THE PAWN AND THE KING

5

Raeland lay still on the bed, his once formidable presence reduced to something fragile in the dim light of the room. His breathing was uneven, shallow, a hint of a grimace etched into his otherwise composed face. Every few moments, his body would twitch involuntarily, a quiet grunt escaping his lips as if he were still fighting the pain, even in his sleep. The injury had been worse than he let on—too bad for him to play the role of the stoic warrior he so stubbornly clung to.

I sighed, the weight of my decision still sitting heavy on my chest. I had slipped him the sleeping pill. It was wrong, I knew that, but watching him writhe in agony, refusing help like it was some kind of badge of honor... I couldn't stand it. I couldn't bear seeing him like this, so vulnerable, so human. It was easier when he was distant, when his coldness created a barrier between us. Now, that wall was gone, and I was left sitting here, feeling a strange blend of guilt and tenderness that I didn't quite know how to process.

I shifted closer, careful not to disturb him, though the mattress creaked softly under my weight. The dim light from the bedside lamp flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across his face. His features—angular, sharp, as if chiseled from stone—were softened only by exhaustion. His brow furrowed, even in sleep, as though he was still fighting something in his dreams. I let my gaze linger, taking in every detail. The strong line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell messily across his forehead, the faint lines of tension that never fully relaxed even now.

For a moment, my fingers hovered over him, unsure, hesitant. But the pull was too strong. Gently, almost as if I feared he'd wake up, I dared to trace the outline of his jaw, feeling the rough texture of his stubble against my fingertips. His skin was warm, radiating heat from his feverish state, and I felt a knot twist in my chest. Seeing him like this—a man who was always so composed, so unreachable, now so helpless—made something stir inside me. It was like watching a fortress crumble, brick by brick.

A sigh escaped my lips before I could stop it, and I drew my hand back quickly, as though I had crossed some invisible line. I leaned back in my chair, my eyes never leaving him, and in the silence of the room, memories began to surface. The way his presence always did this—pulled me back into the past, into the memories I had tried so hard to keep buried.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, letting the memories wash over me like an old film reel. I could still picture it clearly. I was eight, maybe nine. It had been a humid summer day, the kind where the air felt thick and heavy. The Morettis had come to visit our estate, and that was the day I first saw Raeland. Back then, he had been different—full of life, his eyes bright with curiosity. His innocence matched the gleam of the sun that filtered through the grand windows of the estate.

I, on the other hand, had been nothing more than a shadow. The illegitimate daughter no one acknowledged. I was the girl who hovered at the edges of the room, hoping not to be seen, hoping not to be reminded of what I was. Even the maids pretended I didn't exist. That day had been no different. My father had returned from one of his travels with beautiful new toys for my stepsister, as if she were the only child in the world. I stood in the corner, pretending not to care, but the ache in my chest had been unbearable. In a fit of jealousy, I had taken a pair of scissors and destroyed those toys—cutting through the bright ribbons, tearing apart the delicate fabrics.

My stepmother had been furious. I could still hear the venom in her voice, see the disdain in her eyes as she dragged me outside, locking me in the backyard without food or water. The heat had been oppressive, the sun relentless as it beat down on me. I remembered sitting by the garden wall, dirty and miserable, my dress stained with dirt and my face streaked with tears I refused to let fall. No one cared. No one ever cared.

That's when I heard him. Little Raeland, with his sharp tongue and oblivious nature, had come across me sitting there like a stray cat. "You smell," he'd said, his voice matter-of-fact, completely unaware of the pain those two simple words carried. I had glared at him, defensive, feeling the weight of my existence crush me even more. I shoved him hard—harder than I intended, the pent-up frustration in me exploding outward. He had stumbled back, wide-eyed, confused.