Episode 12
1571 Words
As the hand withdrew from covering her eyes, a large black trench coat fell around Charlotte, enveloping her completely. The dread that had once gripped Charlotte dissipated the moment Blake arrived. Even in the darkness, shielded from the chaos around her, she felt no fear.
Her heartbeat steadied.
Her knight had arrived.
The outside struggle had nothing to do with Charlotte. Perched firmly on the tiny terrace, she listened to the fierce battle beyond her trench coat, confidently waiting for her knight to claim victory.
To win her freedom.
The coat retained the warmth of his body and a not altogether unfamiliar masculine scent. It was like a roaring bonfire on a frozen lake, the wood silently consuming itself—a fire wild and immense, melting ice and snow with its heat, offering a comforting solace in the harshest winter.
It was a paradox, much like Blake himself. Charlotte often found him dull, as steady as unyielding steel. Yet, in rare moments—a glance, a breath—Charlotte could sense danger.
Danger was her least favorite thing.
Yet today, her knight brought her overwhelming safety.
Unbidden, a sense of deep security.
*
The sounds of combat gradually ceased, leaving the room in peaceful quiet.
The battle was decided.
However, time slipped by without a word spoken.
Charlotte bit her lip, her voice trembling as she called, “Joe…?”
Her tone conveyed a hint of panic and uncertainty.
She hadn’t called Blake’s name; the confidence she’d felt moments ago was fading in the prolonged silence.
After what seemed an eternity.
“It’s not Joe; it's Blake.”
The man’s deep, slow timbre spoke against her ear, steady and hoarse.
“Miss, I have won.”
*
During the fight, the man cloaked in darkness fought with the ferocity of a wild beast, his golden eyes filled with ruthless anger. Especially when his adversaries threatened to take away his charge, Blake’s control neared its breaking point as he refrained from tearing the invading knights to pieces.
He didn’t want Charlotte to witness the bloodshed. Such savage scenes would surely repulse her.
So Blake meticulously concealed these distasteful things from Charlotte.
But she had called Joe’s name.
Clearly and beautifully.
Blake didn’t like hearing other men’s names from her lips, just as he disliked calling her a princess.
A princess belongs to many, but Charlotte was his and his alone.
The wolf in him brooded obsessively.
His golden eyes restrained a storm, blinking gently.
Slowly, his gaze dropped to the trench coat wrapped tightly, revealing only her pale, dangling feet below the windowsill.
Smooth and pink.
More endearing than the plumpest pearl.
Blake could easily encircle her delicate ankle within two fingers, no matter how the fragile little princess struggled, escape would be impossible.
And at that time, the beast would personally mark what was exclusively his.
She was his.
Blake’s gaze darkened.
A fleeting glance upon entering the room, keen wolfish vision etched within his mind the exquisite beauty of that dazzling white.
Now, his trench coat was intimately contact with his miss, not separated by any bothersome fabric, entirely and tightly pressed against Charlotte's tender skin.
Touching what he yearned for in dreams.
Blake felt envious of that trench coat.
*
The knight stared at the princess through the unlifted coat.
Her small feet swayed idly in front of him, a gentle pull would bring them into his palm.
Blake’s breath remained steady as he spoke slowly, “The bathroom is a bit messy. Let's move you to a different room, shall we?”
Charlotte nodded haphazardly, dizziness clouding her mind, her heart somewhat aching.
She was utterly fed up with today’s dismal chain of events, impatient to leave this place.
In the next instant, Charlotte found herself lifted into the sturdy cradle of her knight’s arms.
In the recent days of travel, she had grown accustomed to this position, naturally relaxing her spine, leaning back slightly, twisting her waist to find the most comfortable posture. Yet, this twist caused the knight’s previously calm breathing to hitch momentarily.
His careless miss… seemed to forget her scant state of dress.
Beneath the coat, her once-secured towel teetered precariously at her chest, below it having already completely unraveled.
The most supple, satin-like touch of the maiden was separated only by one final layer of thin, white shirt, resting against Blake’s forearm. The twin round, firm curves perfectly slipped between his bent bicep and forearm, swaying and rolling with his strides, repeatedly striking his firm muscles.
With each collision came a shallow blush.
“Tap,” “tap.”
A soft, barely audible sound.
Charlotte didn’t hear it.
Frightened as she was, she had fallen asleep.
*
Restored by a solid sleep, Blake initiated a conversation with the princess, explaining that it was no accident the knights had tracked them down.
Charlotte must have something on her retaining a magical trace.
Charlotte trusted her knight’s word; without hesitation, she placed all the belongings she brought from the palace on the table.
“Which item has the tracking magic left by the queen?”
Her original red dress, jewels she intended to pawn but never did, the little boots gifted by her older brother, the prince—plus a tiny piece of lingerie Charlotte couldn’t bear to abandon. The outside garments were too rough for Charlotte's delicate skin to endure.
Charlotte subtly ignored the intimate item she'd tucked into a corner of the table, she spoke, her cheeks burning with embarrassment: “Blake, check these things over.”
Had she anything else to substitute, proud as she was, Charlotte wouldn’t dream of letting Blake handle her underwear.
Seeing his broad hand nearing her intimate item, Charlotte’s blush deepened, threatening to set her aflame. She quickly retreated to the window, feigning ignorance of Blake’s actions.
Feigning bravado, she called out sharply, “Blake, remember to be thorough!”
Should nothing turn up, she’d be sorely displeased!
Blake allowed a slight curve at his lips.
His miss was so adorable, sweet enough to bite.
Preferably right on those rosy lips.
Seeing Charlotte bite her lip deliberatively always tempted an urge in Blake—to replace her teeth and taste her himself.
He’d be gentle, careful not to bruise her infinitely delicate petals, ten thousand times softer than any blossom.
After a moment of fanciful thoughts, Blake collected himself.
Solving this tracking issue was essential.
More than Charlotte, he was adamant she wouldn’t be reclaimed by her palace keepers.
With utmost meticulousness, Blake inspected each item, quelling any amorous notions, adopting a stern, rigorous demeanor, overlooking not even the most minor stitch.
Though a novice in spellcasting, Blake recalled hearing from elders of his clan about an archaic, lost spell form. Such spells, drawn with specially brewed solutions, were invisible to the naked eye but held powerful enchantments.
Blake couldn’t afford to overlook even the smallest possibility.
Different spells bore different insignias; the tracking charm’s was a wolf’s paw.
Blake found this mark on the sole of her small boots.
Caked under dirt and grime, nearly obscuring its outline, but not escaping Blake’s acute observation.
He hesitated slightly, “Miss…”
Blake vaguely recalled those boots were a gift from Charlotte’s brother.
Charlotte’s brother, the prince of America, from their shared mother, had doted on her from childhood.
“Blake,” Charlotte turned to his voice, bouncing toward him, “Have you found something?”
Blake remained silent.
Charlotte followed his gaze to the little boots he held.
The smile froze on the princess’s face.
She blinked, instinctively wanting to flee reality: “It hasn’t been found, then?”
She hoped Blake would nod, claiming he had merely picked up the boots by chance.
But the knight, in silence, scrubbed the sole clean, presenting the distinct wolf’s paw emblem to her: “The knights traced us from this mark.”
Charlotte: “…”
Blake assumed she was incredulous.
Charlotte had always shared a close bond with her brother, constantly wishing to write him, eagerly awaiting chances to meet. She believed he’d side with her.
But not that he’d assist the queen in trailing her.
The knight clumsily attempted reassurance, “Perhaps the prince only meant to ensure your safety.”
Charlotte abruptly interrupted, her voice piercing, “Then he should have said so to me, rather than—”
Rather than aligning with the queen!
Such an act only deepened Charlotte’s isolation.
After the king married a new queen, her brother had been her sole ally in the palace, but now it seemed…
Charlotte furiously wiped her tears away, her force reddening the corners of her eyes.
She bit fiercely on her lip, her gemstone-bright eyes, cleansed by tears, grew all the more clear and unsullied.
Her stubbornness evoked sympathy.
Blake’s heart nearly melted with pain.
He wanted to speak words to lift his miss’s spirits but found himself speechless in crafting comforting sentiments. He longed to embrace her when she appeared so alone, promising eternal companionship, yet Blake knew Charlotte eschewed his touch.
“Blake, I don’t need to wait for my brother’s reply anymore. We’ll leave New York today, to the next city. Once outside the city, help me bury these boots under a great tree by the city gates.”
Charlotte dried her tears, her voice retaining traces of hoarseness and sadness.
Yet strangely resolute: “I don’t need my brother anymore.”
- Writer
