Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 440. Revolutionary
The three men turned toward the corridor, ready to march ahead as if they hadn't just been waiting outside like gossiping servants. Rose wanted to melt into the floor.
Then Claire spoke.
Her voice was soft, but the gleam in her eyes betrayed her. "Do you… need to wash yourself first, Your Majesty?"
Rose froze mid-step. Heat flushed through her so fast she swore the fire from the parlor had followed her out. She spun toward Claire, mortified.
"No," Rose said too quickly. Her hands smoothed her gown again, though she knew the creases would never lie flat without an iron. "Work. Just…" She exhaled sharply, jaw tightening. "I need to finish my work."
Claire's lips curved into the barest of smiles, the kind she hid behind her hand. "Of course."
Angel's eyes flicked between them. He didn't laugh, didn't even smile—but Rose saw the faint glimmer in his gaze, the one that meant he was savoring every second of this. The way his queen, the woman who usually carried herself like polished steel, was blushing like a girl caught sneaking out of chambers she shouldn't have been in.
He didn't say anything. Not yet. But she knew he would later. He always did.
Rose lingered for a heartbeat longer, exhaling through her nose, before she finally composed herself enough to walk on.
Duty again.
But her lips were still swollen.
And she knew everyone had noticed.
Rose sat behind her desk, pen in hand, parchment spread wide, royal seal in the corner like a bloodstain daring her to mess up. Her fingers twitched. Her head hurt. Her mouth… stung.
She couldn't stop thinking about it.
About him.
Angel had kissed her like he owned her. Taken her like he'd waited a lifetime. And now here she was—trying to act like she hadn't been entirely wrecked in the parlor two minutes ago.
And the worst part? The walls were thin.
Everyone had heard.
She didn't have proof, but the servants whispered differently now, bowing a bit deeper. Even the guards at the end of the hallway gave her those looks—careful, neutral expressions like they were trying not to smirk. As if the king's sudden deviation from his ironclad schedule was somehow... revolutionary.
And it was.
Angel never strayed from routine. Never indulged. Never paused.
Until today.
And of all places… the parlor room.
Claire sat by the tall window, arms crossed lazily as sunlight filtered through the stained glass behind her. She'd been there for almost an hour, pretending to help Rose sort the day's reports. But every time Rose looked up, she caught Claire's reflection in the window—smirking. Just faintly. Not malicious. But knowing.
Smug.
"You're enjoying this," Rose muttered, not looking up.
Claire tilted her head slowly. "Enjoying what, Your Majesty?"
Rose pressed the quill too hard, ink pooling in a messy blot that bled across the parchment like a wound. "Don't start."
Claire rose gracefully from her chair, crossed the room with the quiet ease of someone who knew exactly how far she could push the queen without getting fired. Her black-and-ivory assistant's uniform was crisp, tailored, and annoyingly spotless.
"I was just admiring the view," Claire said, peeking through the window like it mattered. "The gardens are lively today."
Rose risked a glance. Claire wasn't even looking at the garden. She was watching her. Still smirking.
"You look less noble today," Claire added casually. "More like a girl your age."
Rose blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I meant it as a compliment." Claire leaned against the desk, not even pretending anymore. "You've been so composed for so long. It's refreshing to see you a little flustered."
Rose gripped the quill tighter. "I am not flustered."
"You're radiant," Claire teased, voice low and conspiratorial. "Swollen, but radiant."
"Claire—"
Claire straightened as a knock came at the door.
Saved. But not really.
Rose cleared her throat. "Enter."
A chamberlain stepped in, bowed, and announced, "Your Majesty, Lady Farnet has arrived for her audience."
Rose's heart sank like a stone into her stomach. Lady Farnet—one of the border lords' daughters, ambitious and sharp-tongued. She'd been requesting an audience for weeks. If Rose postponed it again, it'd ripple through the noble court like wildfire.
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