A sit at the table
1532 Words
CHAPTER 4
"You shouldn't be here," Freya said sharply, her voice low. "This place is dangerous."
Nyx tilted her head, eyes gleaming with amusement. Her voice was smooth, laced with mischief. "Is it? From the look of things, I'd say it's the safest place a woman could be."
The double meaning in her words wasn’t lost on Freya—or on Kieran, who loomed in her thoughts like a shadow.
"Regardless," Freya pressed, crossing the room, "where are you going to sleep?"
"I told the guards I was your sister," Nyx replied with a spin, twirling slowly in the centre of the chamber as she admired the lavish decor. "They let me in without question. Must be nice, being so adored here."
Freya shut the door with a soft thud, her hand tightening around the latch. “Nyx… this place isn’t a game. Kieran isn’t someone you should be near.”
Nyx turned, her expression playful but sharp. “Is that concern or jealousy?”
Freya didn’t answer. “Do you have a proper room?”
“Yes, yes.” Nyx waved her hand. “Down the hall. Like I said, your name opened every door. I didn’t even have to try.”
Freya didn’t reply. She simply brushed past her. “Fine. We’ll talk tomorrow. Just stay out of trouble, Nyx.”
“I never start trouble,” she said with a wink. “I just walk into it—with excellent timing.”
Rolling her eyes, Freya climbed into bed and pulled the covers over herself, turning her back to her sister. “Goodnight.”
At the door, Nyx hesitated, her voice light but ominous. “Sweet dreams, sister. You might need them.”
---
The first rays of morning filtered through the palace windows, casting a golden hue across the stone floor. Freya stirred in bed, momentarily caught in the rare stillness. No battle cries. No blood. Just silence.
She rose, stretching as her bare feet met the cool stone. At the basin, she splashed cold water on her face, fingers combing through her waves before tying them into a loose braid. Her attire was simple—a pale linen tunic tucked into black leather pants, worn boots, and no jewellery. She wasn’t here to impress.
As she fastened her cloak over her shoulders, the quiet was interrupted by a familiar voice.
“Sister.”
Freya turned, halting mid-step.
Nyx stood near the stairway, radiant in a form-fitting emerald gown that shimmered in the morning light. Her curls were artfully styled, and her lips were painted a deep plum. She looked like a royal guest, not a visitor tagging along for breakfast.
Freya blinked. “Nyx… you look—”
“What do you think?” Nyx interrupted with a twirl. “Too much for breakfast?”
Freya arched a brow. “Depends. Planning to seduce or stab someone before noon?”
Nyx smirked. “Maybe both.”
“You didn’t have to dress like this.”
“I’m not here to be invisible, Freya.”
The playfulness drained from Freya’s expression. “Just be careful. Kieran is… unpredictable.”
Nyx shrugged. “And I’m not exactly soft.”
They studied each other in a moment of tense stillness. Despite their differences, blood tethered them together.
“Come on,” Freya finally said. “Let’s eat.”
---
The dining hall was alive with muted sounds—clinking cutlery murmured conversations, and the warm scent of roasted meats. Freya walked in with Nyx at her side, but her instincts warned her: something was about to go wrong.
Then, Kieran entered.
He moved with quiet dominance, his presence commanding attention the moment he stepped inside. His eyes locked on the unfamiliar figure beside Freya.
He halted. “Who the hell are you?”
Nyx straightened, her curiosity piqued but unshaken. “I’m Nyx. Freya’s sister.”
Kieran scoffed. “And what the f**k are you doing here, uninvited?”
Freya stood quickly. “Kieran, I told you about her. She arrived late last night—”
“I wasn’t speaking to you,” he snapped, not even glancing her way.
The words cut deep. Freya stiffened, the sting of embarrassment flashing to anger. Not in front of Nyx.
“You don’t get to speak to me like that.”
His gaze turned on her, sharp and searing. “Then maybe don’t parade your family into my territory without permission. And I’ll speak to you in any manner I please.”
Freya stood, chair scraping against the floor. “If this is how breakfast’s going to be, I’ll take mine elsewhere.”
Kieran’s voice dropped, a low growl. “Sit down.”
Her fists clenched. “You don’t own me.”
“But you live under my roof,” he snarled, rising to meet her. “You’ll follow my rules.”
Tension crackled in the air like lightning ready to strike. Freya’s heart pounded. Part of her wanted to scream, to throw something, anything. But another part—damned and traitorous—was shaken by the weight of his gaze.
Nyx leaned back in her seat, thoroughly entertained. “You two really know how to brighten a morning.”
Kieran’s glare whipped to her. “Don’t insert yourself into our argument. Stay out of it.”
Her eyes widened slightly, though the flush on her cheeks didn’t fade. “I was just saying. Bit early for a power struggle, don’t you think?”
His gaze narrowed. “Are you always this nosy?”
“Only when people raise their voices in front of me. It’s rude, you know.”
“Rude is showing up uninvited and acting like this is a social club.”
She lifted a shoulder, unfazed. “Well, I did knock.”
“You manipulated your way in,” he growled, stepping closer.
Nyx’s smile turned sly. “Oh, darling. If I were manipulating, I’d already have your seat.”
Freya’s jaw dropped at the audacity, but Kieran didn’t flinch. He just stared. The silence that followed sizzled.
“Nyx,” Freya hissed. “Enough.”
Nyx sighed theatrically. “Fine. I’ll behave. For now.”
Freya sank into her chair again, her appetite long gone. Kieran stood still a moment longer, his anger simmering, then returned to his seat, though tension still radiated off him like heat from a forge.
“She’s staying for a few days,” Freya said quietly. “She has her own room. She won’t be a problem.”
“That’s not your call,” he muttered, stabbing his plate.
“It is when it concerns my family.”
The table fell into silence. Freya’s hands curled into her lap, eyes flicking between the two most volatile people she knew—one out of place, the other too used to power. Kieran resumed eating as if nothing had happened.
But the air between them remained heavy, charged with everything left unsaid.
The clatter of plates faded behind him as Kieran strode through the corridor, his steps heavy with agitation. The sisters’ presence still lingered like a sharp scent in the air—Freya’s defiance, Nyx’s bold insolence. He didn’t like surprises, and this one wore perfume and spoke in riddles.
He reached the side hallway near the servants’ quarters and snapped his fingers. A lean, grey-robed servant hurried over, bowing low.
“My Lord,” the servant said, head bowed.
Kieran’s tone was clipped, unforgiving. “Who let her in?”
The servant blinked in confusion. “Forgive me, My Lord… ‘her’?”
“The woman who called herself Freya’s sister,” Kieran clarified coldly. “She wasn’t announced. She wasn’t expected. So who, exactly, rolled out the welcome mat?”
The servant flinched. “She... she mentioned Lady Freya’s name at the gates, said she was family. The guards verified her likeness and allowed her through. She was escorted to the guest wing, as per standard protocol when someone invokes the name of a resident noble.”
“Standard protocol,” Kieran echoed bitterly, stepping closer. “Did it occur to any of you to ask me before letting in strangers?”
“She showed no threat, My Lord. She acted with familiarity—confident, but not hostile. And the resemblance to Lady Freya—”
“I don’t give a damn about resemblance,” Kieran growled. “From now on, no one gets through that gate unless I personally approve it. I don’t care if they carry Freya’s blood or the king’s seal.”
“Yes, My Lord. I’ll inform the gate guards immediately.”
Kieran studied the servant a moment longer, his jaw tight. “And keep eyes on her. The sister.”
“Of course, My Lord. Would you like her watched discreetly?”
“No,” he said darkly. “Let her know she’s being watched.”
The servant nodded, bowed again, and hurried off.
Left in the silence of the corridor, Kieran exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. He didn’t like being caught off guard. Not by a woman with too much charm and too little caution. And certainly not in his own damn house.
- Writer
