Chapter 12: Roses

I studied Zion throughout breakfast, dissecting every word he spoke as if it were a coded message. I hated to admit it, but I was still enjoying his company—a realization that terrified me more than his telekinesis ever could. The memory of the kiss I’d given Karlos was already beginning to smudge at the edges, overshadowed by the intense, dark presence of the man sitting across from me. I had to stay focused. My mission was simple: gain his trust, find the maps, and go home. He was a target. Nothing more.

“Would you join me for a walk in the garden?” Zion offered as we finished, his voice smooth as silk.

“You truly desire my company, Your Highness?” I asked, putting on my best coy act and batting my eyelashes.

“Please,” he said softly, stepping closer. The air between us seemed to vibrate with a strange, magnetic tension. “Call me Zion.”

“But it’s so informal. I could never be so bold.”

“I suppose lying to a king is perfectly fine,” he said, his voice dancing with a teasing lilt that made the hair on my arms stand up. He pressed a hand to his chest in a mock gasp. “But addressing a king by his name? Heavens, the scandal might bring the fortress down.”

I bit back a real smile. “I wasn't sure if we were on a first-name basis yet.”

Are you on a first-name basis? Karlos’s voice echoed in my mind, a jarring sense of déjà vu that made my stomach twist with guilt.

He chuckled, a low sound that felt like it was vibrating in my own chest. “You are not of Fortundra, and you are certainly no stranger to me now.”

We walked out into the crisp morning air, the garden a riot of colors that felt almost artificial in their perfection. We walked in silence for a time until the greenery gave way to a sea of crimson. I stopped, breathless. Thousands of deep red petals swayed in the breeze, and I rushed toward them, sinking to my knees. The scent hit me like a physical wave—a thick, velvety perfume that seemed to fill my lungs and cloud my judgment.

“Do you like roses?” Zion asked. I could hear the smile in his voice, and when I turned, he was standing right behind me.

“These are roses?” I asked, blinking in genuine surprise. I reached out, my fingers hovering just over a bloom.

He stepped closer, his shadow falling over me, large and protective. “You’ve never seen one?”

“No,” I admitted, standing up to meet his gaze. For a second, my mask slipped; the wonder was too real to hide. “I’ve heard of them, but I never... I never had the luxury of growing things that weren't for eating. Money was for necessities, not for things that just look pretty before they die.”

His expression softened, his eyes widening with a touch of something that looked like pity, but felt more like longing. “Well, then,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. He reached down and, with a practiced flick of his wrist, snapped a stem.

He didn't hand it to me immediately. Instead, he stepped into my space, so close I could feel the radiant heat of his body. He held the rose between us, the red petals a stark contrast against his black leather glove.

“I insist you have this one,” he whispered.

“I couldn't possibly take something so lovely,” I murmured. My heart was thumping against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. I was certain my cheeks were flushing as red as the bloom in his hand. The tension was thick, heavy with the things we weren't saying.

He laughed, a melodic sound that seemed to wrap around me. “It’s yours, Diana. Really.”

As I reached out to take it, his fingers brushed against mine. The contact was electric—a jolt of heat that traveled up my arm and settled in the pit of my stomach. I looked up at him, and for a heartbeat, the world disappeared. There was only the scent of roses and the dark, infinite depth of his eyes.

“Thank you,” I whispered, my voice sounding breathy and strange to my own ears. The thorns were sharp, a reminder of the danger, but the petals felt like silk against my skin.

“Don't look so worried,” he teased, leaning down until his lips were inches from my ear. “I have plenty more to give you, if you’re willing to stay and find them.”

I looked down at the flower, my mind racing to find a way to break the spell he was casting. Driven by a sudden, impulsive curiosity—and a need to prove I wasn't afraid of him—I plucked a single, blood-red petal and pressed it to my lips. I watched his eyes drop to my mouth as I bit down.

Zion stared at me, his expression unreadable, his pupils blown wide. The air between us was charged, the kind of stillness that precedes a lightning strike. The taste of the petal was a revelation—sweet, fragrant, and dangerously addictive.

I swallowed, suddenly self-conscious, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm. “Um... have you ever actually tried one?”

Zion nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed on my lips. He reached out, his thumb catching a stray drop of moisture at the corner of my mouth. The touch was lingering, purposeful, and it sent a fresh wave of heat through me.

“I have,” he replied, his voice a gravelly, low rumble that made my knees weak. “I find a petal or two is quite good for the soul. But I think I prefer watching you eat them.”

“It tastes like honey,” I replied, my voice barely a whisper. I felt a dangerous, undeniable spark of connection—a pull toward the monster in the silk shirt that had absolutely nothing to do with my mission, and everything to do with the way he was looking at me.

I was supposed to be the hunter. But as we stood there in the silence of the roses, I realized I was the one holding my breath, waiting to see if he would bite.