“What did I say?” Bajja murmured, genuinely puzzled.

  Azelrah lifted her face from the pillow, eyes smudged with frustration and pride. “It’s not you,” she muttered, then instantly snapped, “But also—yes, it is you! You sound just like them.”

  Bajja blinked. “Them?”

  “Yes. Them"

  Bajja opened her mouth to defend herself, then closed it again. She looked at her princess—her wild, untamable girl caught in silk and ceremony.

  Silence hung between them, filled with the creaking of wheels and the distant rumble of hooves outside.

  Then Bajja, wisely, said nothing more. She simply sat by Azelrah’s side and began to untangle her dusty hair with slow, careful fingers.

  The caravan halted briefly at midday for lunch. Azelrah remained sulky, picking at her food in the comfort of her wagon, barely acknowledging Bajja’s gentle attempts at conversation. By late afternoon, the wagons had picked up pace again, the horses—well-bred and tireless—eating up the miles. When they finally made camp for the night, the air was tinged with the scent of the forest.

  They were almost at the border between Zhanoura and Drakhalor.

  -------------------------------------

  Zaekharan and Azelrah entered the lavish tent erected for the royal couple—a rich, expansive structure lined with deep carpets, silk hangings, and the lingering scent of spice and travel.

  He looked around with satisfaction, then turned to Azelrah with a broad smile.

  “Tomorrow morning,” he declared, “we cross into Drakhalor. My land. Your new home."

  He clapped his hands once, summoning the servants.

  “Bring warm water and a tub,” he ordered. “Let us wash away the dust and weariness of travel, my queen.”

  The servants filled the grand copper tub with steaming water, the scent of crushed herbs rising with the vapor. Then, with a bow, they slipped out, leaving the royal couple alone.

  Zaekharan began unfastening his cloak, then his tunic, his movements casual but deliberate. He slipped off the last of his garments and stepped into the tub. Azelrah’s eyes, without meaning to, followed him. The breadth of his shoulders, the ripple of his back muscles, the confident ease of his movements..and the view of his manhood—it was a body oozing masculinity . Something in her stirred with uneasy interest. She didn’t understand it. But she couldn’t look away until he sank into the water.

  Without looking up, he spoke, his voice deep and commanding.

  “Join me, queen. There’s enough room for both of us.”

  Azelrah froze. The words caught her off guard. She stared, uncertain if she’d heard him correctly.

  He turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze with the faintest trace of a smirk.

  “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself, queen.”

  Her heart thudded. From defiance? Embarrassment? Something else? She couldn’t tell.

  With stiff fingers, she began to undress. The air in the tent felt suddenly colder against her bare skin.

  She paused at the last layer, painfully aware of her body—plain, lean, lacking the softness and curves that men seemed to value. She’d never cared before. But now, under his potential gaze, it mattered. And she hated that it did.

  The realization sparked a hot irritation in her chest. Why should she care?

  She stepped forward slowly, compelled more by command than choice, her thoughts a whirlwind of pride, resentment, and something unspoken.

  She slid into the water, the heat prickling her skin, making her hyperaware of the space he occupied. Her knees drew up. Arms folded over her chest. Shoulders tense.

  Zaekharan said nothing. He sank deeper into the bath, letting the water soothe his muscles. He scooped water over his arms and chest, then reached for the herbal cleansing paste resting at the tub’s edge. His movements were unhurried. Then he turned slightly, voice low.

  “Rub my back.”

  She blinked.

  “Use the paste. The dirt’s settled deep.”

  Azelrah reached out, fingers brushing the bowl. The paste felt cool and grainy between her fingertips.

  She hesitated, then touched his back—tentative, featherlight. His skin was warm, firm. The muscles beneath shifted faintly with each breath.

  She began to rub gently, following the curve of his spine, the breadth of his shoulders.

  “Mmm… good,” he muttered, voice like a cat stretching in sunlight.

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  Then he leaned back—slowly, deliberately—until his weight settled against her bare chest, his head just brushing her collarbone.

  Azelrah stiffened. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. His warmth soaked into her. The scent of herbs hung in the air.

  Her hands froze on his skin.

  “You’re too still,” Zaekharan said with dry amusement, his eyes still closed.

  The heat from their bodies, where skin met skin, seemed to magnify. Her breath caught as her nipples, already taut from the water and her nerves, brushed his back—an electric jolt that made her inwardly flinch. He shifted slightly. The sensation deepened.

  Azelrah bit her tongue. She didn’t understand what she was feeling—but it was sharp, and hot, and entirely beyond her control.

  Her heart beat like a trapped bird inside her chest. She hated this. She was certain she did.

  After a long moment, Zaekharan straightened and rose from the tub, water sliding down his body in gleaming rivulets.

  “We dine soon,” he said, not looking back.

  “Get ready, my queen.”

  ------------------------

  The royal table had been set in a wide clearing just beyond the main caravan, lit by torches thrust into the ground and a few iron braziers glowing with coals. Around it sat Zaekharan, his top generals, senior ministers, and a handful of aides—men hardened by campaign life, their speech rough, direct, and dominated by talk of terrain, troop movement, and supply lines.

  Azelrah sat beside the king, stiff-backed and silent in a heavy embroidered shawl. The food was simple but rich—spiced meats, flatbread, a thick lentil stew—and yet she barely tasted it.

  Her eyes flicked across the firelit faces, but her thoughts circled back to the tent. To the bath. To the heat of water and skin, the way his back had pressed into her chest… how something inside her had sparked alive, unbidden.

  She did not like remembering it. But her body remembered anyway.

  She tried to focus on the conversation, but it all washed over her. The pact with Zhanoura. Watch towers along the eastern borders. A rogue hill chief not responding to summons. The names and threats meant little to her.

  Zaekharan oozed command, trading words with his men, occasionally nodding in approval. He barely acknowledged her presence, but once—only once—his hand patted hers as he reached for a cup.

  The wind was sharp with mountain air. The stars were bright above, cold and uncaring.

  Azelrah felt a shiver run through her, whether it was the cold or something else she wasn’t sure. She looked at the man beside her—so certain, so in control—and something in her chest stiffened. Suddenly her decision was made. Let him take what he wanted. She would not stop him. But she would not give. Not warmth. Not surrender. Not her soul.

  After dinner, Azelrah lay on the wide bed prepared by the servants inside the royal tent. The layers of rich fabric and soft cushions did nothing to ease the coil of tension tightening in her chest. The king had not yet come. Her heart thudded loudly in the silence, the flickering lamplight casting shifting shadows across the canvas walls.

  What did he expect of her tonight?

  Had he made his intentions clear in the bath?

  Would he force himself again on her?

  The flap of the tent rustled suddenly. Zaekharan entered, his steps unhurried, the firelight catching the sharp lines of his face. His gaze found her immediately—watchful, unreadable. And then, he smiled.

  Without a word, he began to remove his outer garments. His movements were brisk, purposeful. When he climbed into the bed beside her, he was bare but for his short linens, the heat of his skin seeping into the space between them. One strong arm slid around her waist.

  Azelrah stiffened. Her breath hitched. Her entire body seemed to still, a statue carved of ice and dread.

  Zaekharan turned toward her . He untied the knots of lace of her nightgown over her chest. Her skin tingled. He pressed his lips against hers—soft at first, then deeper, more certain, as though coaxing a flame. Her body almost responded. Almost.

  But her mind had already decided.

  She lay still. Motionless. Silent.

  He pulled back, brows drawing together, surprise flickering into irritation. Perhaps he had sensed something in the bath—something that had given him hope.

  He kissed her again, this time at her neck, the exposed edge of her collarbone. His hands brushed her sides, searching for softness, for warmth. But Azelrah did not yield. Not a sigh. Not a stir.

  Only stillness.

  He stopped. His breath heavy now, his voice low and angry.

  “Do you refuse me, my queen?”

  Her voice came stiff and hollow. “Do as you wish.”

  His jaw clenched. “As you lie there like a corpse? Do you mock me?”

  He pushed himself away from her in frustration, rising from the bed and dressing in a series of quick, sharp motions.

  Azelrah sat up slowly, the blanket clutched to her chest. Her pulse raced now—not from his touch, but from the fear of what might follow.

  He stormed to the tent’s entrance and barked: “Send word to Lady Kaemyra. Tell her I will visit her tonight.”

  A servant entered moments later with a bow. “At once, sire.”

  Zaekharan did not look back at Azelrah. The flap of the tent swung shut behind him, leaving her in silence—shivering not from cold, but from everything that had just passed… and everything still to come.

  Azelrah sat frozen for a long moment, her body wrapped tight in the sheets, her face unreadable. She heard the muffled noises of his departure, and then nothing.

  The emptiness pressed in.

  She swallowed, trying to push back the sudden sting in her throat. But her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for the bell by the bedside.

  Moments later, two of her maidservants entered, heads bowed.

  She spoke without looking at them.

  “Who is Lady Kaemyra?”

  The maids glanced at each other.

  One answered cautiously, “She is the royal danseuse, my lady. She traveled with the king’s retinue from Zaekharan. She performed during the wedding feast, my lady… but you may not have noticed.”

  “She is a favorite, then?” Azelrah asked, her voice flat.

  “Yes, my lady. She is… well-regarded.”

  A pause.

  Then, very quietly:

  “Is she ..beautiful?”

  The same maid hesitated again, then gave a respectful nod.

  “Yes, my lady. She is considered… quite so.”

  Azelrah nodded slowly. She did not ask anything more.

  The maids lingered, unsure whether to stay.

  “Leave me,” Azelrah said. “Extinguish the lamps.”

  They obeyed in silence.

  Darkness folded around her. Alone once more, Azelrah lay back down on the bed. The silence was heavier now.

  ------------------------------------

  That's the end of Chapter 4. Do let me know your thoughts on the chapter. Comment freely. Likes & comments are the only way new writers like me can gauge the response of readers on online reading platforms.

  Thankyou

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