refunding your customers and the services you're about to render." His voice was smooth—cruelly smooth.
Kingsley, crouched beside the pouch, opened the strings and nearly fell backwards. His jaw dropped, eyes sparkling like a child on festival day. "Papa," he breathed, still glued to the glittering coins.
Hobart didn't need to look to know what was inside the bag. He took a long breath and said, "I'll need some time to talk to the occupants."
"How much time?" Gerald asked, his voice already laced with impatience.
"Thirty minutes at least—"
Gerald shook his head. "Make it ten." His tone left no room for negotiation.
Hobart bowed again. "Very well, Your Highness. Kingsley, summon everyone to the kitchen. We have work to do."
As they left, I hobbled toward the stool where Kingsley had been seated. A long sigh escaped my lips. I was bone-deep tired, and my leg felt like it had a heartbeat of its own.
Kingsley, halfway out the door, turned back to glance at me. "You look tired, my lady," he said. "There's a room upstairs. The gentleman who paid for it hasn't returned. Even if he does, it'll be of no use tonight."
My spine straightened. Relief and mild excitement fluttered in my chest. "Are you sure?"
He nodded and offered to help me up the stairs but Robinson—bless his soul—took over.
As we climbed the narrow steps, I asked, "Tell me something, Rob—why didn't any of you try to stop your mad prince?"
He chuckled, not missing a beat. "Because, my lady, we all knew it would be a waste of breath. The man has ears made of concrete."
I snorted despite myself. "That's putting it mildly." We shared a laugh. Goodness, it felt good to laugh after everything.
Inside the room, Rob tossed aside a bag of belongings—likely the ex-occupant's—and muttered something about retrieving them later. He turned to me before leaving. "I'll be back shortly to tend to your wound, Your Highness."
"Gwen will do.
I nodded and sank into the edge of the bed the moment he left. Not even a full minute passed before the inn workers knocked and entered—arms full of everything I could've prayed for. A clean dress, a steaming bucket of water, and a tray of food— thick slices of warm bread, and dried fruits. I could've wept.
I washed quickly, wincing as the water stung the wound on my leg. I barely managed to slip into the clean dress before curling into the bed, belly full, skin warm, eyelids heavy and heading for paradise
I was just about to drift off when the door burst open. I sat up with a startled gasp, my heart threatening to jump out of my chest. "By the gods—!" I clutched the sheets around me. "What in the devil's name is wrong with you?! Do you have no manners?!"
Gerald. Of course, it was him.
He stood there like a storm in a doorway—brows raised, hands folded behind his back like a man surveying his kingdom.
"You absolute brute!" I snapped. "Is barging into a lady's room part of your royal etiquette?!"
He lifted a brow. That blasted brow.
"Get used to it," he said, calm as ever.
"Get used to it?!" I echoed, nearly shrieking. He took a step inside. I blinked. "Why are you in my room?"
"To tend to your injury," he said.
I stared at him, bewildered. "Where is Robinson?"
No answer. I tried again. "Can you please send for Rob instead? I'd rather have him. He's... he's the one I'm comfortable with." Still nothing. Instead, he walked in, dragged a chair across the floor and placed it directly in front of the bed like he belonged there.
"Bring your leg," he ordered.
I glared up at him. "No. There is no need for you—"
"Do you want me to tear it off myself?" He tilted his head.
Gods. I didn't put it past him. Grumbling, I shifted forward and reluctantly placed my leg in front of him, already bracing for pain or worse—mockery.
But then…He surprised me. His hands, though large and rough-looking, were unexpectedly gentle. He studied the wound with a seriousness I hadn't expected. His touch was careful—skilled.
I swallowed. The silence was deafening. The air thickened between us as his hands moved, applying the balm with practised ease.
I didn't mean to stare. But I did. His lashes were darker up close. His hands moved with surprising delicacy, thumbs brushing against my skin just enough to stir something beneath it. And then his fingers trailed higher.
A breath caught in my throat as his palm skimmed the skin just above my knee, and I suddenly forgot how to breathe. I should've stopped him. I wanted to stop him. But I didn't. Curiosity bloomed where sense should've taken root. I hated it.
He suddenly stopped and gently lowered my leg. He stood and returned the chair to where he'd gotten it from. Our eyes met. Just for a few seconds. I looked away, cheeks hot.
Without saying a word, he turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving only the fading echo of his boots. I pressed my palm against my lips.
What in the gods' names was that?