The Fallen Princess

Twenty Two

“You aren’t Christian,” Zaria muttered without lifting her gaze. She stared at the ground, at her own feet, at anything that wasn’t Callen. Just one look at him and her heart would betray her anger, and she needed that anger. It was the only armor she had left.

Callen’s jaw flexed. “Are you two on a first-name basis now?” He asked, irritation, simmering beneath the surface. “And what if we are?” she taunted; hoping, hoping, to sting him. “I didn’t come here to argue with you, Zaria,” Callen said quietly, reaching out to guide her toward the Knights’ Annex with a slow, measured pace.

“You’re right Callen, you didn't come at all,” she shot back, sharp as a blade. He dragged a hand through his hair, the movement stiff with frustration. “I couldn’t come.” “Could not or would not?” His voice hardened. “Could not.” She brushed past him. When he reached for her arm, she recoiled as though burned.

“Please don’t…” Her voice broke; cleanly, painfully. She folded her arms over her chest as if holding herself together by force alone. Tears trembled at the corners of her eyes. “I’m not angry with you, Callen, or perhaps maybe I am, without any real reason to be...” she confessed, her voice so small he almost didn’t hear it.

“I forgot for a moment that I’m still your hostage…” Her voice wavered; her breath hitched. Callen stepped forward instinctively, but she retreated just as quickly, putting space between them. “You’re not a hostage-” he began. “Am I not?” she cut in, her words sharp with hurt.

“You locked me in a room. A beautiful room, yes, but a prison all the same.” A flicker of frustration crossed his face, his jaw tightening. “You know it’s not like that,” he said, his voice rough with the effort to stay calm.

“I sent you gifts, I-” “I don’t want gifts, Callen.” Her voice broke like something brittle snapping in her chest. “You act as if a few trinkets could replace everything you took from me. You stole the only pieces of my life that mattered and left me utterly alone in your foreign palace.”

Her tears spilled over then; unpretty, unrestrained, raw. Callen’s expression faltered, guilt carving itself plainly across his features. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, thick with something that hurt to hear. “What have I taken from you? Just tell me, Zaria… and I’ll give it back.”

“My brother,” she whispered, the words barely carrying. “You took Zakai, my little sisters… my sanity and my heart... I am all alone here.” A broken laugh puffed from him, soft and rueful. “Your sanity?” he murmured, attempting a light tease to soften the moment. “I can’t give you any of those things back… especially that. Your sanity was gone long before we met.”

Despite herself, despite everything, she let out a short, trembling breath of a laugh. Callen’s Voice gentled. “But I can tell you this: your brother is safe. Anya is still recovering, but she’s doing well. And your younger sisters... they’ve been placed in good homes. I oversaw it myself.”

He drew a deep, steadying breath, eyes never leaving hers. “And as for your heart…” His voice softened into something warm and resolute. “I’m afraid I won’t be giving that back to you.” She didn’t resist this time when Callen pulled her into his arms. She melted, exhausted, every nerve raw.

He pressed a kiss into her hair. His voice cracked. “I am sorry. I’ve been trying to keep you safe from Juliana… and find a way to break off this damn engagement. It didn't matter before but now...”

Zaria shook her head against his chest. “I think I’ll be leaving soon...” She admitted against her better judgement. Her thoughts slid back... back to the dream, to the murky river pulling her downstream, to the voice telling her to go.

His arms went rigid, breath pausing in his lungs. “What do you mean?” She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. “Zaria,” Callen murmured, lifting her chin lightly, searching her face. “What do you mean by that...?”

Her eyes darted past him, toward nothing, toward memory. “Are there any rivers near your castle?” she asked softly. Callen frowned. “No. None. Why?” Zaria shook her head again, distant, haunted. “It’s nothing,” she whispered. But the tremble in her voice said everything.

Without another word, he lifted her, easily; his arms solid beneath her as though she weighed nothing at all. He carried her toward the shade of an old oak, settling with his back against the trunk, and drew her curled against his chest. His calloused thumb brushed gently across her cheek, sweeping away the last trace of her tears.

“I’ll find a way…” he murmured. “You’re not the only one whose heart…” His voice trailed off, the confession too raw, too dangerous to give breath just yet. After a moment, he steadied himself. “I’ll find a way,” he repeated, firmer now.

He kissed her brow. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her lips. Soft, lingering touches that felt like promises whispered against her skin. And then her mouth met his.

The kiss unspooled slowly at first, deep and coaxing, like he was learning her all over again. His lips were warm and unhurried, molding to hers with reverence, tasting her tears, her breath, her trembling resolve.

But underneath the gentleness was heat; banked embers stirring, rising. Her arms slid around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and the kiss thickened... still slow, but no longer calm. His hand cupped the back of her neck, drawing her deeper into him.

She shifted, straddling him, and he hummed into her mouth, a low, molten sound that vibrated through her. Their breaths mingled, quickening.

His hands roamed her back, her waist, rediscovering every curve with growing urgency.

Her fingers fumbled with his pants; his found the edges of her dress. Fabric whispered. Warmth pressed to warmth. The kiss broke only to reform... deeper, hungrier as he guided her onto him.

He gathered her close, like lovers do, his breath trembling against her lips, and the world narrowed to the heat between them, the steady strength of his hands, and the soft gasps she released, until everything else quietly slipped away.

“It’s about time,” Christian announced loudly the moment Callen stepped into view of the annex courtyard. “I hate being you. Truly exhausting.” Callen barely heard him. Zaria had already sprinted into Zakai’s arms. Her brother noticed her red rimmed eyes, then fixed Callen with a murderous glare.

Callen could only lift his hands helplessly. Zakai wrapped a protective arm around his sister’s shoulders and guided her away. Christian snapped his fingers right in Callen’s face. “Hello? Are you listening to me?”

“No,” Callen muttered. “You’re an entire problem brother. Gods above.” Christian huffed as he followed him into the office and tossed the borrowed uniform jacket over his shoulder. “What took you so long?”

“We got into a fight,” Callen said tiredly, sinking into his chair. “And…?” Christian prompted.

Callen dragged both hands over his face with a groan. “And then we made up… or at least I think we did.”

Christian promptly hurled the uniform at his head. “Now I know why you took so long. You’re an absolute fool sometimes. What if someone saw you?” Callen only shrugged, utterly unbothered.

He pointed at Callen’s sleeves. “Now give me my clothes back. Yours feel like wearing sun-dried leather.” Callen rolled his eyes but stood to undress. Christian noticed a deep scratch down his forearm.

“Oof. One of those courtesans take a swipe at you?” “I’ve been tying them up and tossing them into Father’s study. A gift for a gift.” Christian cackled. “You could just sleep with one and be done”

“I think I love her.” Christian froze mid-movement. “What?” Callen didn’t answer. He straightened abruptly, as though he could outrun the words he’d just let slip. “What did you find out about the elf convoy?”

“You can’t love her, brother you just met her,” Christian protested. “No, you just met her,” Callen shot back. “I spent weeks traveling with her at my side. Now answer the question.” Christian groaned, dragging a hand down his face before reaching for a cigar. “Fine. Father sent a marriage proposal.”

Callen stiffened. “For who?” Christian stared at him. “Who do you think?” Callen’s expression turned murderous. “I’ll kill any man who thinks he’s taking her from me. “That’s how diplomatic disasters start,” Christian said casually.

“I’ll make it look like an accident.” “And your betrothed?” Christian asked dryly. “Or shall we pretend she doesn’t exist today?” Callen snarled. Christian continued, unfazed. “Or, and stay with me here, you could stick to the plan we already have.”

Callen braced his hands on the table. “She’ll leave.” “Not,” Christian said firmly, “if you tell her the truth.” “And how would you know...” “I know people. And I know this... she’s fallen for you. Quite recklessly, actually.”

Christian leaned back. “Your other choice? Take the crown. Rule beside her. Be happy.” Callen glared. “No. I don't want the damn crown.” “Then we proceed with Plan A,” Christian said brightly. “Dispose of the merchant. Steal the assets. Destroy the trade. You can even make it so Juliana conveniently dies. Then you get your happy ending.”