Prince, Cinderella Forsakes You novel · Chapter 24 of 32

Chapter 24: Her House

"Ask me properly," I said.

He looked at me from the doorway. Firelight on his new face.

"Are you sure," he said slowly, "that you want me in here tonight? Like this?"

"Like what?"

"With a face you met this morning."

I crossed the room and stood in front of him.

I had to tip my head right back. He was still as tall as he'd ever been.

"I met that face this morning," I said. "I met you on the second day, in an ugly carriage."

"You told me my stepmother's rings were paste."

His mouth twitched.

"I'm sure," I said. "Listen."

He tilted his head, out of eight years of habit.

Then he frowned, just slightly.

"What?" I said.

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."

I took his bandaged hand and pulled him over the threshold.

I shut the door behind him.

"There," I said. "A bed. A door. All night. That's what you said you wanted. On the river steps."

"I remember what I said."

"Then stop standing in the doorway like a man waiting to be sent home."

He laughed, low, the same laugh as ever.

Then he stopped laughing and looked at me, and I forgot what I'd been going to say.

I stopped in front of him and put both hands on his chest.

The shirt was singed through in places.

I could feel the heat of him through it.

"I want to see you," I said.

He stood still and let me.

I untied the shirt at the neck, slow, because my hands weren't quite steady.

He watched me with those amber eyes, the firelight moving in them.

"There's a trick to it," he said. "You've almost got it."

"Hush."

I pulled the shirt open and pushed it off his shoulders.

It fell to the floor behind him.

I looked.

He was broad all over, the way I'd thought he would be under the cloak.

Hair on his chest, dark, a little gray at the edge of it.

Muscle from eight years of carrying whatever needed carrying, and no fur anywhere.

I put my hand flat on his chest.

His heart was going hard under my palm.

"Turn around," I said.

He turned.

His back was broad, and there were old marks on it, but only the marks of work and weather.

No mane.

No claws.

Just a man's back.

I put my mouth on his shoulder blade.

He went still as stone.

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