Malek stood at the edge of the balcony, the sun bleeding red across the horizon like a fresh wound. But it wasn't memories of the battlefield that haunted him now—it was a girl.
Seraya.
He could still feel the echo of her voice, light with sarcasm one moment, trembling with pain the next. Her fire burned through everything—through the lies, through the mask he wore when he was with her.
Lex.
That name on her lips had felt like a blade and a balm all at once.
She had turned to him. Him. Not knowing who he truly was. Not the king, not the man who'd stolen her freedom, but the man she thought offered her peace.
Safety.
When her tear had fallen, and he reached out to catch it, she had said, "It's not your fault."
But it was.
It was entirely his fault.
He'd taken her from her home. Locked her behind golden walls.
And yet she still looked at him like he was someone worth trusting. Someone kind.
He should have turned away. He should have ended whatever this fragile thing was between them. But instead, he had offered her the only escape he could safely give.
A book.
Gods, how pitiful that had felt. When he could offer her entire kingdoms, and yet could only hand her borrowed stories. If she knew who he was—if she knew that the same man who wiped her tears was the one who put her in this cage—
She would hate him.
And perhaps that's what made her kindness hurt most.
But maybe—just maybe—she could learn to hate the king less.
It was a foolish thought. But he clung to it, desperately.
Perhaps a gift.
Not one that bore his name. That would be too obvious. Too telling.
But a gesture. A way to right a small wrong.
Her stomach had growled. He couldn't let that happen. Couldn't let his mate go hungry.
Mate.
The thought bounced around like something stirring from an ancient sleep, but when it settled it felt right. So right.
He turned sharply, calling for the steward.
"Send word to the kitchens," he said. "Tonight, I want a feast prepared for the harem. Something elegant. Lavish. The best wines. The finest cuts. And…" He paused. "A dessert table. Fig pastries. With honey. And candied rose petals."
The steward blinked. "Should I say it's from—"
"No," Malek snapped. Then, softer, "No. Just say it's in honor of the season's change. A celebration."
The steward bowed and disappeared.
Malek remained in the shadows, his jaw clenched.
He told himself it was a political decision. A small act of benevolence to maintain peace among the women.
But deep down, he was already imagining her face. How she might smile. How she might laugh, just once, without pain behind it.
He waited in the silence, already far too eager to know—
Would she know?
Would she guess?
Would she feel cared for, even just a little?
And would that be enough… to soften her heart to the king, even slightly.