Her breathing was deep now—slow, even. Too even.
She was fully asleep.
Again.
He frowned slightly, adjusting his pace so her weight didn't jolt. Earlier that evening, the maids had informed him—very clearly—that Princess Elowen had already been resting in her chamber.
She was asleep not long ago, one of them had said. We did not expect her to—
Yet here she was, draped against him without a care in the world.
He glanced down at her, just briefly.
Her lashes rested against her cheeks, her expression unguarded in a way that unsettled him more than her boldness ever had. No tension. No pretense. Just exhaustion.
"…Strange," he murmured under his breath.
Most women—princesses especially—were alert to every movement, every gaze. They guarded themselves fiercely. Even female werewolves, raised among strength and blood, learned early never to sleep so deeply in unfamiliar territory.
Yet this human girl—this princess—kept slipping into sleep as if her body simply decided it had endured enough.
Perhaps she truly was exhausted.
The journey. The palace. The constant scrutiny. The attack on the road.
And the killing.
His jaw tightened slightly at the thought.
He had expected hysteria. Fear. Tears. Even seasoned warriors faltered the first time they took a life.
But Princess Elowen—had gone quiet instead. Withdrawn. Not broken.
Still shaken, he reasoned. It would be unnatural if she weren't.
He shifted just enough to steady her as her head slid further against his shoulder. Her grip tightened reflexively, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat.
Again, he did not pull away.
Servants ahead straightened as they noticed them approaching. Their eyes flicked—quick, startled—to the sight of the crown prince walking with a sleeping princess half-draped against him.
Darcien's gaze sharpened instantly.
They looked away at once.
He continued forward, expression unreadable, though his thoughts churned.
Why did she trust so easily?
Why did she not fear him?
Why did she sleep like this—unguarded, vulnerable—in a place that was not hers?
As they reached the doors leading deeper into the palace, he slowed to a stop.
For a moment, he considered waking her.
Then she shifted, murmuring something unintelligible, her forehead brushing his collarbone.
He exhaled quietly.
"No," he decided. "Let her rest."
Whatever storm lived behind her eyes, it could wait.
For now, exhaustion had claimed her—and for reasons he did not yet understand, Darcien found himself standing still, bearing the weight of a sleeping girl who did not behave like a princess at all.