Chapitre 15: Chapter 14.

Charlotte woke up with a start, wondering what had awakened her. It took her a while to recognize the unfamiliar ceiling, and as she did, the hairs at the back of her neck stood and her blood ran cold, realizing she was not alone in the big room.

Moonlight washed the room white, making it easy for her to spot the figure in her armchair across her bed. Though she could not see the details, she could tell it was a man.

Her blood pumped in her ears, her heart beating frantically in her chest, and she found she could not get enough air into her chest.

Making sure not to move, she threw her eyes to the door. It was still locked. She had locked it from the inside before she went to sleep.

Even as she wondered, cold air blasted into the room from the window on the other side of the room.

'Who could it be?' she wondered. And as she remembered her father's warning not to let her guard down, a shiver ran down her back.

She pretended to stretch in her sleep and reached for the little dagger she always placed under her pillow, only to find it gone.

"You're awake! Your dagger is not under your pillow." A deep voice said. It sounded like it was muffled by a piece of clothing or something, but Charlotte could tell that was not the man's real voice.

She sat up in the bed and studied the figure, wondering if the guards would arrive in time, if she screamed.

Sitting comfortably in the armchair, legs spread wide before him and arms folded neatly in his lap, the figure looked at home. To someone who didn't know what was happening, they looked like they were just conversing normally.

"What do you want?" Charlotte asked, sensing she was not in immediate danger. He would have killed her in her sleep when he took her dagger. Her breathing was still labored.

"You went to visit my friend and he died." the man said simply.

Charlotte held her breath. This was the assassin's friend, and he had come to kill her too. She had nothing but her hands to fight back. And flesh was not a suitable weapon against swords and daggers.

She forced herself to take in a small breath, afraid of making any sound as if, if she stayed very still, she would disappear and he would leave.

"Relax, child, I am not here to hurt you. I just wanted to see you… and warn you."

"About what?" she croaked, her voice small.

The figure stood up and walked to the edge of her bed, looking down at her.

"Who are you?" she added, her voice trembling.

The man chuckled. "In time, child. In time."

He threw her dagger at her feet on the bed.

"Your friends are not your friends, my friend," he said, before turning around and heading for the window.

Charlotte dived for the dagger and threw it at his disappearing back. The dagger hit the wall and clattered to the floor with a loud clang, but not before she heard a grunt from the man as it grazed his arm.

Charlotte's heart slowed and she let out a breath of relief, as the man dived and disappeared through the window. Tears stung her eyes.

The connecting door burst open and Oliver walked in, a sword in one hand and a torch in the other.

"Charlotte, what is it? I heard a noise. Are you alright?" he was by her bed within seconds, placing the flame in its holder and taking her face in his hands.

"Charlotte answer me what was that?"

Charlotte numbly pointed to the window. Oliver followed her finger, noticing the ajar window and its folded bars. There was glass all over the floor. Oliver ran to the window, his sword poised, and peered down into the darkness. Charlotte's assailant was long gone.

His blood was boiling as he threw open Charlotte's door to find no guards on the other side.

"Robert, John!" he called to his own. They had been with him since he was a child. The two were in front of him in seconds.

"Follow him." he pointed to Charlotte's window. They understood immediately, their faces covered in dread.

He looked back into the room at Charlotte's small form. She stared blankly ahead, still in shock. His heart broke for her, cursing himself for not arriving sooner.

He walked back into the room, shutting the doors softly behind him, and joined her on the bed.

"Charlotte, what happened? Are you hurt?"

She stared at him, emotions passing over her face before he had a chance to understand them. He could not tell whether she would punch him in the face or hug him, something he found exhausting. He found himself hating her, why did she have to be so complicated?

She shook her head, turning away from him.

She got out of her bed, her nightgown floating behind her. He watched as she walked to the window, her long hair covering her exposed back, and contrasting beautifully with the white of her chemise.

The full moon seeping through the window made the linen see-through, outlining her perfect body. He trailed her strong, broad, fighter shoulders, with his eyes, the curve of her breasts from the side, her small waist, her rounded hips, and perfect long legs, and swallowed hard, finding it difficult to breathe.

She bent down to retrieve something and his breath caught in his throat, his mouth suddenly dry. If only she knew the effect she had on him.

She turned around to face him, a dagger in her hand. For a moment, he thought she would attack him, again. But her hold on the dagger was too weak.

"I grazed his arm," she said, her voice so small, that he almost didn't hear her.

He walked to her and took the dagger into his hand, sure enough, there was blood on it. It was then that he noticed that she stood on the glass, barefoot.

"Charlotte!" he dropped the dagger. "Are you mad?" but just as he asked her, she collapsed sideways into his ready hands. He carried her to the bed, cursing her for having to pretend to be so independent and strong. As he lay her gently on the bed, John came back panting.

"He is gone Your Highness, we cannot find him anywhere."

"Well, you keep looking until you find him!" he shouted, hating himself immediately. He only ever raised his voice because of this woman who wanted nothing to do with him.

"She grazed him with her dagger, find anyone that has a wounded shoulder, arm, or side. We must find him!" he said, liking the authority in his voice.

John nodded and bowed.

"But first, find some maids and two more guards, her ladyship has hurt her feet, and passed out."

He bowed again and rang a small bell at Charlotte's door. Two maids showed up instantly.

"Your Highness," they shuffled when they saw him.

"Fix her!" he said to them.

He watched them as they lit more candles and pulled the shards of glass from her feet, and decided that someone would pay for this.

Impatient with their speed, he rang the bell again, and more maids arrived. Miss Beatrice showed along with them, awakened by the commotion. When she saw Charlotte on the bed, she turned to him.

"Young prince, you cannot wake the whole palace for hurt feet."

He stared at her, she would be out of the palace if his father did not like her so much, just for saying that.

"Why were there no guards at her door?" he asked her, his voice even.

She seemed surprised by the authority in his voice. He realized that many in the palace saw him as a child. He would have to change their perception.

"I am chief maid, I do not give orders to the guards," she said, indignantly. "Even so, I would assume it's because she is not part of the royal family."

Oliver narrowed his eyes, letting his anger show.

"Well, she will be soon, so you better start treating her so," he said in a low, threatening voice.

"It is not your decision to make," she answered him.

"And yet, it is a decision I already made," he said, his voice hard. " Make sure to report that to Father, while you lay in his bed tonight," he added in a whisper, a wicked smile on his face.

The king's relationship with the chief maid, who was almost twenty years his senior was not open news outside the palace.

Everyone in the palace knew, but no one ever acknowledged it. Oliver was worried his father ignored the council's advice because of her, but that was not something you could say to the king, even if he was your father.

Beatrice watched his face in disbelief for a moment, then her lips curved into her dead smile, if Oliver did not know better, he would have thought she was pleased.

"Perhaps you can grow to be half the king your father is, after all. Though you may never fill your brother's shoes," she said, her voice cold.

It took every ounce of self-control in him not to leap at her and rip her throat out. How dare she mention the brother he had not had time to mourn for. He knew she wanted to watch him crumble, so she could relish in being right, so instead, he smiled.

"I would much rather be the assassin that killed my brother than be anything like the king."

He relished in the shock and disbelief in her face for a moment before calling the guards to follow him.

His whole body shook with unrecognized grief, and as he walked away with a fake smile on his face, he did not know he had left the woman he loved in a pack of wolves.