The water still clung to my skin as I stepped out of the ensuite, towelling my hair lightly. The steam had fogged the mirror, softening the lines of my reflection until I looked like a ghost version of myself — flushed cheeks, damp skin, eyes already a little tired from the day but dancing with something sharp and mischievous underneath.
I took my time getting dressed. Even alone, even in my own suite, I couldn't bring myself to wear anything dull. I pulled on a silky, backless slate-blue camisole, the straps delicate like ribbon against my shoulders, and a pair of matching wide-leg lounge pants that hugged my waist just right. Comfortable, yes — but still sexy, effortlessly so. The kind of look that said: Yes, I live in a palace. Yes, I look like this doing it.
Padding barefoot down the warm marble floors of the west wing, I followed the subtle smell of herbs and roasted vegetables to the kitchen. The overhead lights were dimmed low, casting everything in a warm golden glow, like honey poured across the countertops.
That's when I saw them — Reya and the palace chef — locked in a one-sided conversation.
Reya stood tall, her broad shoulders angled slightly forward, arms crossed over her chest, voice low but sharp. The chef — a sweet man I vaguely remembered from my childhood, all nerves and nervous smiles — looked like he wanted to evaporate entirely.
"I don't care if you've cooked for three generations of Varnai nobility," Reya was saying, her tone cool and terrifyingly level. "If anything happens to the duchess—foodborne or otherwise—I'll break every bone in your body."
She said it so calmly I nearly choked on my own breath.
Terrifying.
And wildly hot.
I stepped further into the kitchen, just in time for her to give the poor man a firm pat on the back. "Now get to work on dinner," she said, turning toward me.
I raised an eyebrow as I took a seat at the marble kitchen island, letting my eyes drift over her, slow and deliberate. "Remind me not to get on your bad side."
She didn't reply. Of course not.
I propped my chin on one hand. "So. What's for dinner, Commander?"
Her eyes met mine — steady, unreadable. "I'm not the chef."
She took a seat across from me at the far end of the counter, folding her arms again like she had no interest in being within reach. Predictable.
"You can sit closer," I offered, tilting my head. "I don't bite... unless that's something you're into."
Not a blink. Not a twitch of a smile. If she were any more composed, she'd be a statue.
I narrowed my eyes slightly. Is she a statue? A highly trained, absurdly attractive statue with perfect posture and combat skills?
Then — a crash. Loud, metallic, followed by a string of panicked swearing from the butler's pantry.
Reya's head snapped toward the sound. Mine did too, but unlike her, I just smiled.
"I think you scared the living hell out of him," I said casually.
Reya didn't even look at me when she replied. "Good."
I blinked. I actually blinked. It was... a reaction. Not a big one. But it had weight. There was something sadistic in her voice, just for a second. A flicker of danger in her expression. It surprised me.
And I loved it.
Before I could poke at that further, the chef returned, carrying a large, steaming plate with both hands. It was beautiful — roasted garlic-herb venison on truffled parsnip puree, paired with wine-glazed carrots and a medley of edible flowers. Classic Lysvenian haute cuisine, a dish usually reserved for visiting heads of state.
He practically dropped it in front of me, then turned to scurry away without a word.
"Excuse me," I said, grabbing his wrist before he could escape.
He froze. His eyes darted from me to Reya, whose body went immediately tense as she stood behind me.
"Forgetting something, Chef?"
"I—uh—I'm so sorry, Your Grace, I didn't mean to, I'll get you anything—"
I leaned forward slightly, voice soft but slicing. "As long as Commander Stravik is living here, you will cook for her as well. Understood?"
He nodded so quickly I was surprised his neck didn't snap. "Yes, yes, of course, Your Grace, I'll get it right away—!"
I released him gently, watching him retreat in a flurry of apologies.
I turned to Reya, who was still standing.
"Don't worry," I said, lifting a brow, "he's not going to poison me. Probably terrified you'll make good on that bone-breaking promise."
She said nothing. Just watched me.
Eventually, she returned to her seat.
The chef came back with another plate—identical to mine—and set it in front of her with trembling hands. She gave him a small nod. Just a nod. But I could tell it meant more than words.
We both began to eat. The food was exquisite, of course. My first bite melted in my mouth — tender, rich, balanced. I let out a satisfied hum.
Then, barely audible over the quiet clinking of cutlery: "Thank you."
I looked up.
She hadn't looked at me when she said it, but the words had come from her mouth. Soft. Low. Not cold, not exactly warm—but something.
I smiled faintly. "Of course."
We ate in silence after that, but it didn't feel as stiff as before. Something had shifted. Not much, just a tilt — a nudge.
When we were done, I stood and picked up both our plates, walking them over to the sink. I rinsed them casually, the warm water a comfort against my hands.
Behind me, Reya spoke again. "Don't you have someone to do that for you?"
I paused, then glanced over my shoulder, surprised. That was... practically a full sentence. A question, no less.
I turned, leaning back against the counter. "I may be a duchess," I said, "but that doesn't mean I have to be lazy."
She nodded once. Conversation over.
But I smiled to myself. Another nudge. Slow steps. Very slow steps.
She stood up, straightening her already perfect posture. "You should get some rest. Your royal coordinator will arrive at eight."
I groaned dramatically. "Eight a.m. is practically criminal."
Then I leaned in a little, my tone dipping lower, just for fun. "Unless you plan to wake me up yourself..."
She didn't bite. Of course she didn't.
"Goodnight, Commander," I said, brushing past her with a little sway in my hips.
"You're welcome to join me," I added, without even turning around, tossing the words over my shoulder like a silk scarf.
She didn't answer.
I didn't need her to.
I grinned the whole way back to my room.
Flirting with Reya Stravik was going to be my new favourite pastime.
Inside my bedroom, I stripped down to nothing before slipping beneath the sheets. The bed cradled me like a dream — cool linen, a mattress fit for royalty, silence wrapping around me like velvet.
As my eyes fluttered shut, I imagined her again — storm-eyed and stone-faced — slipping into the bed beside me. I laughed quietly to myself and rolled over.
It was a dangerous game.
But I was already having so much fun playing it.
---
I woke with a groan.
The soft chime of my phone alarm was deceptively gentle for the violence it brought to my peace. 6:30 a.m. I blinked blearily at the screen, as if glaring at it long enough might turn back time. No such luck. The room was dimly golden, bathed in the earliest threads of Lysvenian sun pouring between my sheer curtains. Somewhere outside, I could hear birds and the distant murmur of the city rising with me.
Ugh.
This was the earliest I'd willingly been awake since—well, ever. My body had become accustomed to the rhythms of academia, late-night painting sessions and just-barely-on-time lectures. Not this... queen-in-training regimen. I groaned again as I rolled out of bed, feet hitting the cold marble floor.
I dragged myself into the bathroom and into the shower, letting the hot water beat down on me, trying to force me into awareness. The pressure was perfect, the tiles warm beneath my feet, the gold fixtures glinting like small suns. Varnai Palace didn't skimp on luxury.
I stepped out, wrapped myself in a towel, and padded into the walk-in wardrobe. Still damp, still groggy, and still completely naked, I stood in front of rows upon rows of designer clothes. My entire collection had been unpacked and pressed yesterday—hangers organized by colour and fabric, shoes arranged like a curated art exhibit. I trailed my fingers along one silk blouse, biting my lip as I considered my options.
It had to be perfect.
First official day of royal duties as the Duchess of Lirae. Eyes would be on me. Cameras. Citizens. Critics. Lovers. Future biographers. I finally settled on a tailored cream coatdress—structured, but graceful. It cinched neatly at the waist and flared slightly at the hips, the hem falling mid-calf. The subtle embroidery of mountain laurels along the cuffs and lapels nodded to my family's crest. I added my favourite pale sapphire earrings, a thin belt of polished ivory leather, and a pair of nude heels that whispered elegance with every step.
Once dressed, I moved to my vanity and began my makeup. Subtle contouring, a sweep of rose on my cheeks, muted pink lips, and a sharp, confident winged liner. By the time I finished, I was no longer the girl groaning at her alarm—I was Azolaria Thalassa Varnai, Duchess of Lirae.
I smirked at my reflection. "Let them try me."
The scent of espresso lured me toward the kitchen. My heels clicked gently on the polished floors as I entered—and found Reya already there.
She stood by the wide kitchen windows, dressed immaculately in her crisp, dark uniform. Black, fitted, with silver detailing and a subtle badge on her left breast that marked her as commander. She held a simple white mug, steam rising from what I assumed was tea. Her dark hair was neatly pulled back, and even in stillness, she carried the tension of a woman constantly coiled and ready to strike.
"Gods," I groaned as I moved toward the coffee machine, "how are you even awake? I need at least a bucket of caffeine just to remember how vowels work."
She didn't even blink. "I don't drink caffeine."
I paused mid-reach, then turned toward her slowly, brows raised.
"You don't drink caffeine?" I asked, deadpan. "Are you crazy?"
"Yes."
She took another sip of her tea, utterly unbothered.
I snorted and shook my head, pouring myself a dark roast and taking my first blissful sip. The warmth settled through my bones like magic. A soft moan escaped me before I could stop it.
"Finally. I'm human again."
I crossed to the coffee nook, where one of my sketchbooks waited, pages creased and smudged with charcoal. I flipped it open, settling in. A landscape of the coastal cliffs I'd started last week filled the page, and I began refining the shadows along the rocks. It wasn't perfect yet, but I liked where it was going.
When I looked up, Reya was watching me.
Her expression, as always, was unreadable. A statue carved of calm, cool stone.
"Do you draw?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"No."
Silence again.
I tilted my head, watching her, then turned to a new page. My pencil moved quickly, softly, sketching the strong angles of her face. Her high cheekbones. The shadow of her lashes. Her jawline like it had been sculpted to intimidate. And gods, her eyes. Unwavering. Focused. Beautiful.
I worked in quiet focus, occasionally glancing up at her, taking in the arch of her brows, the way she held her cup—always aware, always prepared.
The silence held for nearly twenty minutes before she spoke.
"Run credentials again. Deep scan. Background scrub. Full sweep," she said quietly, her fingers pressed to her earpiece.
Ah. The royal coordinator.
Of course she would check her. Twice. Thoroughly. I sipped more coffee, half in admiration and half in exasperation. Reya Stravik didn't miss a damn thing.
The kitchen doors swung open and a new chef bustled in, placing two large bowls down in front of us with a rushed, nervous bow. The fruit was meticulously arranged—thin slices of starfruit, dragonfruit, passionfruit pulp, a perfect fan of mango, and a drizzle of wildflower honey over a bed of fresh mint and house-made granola. It looked more like art than breakfast.
I ate quickly, letting the cold sweetness rouse me further. Reya did the same—silent, efficient, unmoved. She stood abruptly, walking toward the entryway.
I heard the faint murmur of voices, then footsteps returning.
I wiped my mouth, set my napkin down, and stood.
Time to meet my royal coordinator.
The woman who entered was elegant—mid-forties, in a sharply tailored navy ensemble, blonde hair pulled into a sleek chignon, her nails painted a perfect rose beige. A clipboard brimming with color-coded notes was tucked beneath her arm.
She curtsied deeply.
"Your Grace," she said with a practiced smile. "I'm pleased to finally meet you in person."
I returned the smile and gestured for her to sit opposite me in the drawing room. Reya stood behind her, just to my left, her presence impossible to ignore.
The woman launched into her briefing—my duties, expectations, engagements. A garden gala for environmental reform. A diplomatic brunch with the Valyrian ambassador. A televised address later in the week. I kept pace, nodding, absorbing, asking questions where I needed to. I was calm. Poised. Measured. I was everything I had been trained to be.
I felt Reya's eyes on me the entire time.
Distracting in the most irritatingly attractive way.
After about thirty minutes, the coordinator stood and gathered her things.
"Your Grace, I'll meet you at the first event in one hour. A car will be waiting outside the west wing."
I stood and offered my hand, which she shook respectfully.
"Thank you," I said, offering a confident smile.
She bowed once more and disappeared, heels clicking down the hall.
Once the door shut, I turned toward Reya.
"Your gaze," I said, raising an eyebrow, "is very intense."
She didn't blink. She didn't move.
So, naturally, I threw a pillow at her.
She caught it mid-air with one hand and calmly set it beside her. I smirked.
"Impressive."
I walked toward her, slow and casual. "Well, I suppose we'd better get going so I'm not late to my very first engagement."
No response. Just that same, infuriatingly steady stare.
But I grinned all the same.
Let the games begin.
Thanks for reading!
-T.J Starc