RAVYN'S POV
"It's... hair dye," I said, forcing a smile that wobbled like a flame in the wind.
My voice trembled, soft and uncertain, nearly lost beneath the hush that swept through the hallway. Whispers bloomed like weeds in a garden—quick, invasive, impossible to ignore. I could feel their stares pressing into my back, sharp and accusing.
They were judging me.
Not him—for trespassing into a space forbidden to men—but me. Me, for being here. Me, for having white hair. Me, for daring to breathe in the same corridor as a prince while wearing nothing but a bath towel.
As though I knew a man would be here. As though I'd planned this. As though I wanted his attention.
The injustice of it all settled like a brick in my chest.
"It's beautiful," he murmured.
And that—that—was when the frown finally broke through. My face gave up on pretending for half a heartbeat before I schooled it again, lips twitching back into a soft, polite smile, as if his compliment hadn't just made me want to scream.
Did he not see the looks being thrown at me from every direction? The disdain? The jealousy? The sharp hunger in their eyes?
Did he not understand what he was doing?
By saying that—by touching my hair—he'd turned me into a target. One more scandal away from being dragged out, labeled a temptress, and whipped in the courtyard.
His fingers were still in my hair.
I kept my gaze on his face, stiff as a statue, uncertain whether to speak. His brow arched. He was studying me now—no longer just staring, but watching, like I was a puzzle with too many missing pieces. His lips curled up in the barest hint of a smile.
"Thank you, my prince," I whispered, bowing again in the hopes he would finally let go.
My hair slipped through his fingers as I lowered my head, and I exhaled quietly, praying this performance would be over soon.
When I looked up again, his expression had shifted. He wasn't smiling anymore. Instead, he wore the look of a man deep in thought, trying to solve a riddle that refused to give up its answer.
Then he said, "Why don't you grace this prince with your name?"
I froze.
Surely I had misheard him.
He wanted my name?
Was he actively trying to have me skinned alive?
I laughed softly, breath catching halfway through. "My name, my prince?" I echoed, as if I needed clarification.
Say no. Just say no. Say you're not allowed. Say you've taken a vow of silence. Say anything but your real name.
But no. That would be taken as disrespect. And here in the palace, disrespect was currency you could not afford to spend.
Sure enough, the voice of my tormentor echoed from behind the prince.
"What? You do not think the prince good enough to know your name?"
Lady Dust.
Of course.
There she stood, arms folded tightly, face pinched like a lemon, her voice sweet with venom. I fought the urge to reply with a curse. Instead, I turned to her with the most radiant smile I could summon.
"Oh no, teacher," I said through clenched teeth, still facing the prince. "I am honored to share my name. The prince merely surprised me, that is all."
I kept my eyes fixed on him, daring not to look away lest she claim I had insulted him further.
"My name is Ravyn."
He bent down, took the hand that wasn't clutching my soap and sponge, and pressed his lips against my fingers.
A jolt surged through me. Like a thread pulled taut inside my chest, stretched and strummed.
I flinched.
His lips were warm—pleasantly so—but what disturbed me was the echo of that warmth, the way it didn't fade after he withdrew, the way it settled beneath my skin like a brand.
I tried to pull back, but his grip tightened.
His fingers wrapped gently but firmly around mine, holding me in place. I gasped, eyes widening, and he looked up, catching my gaze with his.
Was he doing this on purpose?
Because it felt deliberate. The touch, the stare, the voice that vibrated through my hand like a whispered spell.
And for one fleeting second, I thought I saw something in his eyes—something ancient and dark, like shadows flickering at the bottom of a well.
He saw me swallow.
And smiled.
A real smile.
"Then my name is Prince Kale," he said softly against my hand, and the sound of his voice there—so close—made my knees ache.
He rose to his full height, a sharp contrast to my trembling stillness.
"You should go and wash, Ravyn," he said, his voice lower now, raspier, like gravel coated in silk. "I don't want to take more of your time."
I nodded quickly. "Yes, my prince," I murmured.
Another bow. Another chance to flee.
I forced my legs to move, to carry me down the hallway and away from the weight of his gaze. I didn't look back. I couldn't.
Once I reached the end, I slipped behind the thick velvet curtain that marked the entrance to the bath chamber. It fell shut behind me with a hushed swish, and I leaned heavily against the stone wall, clutching my chest.
I could barely breathe.
The air tasted different here—warmer, scented with soap and eucalyptus and faint minerals. I scanned the room, my gaze jumping from the wooden benches along the walls to the narrow shelves holding folded linens and handmade oils.
The bath chamber was modest, not the grand opulence one might expect of a royal palace, but comforting in its simplicity. The pale stone floors were warm beneath my feet, and the walls were lined with faded murals of dancing figures, some chipped, some smudged by steam over the years. Light streamed in through a high stained-glass window, painting the room in soft golden hues.
At the center was a wide, sunken bath—its edges carved from natural rock, steam rising gently from the surface. Small petals floated on the water, and the faint sound of trickling came from a narrow spout at the far end, where fresh water flowed steadily into the pool.
It wasn't luxurious.
But it was... calm.
Safe.
I exhaled slowly.
"What is happening?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
I pressed a hand to my chest. That feeling. That strange, pulsing warmth. It had stirred not once but twice. I didn't know what it meant, but I felt it, unmistakably, and I didn't like it. Not because it hurt. But because it didn't.
I had spent seventeen years knowing exactly who I was. A witch. A daughter of the coven. Guarded. Untouched.
And then this prince—this werewolf prince—had looked at me once, and I was already forgetting how to breathe.
I shook my head, peeling the towel from my shoulders and hanging it on the nearest hook. The bath waited, still and inviting.
No one else was inside.
Good.
Hopefully, I thought bitterly, they don't allow men in here either.
I stepped forward and dipped my toes in first, then slipped into the warmth fully, sinking until the water curled around my shoulders. My muscles loosened almost instantly.
The bath had always been my sanctuary.
Even at the coven, the water had soothed me, quieted the noise in my head. It remembered what I forgot. It held what I couldn't. And for a moment, as I closed my eyes, the tension began to ease.
Then—
Footsteps.
Soft. Deliberate. Near the curtain.
My eyes snapped open.
I slipped lower in the bath until only my eyes and the top of my head remained above the surface. I held my breath, ears straining.
Someone had entered.
Someone shouldn't have.
And I was no longer alone.