Chapter 2: A Dangerous Kind of Curiosity
1367 Words
I slept on silk.
Which would have been more impressive if I hadn’t been too busy panicking to enjoy it.
The room smelled faintly of smoke and crushed leaves, the kind of scent that felt intentional rather than accidental. Woven walls let moonlight spill in pale stripes across the floor. Somewhere outside, water trickled steadily, and insects sang a song that felt older than language.
I lay very still, staring up at the ceiling beams, counting my breaths like that might anchor me to reality.
This is not a dream.
Dreams don’t have this much texture.
The silk beneath me was cool, my borrowed wrap softer than anything I’d owned back home. Someone—someone royal—had decided I wasn’t to be thrown in a cell or tied to a post. That alone made my stomach twist.
Because comfort here meant interest.
I pushed myself up, rubbing my arms. A faint mark circled one wrist where a guard had held me earlier—not bruised, just claimed by memory. My thoughts kept circling back to him.
Rajah Alon.
His voice. His composure. The way his attention felt like standing too close to a fire—controlled, but undeniably hot.
I scowled at myself.
Get it together. He’s a king from the 1600s who thinks you might be a witch.
A soft knock came at the doorway.
I tensed. “Yes?”
A woman stepped in, carrying a shallow wooden tray. She was around my age, maybe a little younger, with clever eyes and a posture that suggested she noticed everything. Her clothes were simpler than the rajah’s people’s—no gold thread—but clean, well-made.
“You’re awake,” she said, sounding relieved. “Good. I was betting with myself.”
“…About?”
“How long before you tried to escape,” she replied cheerfully, setting the tray down. “I lost. You look sensible.”
“I’m terrified,” I said honestly.
She smiled. “Ah. Then yes. Sensible.”
She gestured to the tray—rice, grilled fish, sliced fruit I recognized, and something green and steaming that smelled incredible.
“I’m Lila,” she said. “I serve the rajah. Not in the scary way.”
“That’s comforting,” I said, eyeing the food. My stomach betrayed me with a loud growl.
Lila laughed. “You fell from the balete. The babaylan nearly fainted.”
“The… who?”
“Oh,” she said lightly. “You’ll meet her soon. She thinks you’re either a blessing or a disaster. Possibly both.”
Great.
I took a cautious bite of rice. It tasted real. Too real.
“So,” I said, chewing. “Am I under arrest?”
“No,” Lila said. “Not yet.”
I winced.
“You’re under observation,” she continued. “Which is better. Mostly.”
“Does the rajah always decide that personally?”
Her expression shifted—amused, curious, and just a little sharp.
“He doesn’t usually bother with mysteries that fall from trees.”
I paused. “I bother him?”
“Oh yes.”
That sent a traitorous warmth through my chest.
Lila leaned against a post, arms crossed. “He hasn’t slept.”
That surprised me. “Because of me?”
She shrugged. “Because of the forest. And because you don’t fit.”
I swallowed another bite. “Neither does he, if we’re being honest.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Careful.”
“Too late,” I muttered.
She studied me openly now, head tilted. “You’re not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“A shimmering spirit,” she said. “Or a shrieking one. You’re… sarcastic.”
“Defense mechanism.”
“Effective,” she said approvingly. “Listen. Rajah Alon is not a cruel man. But he is careful. And powerful. And very used to being obeyed.”
“I noticed.”
“And,” she added gently, “he does not like being… unsettled.”
I finished eating, wiping my fingers on the cloth provided. “I don’t like it either. For what it’s worth.”
Before she could reply, footsteps approached. Lila straightened instantly.
He entered without ceremony.
Rajah Alon filled the doorway like he belonged there—which, inconveniently, he did. He’d removed his outer armor, dressed now in a simpler tunic that clung to his frame in a way that made it hard to remember how to breathe normally.
His gaze flicked to the empty tray, then to my face.
“You eat,” he observed.
“I do that daily,” I said. “It’s a habit.”
Lila bit her lip. Hard.
Something unreadable crossed his eyes. “Leave us.”
She bowed and slipped out, casting me one last look that was half warning, half apology.
The air changed the moment we were alone.
Rajah Alon crossed the room slowly, stopping a respectful distance away. He folded his arms—not defensive, just… braced.
“You slept,” he said.
“Eventually.”
“The balete does not release people lightly.”
“I didn’t exactly ask it to grab me.”
“No,” he agreed. “That troubles me.”
I hesitated, then asked the question that had been burning in my chest. “What year is it?”
He frowned slightly. “It is the season of strong winds. My reign is in its ninth year.”
“That’s not—” I stopped, exhaled. “Never mind.”
He studied my face, eyes sharp. “You are not pretending,” he said slowly. “Fear, confusion—those are real.”
“Yes.”
“And yet,” he continued, “you do not kneel.”
I met his gaze. “In my world, men who expect that usually disappoint.”
A long silence stretched between us.
Then he surprised me.
“I would have been offended,” he said calmly, “if you had.”
Something in my chest loosened.
He paced once, hands clasped behind his back. “The babaylan believes you crossed because something in you answers something here.”
“That’s… vague.”
“She often is,” he said dryly. “But she also has not been wrong yet.”
My pulse ticked faster. “What does that mean for me?”
He stopped in front of me again, closer than before. I could see the faint shadows under his eyes now. The human cost of power.
“It means,” he said, voice lower, “that until we understand why the forest opened for you, you remain under my protection.”
“Protection,” I echoed. “From what?”
“From my enemies,” he said. “And from my people.”
“And from you?”
His gaze held mine. Something dangerous flickered there—not lust, not yet, but awareness. Recognition.
“That,” he said quietly, “depends on how close you choose to stand.”
My breath caught before I could stop it.
This was bad. Very bad.
Because despite every rational thought screaming that this man represented danger, control, and a world that could swallow me whole—
I didn’t step back.
Instead, I smiled. Small. Careful. Curious.
“I’ve always had trouble staying where it’s safe,” I said.
For a heartbeat, Rajah Alon forgot to guard his expression.
And in that heartbeat, I saw it.
Interest.
Not political. Not mystical.
Personal.
He straightened abruptly, reclaiming his composure. “You will meet the babaylan at dawn. Lila will remain with you. You will not leave the longhouse.”
“And if I do?”
His eyes darkened.
“Then,” he said, “the forest may not be the only thing that claims you.”
He turned to leave, then paused at the threshold.
“Sleep,” he added. “Tomorrow, the answers begin.”
After he left, I sank back onto the silk bedding, heart racing, mind spinning.
Attraction wasn’t just a problem.
It was a liability.
And judging by the way the forest whispered outside—
I wasn’t the only one who felt it.
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