"No… no…" She bit her finger hard as she shook her head in disbelief. She was trained not to take money from strangers, but she did not know why she had done it. She would never have taken that coin otherwise.
"Oh heavens, why did I take that coin?" she whispered to herself, scolding herself at the same time. She would never have thought that they would come here; she had believed they were foreign travelers. She had seriously thought so.
Not to mention her parents were well-to-do, so why had she taken it?
"Just calm down… stay in your room until they leave… problem solved," she told herself, inhaling and exhaling loudly.
She walked to the bed; maybe a nap would do some magic and help her forget all that happened.
But then the doorknob of her room turned. The door opened and Cedric stood there.
"Sister Yeara," he said gently. Yeara glared at him hard. He was the one who had caused all this running and embarrassment… but she could not even blame him. She would need to blame herself for taking money from a stranger too.
Cedric lowered his head, his hands together nervously.
"I am sorry, sister. I would not do it again…" He paused, then added, "Except if you initiate it or we both agree."
Yeara nodded at his words. She could not even get mad at him anymore. That apology alone made her forgive him, she was not even angry anymore.
Come to think of it, Cedric had unknowingly saved her.
He had saved her, at least, from going outside and seeing the carriage driver.
But what if the carriage driver had told that man about it and…? She shook her head, forcing herself back to reality.
Her hands moved, gripping her hair lightly before pushing it backward, her teeth biting her upper lip almost anxiously.
"No, why would he tell him…" she said to herself out loud. She then cleared her throat, managing a smile as she noticed Cedric's questioning gaze at her sudden words.
She turned to Cedric and said, "I have forgiven you… is something the matter?" She noticed he had wanted to say something earlier. Cedric nodded twice, as if suddenly remembering.
"Yes… I almost forgot. Mama calls for you. I told her we wanted to play, but she said we would play later. I would be going to my room for a little rest," he said quietly.
Yeara's heart dropped. She did not want to go outside… not after… oh lord.
She prayed that the carriage driver was not there, or better if he was, he should not recognize her.
She nodded, and Cedric smiled before leaving.
She took deep breaths, putting on her shoes and straightening her gown.
Yeara walked out of her room, she walked through the hallways, and downstairs.
As she reached the entrance…
She stepped out, her gaze landing on Lady Persophone standing there. Yeara glanced at the carriage outside, relieved to see that the carriage driver was gone.
"Mama, you called for me?" she asked, choosing her words carefully so as not to appear hurried. Lady Persophone turned to her, a wide smile on her lips.
"Well, I did. I wished to inform you before it escaped my mind: King Zalthor shall be staying here for the night. His manor remains under construction, and the journey home takes two days, so it is better that he remain here and depart tomorrow. He did not mind," she informed her daughter.
Yeara's body froze in place. Lady Persophone, who had not seen that, added:
"You have not met the king yet. I shall make an introduction when we meet," she spoke.
Yeara's stomach flipped, her body shivering lightly. She had felt it earlier—the power that man exuded.
He was a king. She was surprised he looked so handsome and young for a king. In her opinion, he appeared twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven.
"Yes, Mama," she replied, forcing a smile. Lady Persophone nodded with approval and began to turn away. Yeara turned to leave as well, but then her body halted as she heard,
"Coin girl?"
Yeara's hands moved to her gown, tightening. Her heart dropped. Lady Persophone turned toward the coachman, who was now staring at Yeara. She tilted her head, wondering if the two had met before.
"Perhaps… do you two know each other?" Lady Persophone asked curiously.
Yeara's heart pounded, she did not know what had come over her earlier today.
The coachman smiled gently and bowed respectfully before speaking.
"Yes, Duchess. We do not really know each other, but earlier today she was almost hit by our carriage, and we compensated her with a coin."
Lady Persophone raised a brow.
Yeara pressed her lips into a thin line, her fingers intertwined. She turned to her mother, who now stared at her with disbelief, her face silently asking, Is that true?
Yeara lowered her head.
"Yes, Mama… he is correct," she admitted. The air turned serious. Lady Persophone's voice became firm:
"Oh heavens, Yeara, what had gotten into you today?" she said sharply, then added,
"Go to your room. No movement outside the manor for two weeks."
Yeara's lips trembled as she nodded.
"Yes, Mama."
She turned and left. She deserved it. She did not even know what to do now and was certain her mama might tell her papa. She cursed herself; she might not have the same freedom as before.
***
Night Came
The night wind blew through the curtains, swift and cold, sending them flying to the side. On top of the large bed lay Yeara.
Her fingers curled around the small torch, her legs swinging slowly as she read a romance book, clad in a beige silk nightgown that reached her ankles but clung slightly to her figure.
The sound of pages turning echoed softly through the room.
Time passed and finally she reached the last page. She giggled softly.
"Done with part one… now time for part two," she muttered, lips stretching into a wide smile as she closed the book. She hugged it to herself as she stood.
"I will always love you," she repeated the last line of the book, giggling and bouncing lightly. She walked to her desk to look for part two of the book—but she could not find it.
Her eyes searched around as she moved the torch just in case her vision was disturbing her as well.
"Oh no," she realized. It was in the downstairs library. She dropped the torch on the table. She turned to the window, glancing outside. It was almost midnight.
Or maybe it already was.
She hesitated.
"Tomorrow, I'll continue," she whispered to herself, nodding as she returned to bed. But then she halted. She could not sleep like this; she needed to know what happened next.
She walked back to the table, grabbed the torch and quietly opened the door of her room, not minding her thin nightgown—after all, no one would be out by this time. She ran quickly through the dark hallways, her hands pressed lightly to her chest, clutching the torch.
Her legs tapped across the cold marble floor as she ran down the stairs, her hair bouncing lightly.
She finally reached the downstairs library and pushed the door open.
The door creaked gently as it opened. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and polished wood, mingled with a hint of cold night air sneaking through the cracks of the tall windows.
Barefoot, she tiptoed, her footsteps echoing softly.
She finally reached the shelf. She pressed her hands on the shelf to support her body as she tried to steady her breathing from that silent run. She scanned the shelf, lifting the torch to see.
The candles in the library were not on; the place was pitch dark—well, thanks to her torch, it wasn't. Her fingers brushed against the books, their leather covers smooth under her touch.
She searched the shelves and finally found the book on a smaller shelf. Clutching it, she turned and quickly stepped out, shutting the door.
She ran back upstairs, her green eyes darting nervously at every shadow as the torchlight trembled in her hand. The stair tiles got colder under her feet; each sound was magnified in the quiet night.
But as she climbed and took another step, she missed her footing. Her legs tripped. Time seemed to slow as she braced for a torturous fall—but then she felt a strong arm wrap around her waist, holding her in place.
Her pupils dilated.
Zalthor caught her.
Her back pressed against something hard and warm, yet an unknown heat lingered. The sudden heat made the cold air feel sharper, and her heart skipped in panic.
Goosebumps crawled across her skin as she was caught off guard by the intimidating presence that had now surrounded her. The book slipped from her hands, landing with a muted thud.
Zalthor's dark, empty eyes shifted swiftly from hers to the fallen book—sharp and commanding, the air around him heavy and cold.
Boldly written on the front page were the words:
"Erotic Her."