The Heir Who Shouldn’t Love Me

CHAPTER 47 — THE KNIFE IN VELVET

POV: Mara

Morning rain. The kind that falls sideways, sharp and cold, soaking through fabric as if it has been waiting all night to dig into skin. My cloak is useless. Pia’s hood is slipping. The stone smells like wet iron. The market awnings drip in uneven beats, making the whole south square feel like a leaking drum.

The tour goes again, this time through the south market. Seris wants to be seen in every corner of the city—her pearls, her composure, her claims. I’m carrying broth to the older vendors, balancing the weight carefully so it doesn’t slosh over the rim. The bowl warms my fingers; it’s the only warmth I have.

Then a shout rips the air.

“Hands! Hands!”

Everything inside me slams still. I whirl. A kid in a patched coat darts toward Cael, arm out, face blank like a mask he forgot to paint. His boots slip on the wet stone, spraying up droplets. He skids closer, closer—

A Shield slams him to the wall so fast it’s like he blinked there. The sound echoes across the market: back hitting stone, breath knocked out, the wet thump of a body folding. A knife skitters across the stones. Not big. Big enough.

The boy coughs, then gasps, then makes a noise that’s halfway between a sob and a swallowed scream. His hands tremble. His coat is too thin for this weather. He’s shaking so hard his teeth click.

Seris gasps, a little bird sound, one hand to her pearls. She does it beautifully, theatrically—an art form. “My lord!”

Cael’s voice is calm steel. “He’s a cutpurse, not a martyr.” His tone doesn’t rise. Doesn’t drop. Just slices. The Shield holds the boy with one arm like he weighs nothing. Rain slides down Cael’s cheekbones, dripping from his jaw. He doesn’t move to wipe it.

The kid tries to bolt. The second Shield blocks with a knee, clean and practiced, one swift motion that says we’ve stopped bigger threats than you, child.

The boy starts to sob. He’s young. Too young. Aster presses tight inside my ribs—anger, pity, the low rumble of something protective. The boy’s eyes keep sliding to Seris’s aide. The movements are small, but not small enough. I file that away.

Seris makes soothing noises like she’s comforting a child and interviewing him for a hate letter. “Oh, you poor thing. Who sent you?”

“He came for the purse,” Cael says. “It’s strapped.” He holds up the uncut leather as proof. He’s right, but the timing smells wrong. Wrong like sour dough, wrong like too-sweet tea someone slipped something into.

Pia tugs my sleeve. “Don’t stare.”

“I’m not—staring,” I lie, my eyes glued to the scene.

The market watches with collective breath held. Vendors stand frozen behind tables of fish and figs and cheap shell bracelets. A woman clutches her child by the shoulders. A man pretends to inspect apples while glancing sideways. Rain gathers in puddles around our feet.

Cael cuts the tour short “for safety.” They pass the kitchens on the way back. “By chance,” he says to Jax. It is not by chance. Nothing about Cael is accident.

I’m at the service table pretending to inventory spoons. It’s a pathetic act—nobody counts spoons this slowly. My fingers run along the metal just to keep from fidgeting. The kitchen door swings open with a gust of damp air.

He crosses the threshold, damp hair, wet shoulders, eyes I don’t know what to do with.

“Tea,” I say, because it’s the only word that doesn’t break something.

“Please,” he says.

That one soft word almost finishes me.

I pour. The steam curls around my wrist. He takes the cup. Our fingers touch. Not a brush. A press. A whole heartbeat. The kind that slips between ribs and makes new bruises there. My pulse jumps so hard I almost spill. His throat works. He does not look away. His eyes track mine like there’s a tether between them.

“Thank you,” he says, voice low.

“You’re welcome,” I whisper. My mouth feels stupid and alive. Too alive. Like every nerve woke up at once and regrets it.

Behind him, Seris stands at the door with rain on her pearls and a small smile like she just found proof for a theory.

“How homey,” she says. “Your kitchens are very… warm.”

Pia pops up at my elbow like a devil, smile bright enough to blind. “We keep the city fed,” she chirps. “Hungry people do crimes.”

“Ah,” Seris says, voice dipped in honey and venom. “So many crimes in Crownward.” Her eyes cut to Cael’s hand still around the cup. Then to mine. Then back. She tucks that in her pocket and turns away, satisfied. “Shall we, my lord?”

There’s a pause. A breath. His thumb moves once along the cup’s handle. I don’t know if it’s nerves or hesitation or the ghost of something he won’t name.

“Later,” the Regent announces from the hall, voice carrying like thunder wrapped in velvet. “We prepare for the Festival of Threes. Three nights. Paired dances. Attendance expected.” She looks at Seris and smiles without warmth. “You’ll love it.”

Seris’s lashes flutter. “How charming.”

Her aide scribbles notes. Her soldier pretends not to listen. The kitchen staff hold perfectly still, absorbing every nuance like it’s weather they can predict. Pia mouths ugh behind Seris’s back.

Cael sets the cup down slowly. His fingers leave a heat on the handle like a fingerprint I’ll never wash off. I stand there stupidly, palms tingling, the shape of his hand still ghosting mine.

Aster exhales inside me, sharp and knowing.

“Storm coming.”

And I know she doesn’t mean the weather.