Royals of Ruemri Book I: Betrothal

Chapter 13 - Part 3

RAFFE teetered on the brink between consciousness and unconsciousness. Amid fleeting moments of wakefulness, he recollected the sensation of adept hands tending to his wound, the hushed exchanges of voices nearby, the comfort of soft, woolen fabric beneath him carrying the faint scent of hay, and the gentle sway of a wagon in motion. Each time he stirred, a sip of a thick liquid would be administered to him, ushering him back into the realm of slumber once more.

It was the wet, warm, and soft thing lapping on his cheek that woke Raffe with a groan.

He smelled the faint scents of the herbs, clean linen sheets, and the cool, fresh air drifting from an open window. Moving slightly, he realized he was in a bed. That simply means he was back in Zuan and most likely in his chamber in the Verdant castle.

He debated whether to open his eyes or simply succumb to another pull of sleep, but his muscles already ached, and his body badly needed to move. He guessed he was stuck in bed for days already.

Raffe winced as he remembered what happened. He can already hear Jadels' irritating voice at the back of his head—haranguing him that what happened was exactly the reason why he was supposed to sit idly in Ruemreon and be a good little crown prince.

"Come here, Jiri. You'll wake the fool."

As much as he tried not to be bothered by that derisive tone, Raffe's heartbeat kicked up several notches as his ears registered Soren's voice. His eyes shot open and he struggled to sit up, immediately regretting it as both a headache and a shot of pain from his wound flared up. He glanced around the room and was elated to see Soren perched up on a windowsill, too absorbed in the book he was reading to notice that Raffe was watching him.

Raffe was once more struck by Soren's ability to effortlessly draw attention, even from afar. Despite his sharp tongue and sometimes vexatious loquacity, there was an undeniable and astonishing allure about him.

He's all the wrong things Raffe wanted for a partner. He always liked them submissive and quiet, just a perfect blend for his domineering personality. But for some reason he found himself being captivated by Soren, the stark opposite of those things.

Hell, submissive and Soren felt so wrong to put in one sentence together.

The soft light from the window made him glow beautifully, casting a porcelain smoothness across the paleness of his skin. He wore his fair hair on a thick plait, like he always did as Raffe had noticed. His eyes skimmed the book, his forehead creased, and his mouth—that dangerously sweet mouth he unexpectedly missed Raffe even surprised himself—formed a frown.

"Nitwit," Raffe greeted, forcing his voice from his dry throat, in lieu of good morning or good evening because he couldn't tell whether it was dawn or dusk from his bed.

Soren jerked and the book fell from his hands. His bright blue eyes found Raffe and Soren gave him a scathing look before retrieving it from the floor. He stood and walked towards the bed, not meeting Raffe's eyes. He took a pitcher and poured a glass of water, handing it to Raffe without a word, and went back to sitting on the windowsill. Raffe followed his every movement, frowning.

He knew he shouldn't be affected at all because it was ridiculously stupid and silly. But remembering their kisses before he went to his mission, the way he imagined doing it again with Soren when he got back, on top of a desk, pinning him down, devouring his mouth, and making him scream and the cold gesture he had just received from that very same faie stung quite a bit.

"Why are you ignoring me?" Raffe asked outright, squirming under the bed covers to walk over Soren and demand what was wrong or what he'd done wrong because he had no clue and if Raffe remembered correctly, it was him who was dying just a few days ago.