The Wolf and The Wilted Rose

Muscle Memory 2

“A…! The dishes…! I’ll go do it real quick…!”

Before he could stop her, old instincts took the wheel. Fionia flinched back from his touch, her eyes wide with a frantic, knee-jerk panic as she spun on her heel and practically bolted back toward the scullery tubs, clutching the wooden tray like a shield.

"Fionia—" Elvan called out, his hand snapping out to catch her, but he stopped himself mid-motion, his fingers closing around empty air.

He watched her rush over to the heavy stone basin, her shoulders hunched tight against the invisible ghosts of the Nauven estate. She turned on the brass tap with trembling hands, hastily scrubbing at the wooden tray as if a single second of hesitation would invite punishment, her breath catching raggedly in her throat.

The kitchen staff froze once more, darting nervous glances between the frantic bride at the sink and the Crown Prince standing a few paces away.

Elvan’s jaw tightened, a sharp surge of frustration—not at her, but at the deep, systemic cruelty that had carved those survival habits into her very bones—rippling through his chest. He didn't bark an order, nor did he loom over her. Instead, he simply walked over, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the flagstones until he stopped right beside the washbasin.

Without a word, he reached past her, his large, calloused hand firmly closing over the handle of the water tap, shutting it off with a sharp clack.

The sudden silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the sound of Fionia’s shallow, rapid breathing.

Elvan didn't look at the tray. He looked down at her, his amber eyes burning with a quiet, devastating intensity.

"You are not a servant here," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly hum that vibrated right through her. He reached out, his fingers wrapping gently around her wrist, his grip warm and unyielding as he forced her hands away from the soapy water. "You never were. Drop the tray, Fionia."

“But—“

"No 'buts,' Fionia."

His thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, a steady, rhythmic pulse that directly challenged the frantic panic racing through her veins. He reached out with his free hand, gently taking the wooden tray from her white-knuckled grip and setting it down onto the edge of the stone counter with a dull clatter.

He didn't let go of her hand. Instead, he pulled her back just a fraction, turning her away from the sink and out toward the quiet, vaulted arches of the corridor.

"The dishes can stay," Elvan said, his tone softening into something dangerously patient, stripping away the last remnants of the tyrant prince and leaving only a man demanding she look at him. "Let the staff do what they are paid for. You are coming with me."

“Huh…? Go where?…”

"Out of this stone box," Elvan answered, offering a slight, dry tug on her hand that left no room for debate, even as his grip remained remarkably gentle.

He didn't wait for her to argue or scramble for an excuse, simply leading her away from the hushed, staring eyes of the kitchen staff and out into the wider, sunlit corridor of the main keep. The heavy oak doors swung shut behind them, cutting off the lingering smell of soap and spiced broth and replacing it with the crisp, clean air of the upper halls.

As they walked side by side down the polished stone hallway, the suffocating tension in her chest began to loosen, inch by reluctant inch.

"You've spent the last twenty-four hours either hiding under a blanket, passing out on a bathroom floor, or watching me throw your half-sister off the property," Elvan noted, a dry, faint hint of amusement cutting through his usual gravity as he glanced down at her.

"I'm taking you to the east courtyard gardens. The sun is actually out for once, and I refuse to let you spend another hour staring at walls."

A faint, disbelieving breath slipped past her lips, but she didn’t pull her hand away. The quiet, terrifying weight of his authority had just dismantled her entire past in a matter of minutes, yet here he was, simply guiding her toward the light like she was something fragile enough to break if he moved too fast.

The heavy oak doors at the end of the hall opened outward, spilling a wash of warm afternoon golden hour light across the polished flagstones. As they stepped out into the east courtyard gardens, the crisp chill of the mountain air hit her face, carrying the clean scent of damp earth, blooming winter jasmine, and freshly trimmed hedges.

It was an open, sprawling sanctuary enclosed by high stone ramparts—completely cut off from the noise and politics of the outer gates. Neat rows of stone benches lined the pebble pathways, and at the center stood an old, weathered marble fountain where clear water trickled softly over moss-grown carvings.

Elvan led her toward a stone bench shaded by a canopy of tall, dormant oak trees, gently releasing her hand only when they reached it. He didn't sit immediately, standing instead to block the slight afternoon breeze, his amber eyes scanning her face with a quiet, assessing intensity.

"Sit," he instructed softly, gesturing to the bench. "I'll have someone bring out a cloak. You're still wearing indoor silk."