Page 23 of The Withering Wood

“I must say, I’ve never heard someone use my title with such…vitriol.”

Cerise cast him a sideways glance, eyebrow raised.

“I quite like it.”

She huffed, muffling a surprised laugh. “And I must say, you’re much stranger than I expected you to be.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?”

“Undecided.”

The prince laughed again, a low, pleasant sound like a contented cat’s purr.

When the sun hid behind the Merathel Mountains, the first stars shining through the deep purple of the eastern sky, they set up camp. Assuming the absorber would melt the snow beneath their tent—and not wanting to wake on a sunken bed of water—the prince offered to dig out a trench to set their tent in. Cerise hacked out some uncursed wood and built a fire, then stretched her leg beside the flames while roasting the slim, skinned fox and boiling its bones.

Several times, Cerise offered to assist him. Each time, he declined. So she relaxed, rubbing the aches in her knee, and snuck glances at the thoughtful prince. Once the trench was dug, he pitched the tent, placing the wool and hide shelter Cerise and Eirwen slept in while Cerise built their cabin, in the pit. Not once did the tent collapse on him while he erected it, as Cerise had expected.

He ducked his large form inside, and several minutes later, the absorber glowed from the interior, pulling in traces of cold. When he stepped back out into the snow he stretched, emphasizing the width of his chest and muscular arms.

Twice now, she’d been surprised by his consideration and efficiency. From all she knew of the royal family, she never expected one of them to put others’ needs before their own. Never thought they’d get their hands dirty in icy soil and snow, cradling cursed plants, and pitching tents. How did he come to learn such things?

The prince roved his hands through his thick golden-brown hair, waves shaking loose over his shoulders as he stalked toward the fire. “You’re staring.”

“No, I’m watching to ensure you don’t fuck up.” Cerise snapped her head away, hiding the rising blush in her cheeks. Yet she still caught the prince’s pleased grin.

He piled snow into their mugs and placed them beside the fire, letting it melt, then leaned back to gaze at the sky on the rare clear night.

“That’s the Hammer of Merathel,” he said, pointing upward. Cerise followed the trace of his fingers through the air. They pointed to a diagonal line of four stars, with a dozen more at the top in a semi-rectangular shape. For as much time as she spent sleeping beneath the sky, back when there were more seasons than the varying intensities of winter, she never cared much for the heavens. Where the Celestials hid in their divine plane, letting the mortals fight their war, granting boons as they deemed appropriate. It sickened her.

“And there, the Crown of Sylvenel.”

His gaze and hand shifted, pointing toward another cluster of stars. She stared at it, trying to figure out how it was supposed to be a crown. When she couldn’t make out the shape, she instead turned her focus to the star-gazing prince, wondering how he came to know the heavens so well.

The flames glowed deep gold in his hair, waves cascading over his neck, just touching his back. They flickered in his eyes, too, all the bright shades of lost dawns.

She cleared her throat and looked at the cooking fox. Cerise slit open the meat with a knife, checking if it was cooked through. Then she carved pieces of it, handing them to the prince.

He thanked her, and though he grimaced while he chewed, he didn’t comment on the taste. The usually tough and gamey meat was even drier than normal, and Cerise’s jaws tired from trying to tenderize it.

Cerise massaged her leg while eating, needing something else to focus on besides the disappointing, inadequate dinner.

“Would you like me to do that?” the prince asked, nodding toward her knee.

“No.”

“Are you certain? I imagine doing it yourself isn’t as satisfying. And I’d be glad to offer you the relief.”

A teasing lilt lifted the prince’s voice and Cerise glared at him.

“I am certain.”

“A shame,” the prince sighed. “I suppose I’ll simply have to dream about it, then.”

“Dream about what?”

“Touching you.”

A flirtatious smirk curled the corners of his lips as his eyes flicked to her mouth. Then he rolled his lips, moistening them, powerful hands shredding the last piece of his fox.