Rosaline's hands moved on instinct.
Her mind, still groggy with grief, couldn't keep up with the rhythm of her fingers as they sorted through spools of thread and neatly folded fabrics. The sun had barely risen above the village rooftops, yet her little workspace was already alive with muted colors and soft light seeping through the shutters.
She had opened the windows herself....she needed the air.
Needed to breathe.
There was a strange kind of comfort in the familiar weight of scissors, pins, and fabric between her fingers. Each item had its place. Each movement had a purpose. Where her emotions were chaotic and wild, her tools were steady. Predictable.
Safe.
Ciara hadn't stopped by yet, but Rosaline knew she would. Her best friend wouldn't be able to stay away for long, not after what happened. She was likely giving her space, and Rosaline was thankful for that. This morning, she didn't want comforting words or long talks.
She wanted silence. She wanted peace.
And thread.
And something to pour herself into before she shattered again.
She ran her hand over the deep purple silk she'd chosen for Lysandra Drake's gown...the one the spoiled daughter of Alpha Loren had requested. The fabric was rich, heavy, and bold. A color for someone used to being seen. Someone who thrived in attention.
And Lysandra Loved the attention,the limelight. And she doesn't like sharing it.
Rosaline remembered the girl's calculating eyes, the way she had looked her up and down, both threatened and unimpressed.
"Why should I choose you instead of the capital's finest seamstress?"
Rosaline had smiled calmly that day, masking the sting behind poise.
"Because they'll give you what you ask for," she had said. "I'll give you what you didn't know you needed."
And it was true. Because right now, despite the weight of a broken bond clawing at her soul, Rosaline was pouring herself into a dress that would command attention.
Even if she never got the king's gaze, this gown would.
Her perfect creation.
It hurt her that the gown that she's pouring so much effort and energy into creating, will be worn for the same man that hurt her deeply.
For his birthday....
She threaded her needle with a long silver strand and began to stitch delicate patterns across the bodice lining. Her hands moved smoothly, though her heart still stuttered. Every stitch was like a breath. Inhale. Thread. Exhale. Pull.
She didn't have control over fate or mates or how Darius Silverthrone had looked at her like she was nothing.
How could he do that?... Rosaline still couldn't fathom how he could be willing to let go and ignore the mate pull.
Even her own father left her mother for his own fated mate.... And because they were mates her mother never made it an issue and let him go without a fuss.
But Darius defied all odds.. maybe that's why he's the king.
But she could control this.
This stitch.
This seam.
This moment.
She paused briefly, her hand trembling. Her thoughts drifted back...unbidden...to the market.
His eyes had burned into her soul. Even amidst the crowd, even as she turned and walked away, she had felt him. Felt him.
The bond had tugged, angry and raw, like a wound ripped open again.
He had smelled her. Sensed her.
But he hadn't come.
He didn't chase after her when she ran.
Not even a step.
Rosaline blinked the sting from her eyes and kept stitching.
The sound of the door creaking open pulled her out of her thoughts.
"I figured I'd find you here," Ciara's voice came softly, almost cautiously. "I brought you warm bread… and maybe a hug, if you're not going to push me away."
Rosaline looked up from her work, her fingers still busy with the thread.
Her smile was small, but real. "You can set the bread down, but I'm not ready for the hug yet."
Ciara chuckled, stepping in and closing the door behind her. "Fair enough."
She walked over to the worktable, peering over Rosaline's shoulder at the design. Her brows lifted.
"Is this for the Alpha's daughter?"
Rosaline nodded. "Lysandra Drake."
"She's a pain."
Rosaline smirked slightly. "She is."
Ciara leaned against the table and folded her arms. "You're really going to make her the best dress she's ever worn?"
"Yes."
Ciara tilted her head. "Why?"
Rosaline paused, needle poised above the fabric. Then, she answered, her voice soft but firm.
"Because I may not be the king's choice. But I'll be unforgettable in my own right.
No one will say the girl who sews in Willow couldn't stand beside capital-trained tailors. They'll speak of my work. They'll know my name."
Ciara's eyes softened with admiration. "You're stronger than you know, Rosie."
Rosaline's hands stilled for a moment. Her voice was quiet. "I'm not trying to be strong. I'm just trying not to fall apart again."
"And yet," Ciara said gently, "look at you. Creating beauty out of heartbreak."
That made Rosaline's throat tighten. She looked away, blinking quickly.
"I don't know how to stop missing him," she confessed. "It's like his presence is still under my skin. No matter what I do, it won't fade."
"I know," Ciara said, her voice low. "But that bond doesn't define your worth. You're more than a rejected mate."
Rosaline nodded slowly, gripping the fabric a little tighter.
She picked up a bead and threaded it through the needle. It shimmered like a tear. Then she placed it exactly where it belonged.....centered on the neckline.
Another breath.
Another stitch.
Another step forward.
That's how she'll keep on going forward.. baby steps... Just baby steps.
One step at a time.
She knows that she can't escape missing him some days but she will try to ignore that feeling as much as possible.
She will try to forget him and move on from him and the memory of him and she's on her way to achieving that.
Baby steps... She reminded herself again.