Chapter 10: One Bed

Naya was folding a shawl with Mira when a servant knocked and entered without waiting for an answer.

"My lady, you’re to pack your belongings."

Naya looked up. "Why?"

"You’re being moved to the King’s private quarters."

The words landed strangely, refusing to make sense at first. Naya thought immediately of the night he’d ordered her to strip, of the humiliation that followed, of the words he’d thrown at her afterward. You’ll never be my woman.

"There must be some mistake," Naya said.

"There isn’t, my lady."

Mira looked just as startled as Naya felt, her hands stilling over the folded linens.

"I’ll speak to him myself," Naya said.

She found Ronan in his study, reviewing a stack of papers he didn’t look up from when she entered.

"Why am I being moved into your bedroom?" she asked.

"You’re my wife."

"You told me our marriage was only on paper."

He finally lifted his gaze. "There’s a formal royal occasion approaching. The entire kingdom’s attention will be on us. I won’t have rumors circulating that this marriage is already failing."

"That still doesn’t explain why I need to sleep in your actual bed."

"I want the arrangement to look legitimate, even within these walls." His eyes stayed steady on hers. "And I want you where I can keep an eye on you."

Naya’s jaw tightened. "I’m not a prisoner."

"You’re my wife," he repeated, as though that settled the matter entirely.

She wanted to argue further, but she could already see there was no changing his mind. Instead, she asked what exactly he expected from the arrangement.

Ronan set his papers down. "I won’t touch you. You won’t touch me. You stay on your side of the bed. You don’t interfere in my affairs, and you don’t enter my private spaces without permission." He paused. "Don’t mistake sharing a room for intimacy. This changes nothing between us."

Naya considered that for a moment. "Then don’t expect me to pretend you’re my husband when we’re alone."

Something flickered across his expression, brief and unreadable. He clearly hadn’t anticipated that.

"If you want a performance for the kingdom," Naya continued, "I’ll give you one. But when we’re alone, I won’t act like there’s love between us. There isn’t."

Ronan studied her a moment longer, then gave a short nod. "Agreed."

Neither of them seemed to notice how difficult that arrangement would become to keep.

His bedroom felt like an entirely different world from the one she’d left behind. There were no portraits of Seraphine here, no reminders of the woman he’d loved and lost. This was unmistakably his space — shelves of worn books, a desk cluttered with personal correspondence, small details that made him feel, for the first time, less like the Lycan King and more like an actual person.

Ronan entered behind her, glancing briefly at the bags Mira had already arranged near the wardrobe.

"You remember the rules," he said.

"I remember."

They climbed into bed on opposite sides, a wide stretch of mattress separating them. Naya lay stiffly, staring at the ceiling, achingly aware of every breath he took beside her.

The silence pressed in until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

"What was Seraphine like?" she asked quietly.

Ronan’s entire body seemed to go rigid. "Don’t mention Seraphine in my bedroom."

"I’m sorry," Naya said quickly, realizing too late how far she’d overstepped.

The silence returned, heavier this time. Naya assumed the conversation was over.

Then, unexpectedly, Ronan spoke. "Why did you ask?"

She thought carefully before answering. "Because I want to understand what kind of man I’m married to."

He turned his head slightly toward her in the dark.

"I don’t expect you to love me," Naya continued. "I know exactly what you think of me. But I’m still living beside you. I’d rather understand the person I’ve been forced to spend my life with than resent a stranger."

"You don’t need to understand me," Ronan said.

"Maybe not," Naya replied. "But I’m still going to try."

He didn’t answer that. For once, he seemed to have nothing ready to say, and the absence of a sharp retort felt almost louder than words would have.

Neither of them mentioned it again. Eventually, Naya’s eyes grew heavy despite herself, and sleep pulled her under before she realized how close it had crept.

She woke sometime in the depths of the night, the room dark and quiet around her. Beside her, Ronan slept, his features loosened in a way she’d never seen while he was awake. Without the ice in his expression, he looked younger somehow. Less like a king carrying a kingdom’s weight, and more like a man carrying grief he hadn’t figured out how to set down.

Then she noticed his hand.

Sometime during the night, it had drifted across the space between them, resting near hers on the mattress. Not touching. Just close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin.

Naya stared at it, unsure why the sight made something twist quietly in her chest. She thought about shifting away, putting proper distance between them before he woke and found some new reason to be cruel.

Before she could move, his eyes opened.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Ronan’s gaze dropped to where their hands rested, close enough to touch, and something shifted across his face.

He pulled his hand back sharply, as though it had been burned.

"Don’t misunderstand," he said, voice low and hard in the darkness.

Naya wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that. Whether he thought she’d moved closer on purpose. Whether he was warning her, or perhaps warning himself.

"I wasn’t," she said quietly.

Neither of them said anything else. Ronan turned onto his other side, putting his back to her, and Naya did the same, staring into the dark on her side of the bed.

Sleep didn’t come as easily as it had before, not for either of them.