A deep voice jolts me from my dreamless nap, slicing through the haze of sleep with sharp precision.
"I see you've made yourself comfortable."
I stir, groaning softly as I roll to my side, assuming the voice is just my subconscious scolding me for slacking off.
My body feels heavier than usual, but I push myself to sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
The room comes into focus, and it takes a moment for me to realize where I am. The bed. I'm in his bed.
I stare at the clock for long seconds, using the opportunity to get the sleep out of my eyes. I slept off... fuck, I slept off.
I slowly look around the room as I begin to process my surroundings. The freshly stacked papers on the desk, the tidied shelves, the neatly folded jacket I left draped over the arm of the chair—all signs of the work I've done.
My mental checklist starts ticking off: desk? Done. Shelves? Organized. Floor? Clean. Bed? Well...
Sliding off the mattress, I stretch slightly, trying to shake off the grogginess. My muscles protest, and I groan under my breath, sitting back down on the soft bed. "Never had a nap that good," I mumble without much thought.
"Well, I'm glad to know I provide excellent bedding," the voice replies, deep and unmistakably amused.
My head snaps up, and my heart jumps into my throat.
This is definitely real...not a voice from my dreams. Caspian is definitely here.
Seated in the corner of the room near the expansive windows, his legs crossed casually, is the prince himself. The man whose very presence seems to make the air feel heavier.
He leans back against the chair, his black dress shirt unbuttoned halfway to reveal smooth, taut skin beneath.
The shirt hangs loose, giving him a disheveled, almost predatory look. Paired with black slacks and a discarded jacket draped lazily beside him, he radiates a kind of casual dominance.
His dark hair, slightly longer than when I last saw him, falls into his eyes in a way that's both irritatingly perfect and maddeningly distracting.
I gape at him, struggling to find my voice. He's not supposed to be here.
"Isn't he supposed to be back in two days?" The words slip out before I can stop them, my thoughts finding their way to my lips unfiltered.
He tilts his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, which are as cold and piercing as ever. "Well, I'm here now," he says, his tone sharper than his expression. "And I need you out of my bed."
My cheeks burn as I scramble off his bed, fumbling for words, my mouth opening and closing uselessly. "I—I didn't mean to fall asleep," I stammer, the words tumbling over themselves in a desperate attempt at explanation. "I was just—"
"Save it." He cuts me off with a wave of his hand, his voice carrying a note of finality that silences me instantly.
Rising from the chair, he moves with a kind of calculated grace that makes me feel even smaller in his presence. "I didn't bring you here to sleep. If you're going to laze around, I'll assign you to the gardens. They could use a hand with the weeding."
The irritation bubbling beneath my skin threatens to spill over. I've been working for hours, putting in more effort than I probably should, and here he is, accusing me of being lazy?
"I'm not lazy," I snap before I can stop myself. The words are out, and there's no taking them back. "I've been working all day. I haven't even fully recovered yet. Humans and our slow recovery type of shit. Take me out to the gardens, and you'll be burying my body by sunset."
He stops mid-step, his brow arching as he turns to face me fully. His gaze locks onto mine, and for a moment, the room feels unbearably small.
His expression doesn't change, but I can see something flicker in his eyes—something that looks like irritation, or maybe amusement.
It's impossible to tell. After what feels like an eternity, he tilts his head slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"Change the sheets," he says finally, his voice low and commanding.
Before I can muster a response, he turns on his heel and strides toward the door. His movements are unhurried, deliberate, as though he has all the time in the world.
The soft click of the door closing behind him is the only sound in the room, leaving me standing there in stunned silence.
My pulse is still racing, my mind replaying the encounter over and over like a broken record.
I stare at the bed, his scent clinging stubbornly to the sheets I'm supposed to replace. The smell of roses. It's everywhere, woven into the very fabric of the room.
Why on earth would a man smell like roses?