𝚂𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 ✔

Chapter Sixteen

For some reason, during my time with Thomas that Thursday, I had an overwhelming sense of guilt that ate away at the back of my mind.

Every time he flirted with me, I thought of Henry. Yet, Henry had not been interested in me like Thomas had. To him, I was no more than a friend, but to Thomas I was someone who could have ended up being his wife, his lover.

His intentions were mostly on his sleeves, and I, roughly, knew where his and my relationship would have ended up. But Henry, he showed too much and yet not enough. And with every interaction I had with him, the more I felt guilty for continuing to pursue Thomas.

I liked the tension that Thomas and I had, the warmth that filled my body when I was in his presence. But despite not having that with Henry, my mind anyways found its way back to him.

Though, perhaps, in that case, it could had been because I had not spoken to him since that day the hall. His absence had been felt, more than it should have been. And even though I did not want to admit it, I had been impatiently awaiting his solution that would have allowed us to spend time together without the worry of prying eyes.

I felt his large hands as they slowly crept their way up my back, then grab me by the shoulders from behind. His hot breath rolled across the skin of my neck as he spoke, causing the hair all over my body to stand at attention. "What do you think of this one, Miss Beckett?"

"I-I," I breathed out, "think it is rather beautiful, my prince." I tried to remain focused on the painting that the two of us had been admiring in the gallery of the palace, but just his well-placed touches were enough to melt my composure.

I glanced over at Cordelia who, along with the other servants, stood against one of the far walls, serving as a chaperone for Prince Thomas and myself. She flashed me a small, encouraging smile, just before winking at me. No doubt silently cheering me on for how close he and I were standing.

"There is a sense of yearning in it, I think." He slid his right hand slowly down my arm, I felt him grin as goosebumps arose on my skin at his tender touch.

It was a painting of two women, sat atop a bed with hands touching ever so slightly as they gazed longingly at one another.

"They look sad. . ." I replied as I now stared intently at the painting, ignoring his touch. The emotion in their eyes spoke volumes, volumes I felt like I had been slightly familiar with. "As if the love they hold for one another will never come to fruition, and so all they are allowed is fleeting touches and short bouts of sensual eye contact. For, if they ever spoke of the fondness that they hid deep inside for one another, it would mean the end of everything, their cherished friendship and of their silent love." I paused and turned to him, "Could you imagine the pain of loving someone who you were not allowed to love? A miserable life it must be, to go on knowing you cannot have them. The torture of watching them with another, when instead it should have been you?"

The guilt I had felt earlier started to swell up inside me, choking me, as I realized that if I kept entertaining the thought of friendship with Henry, that I too would have ended up like those women in that painting.

"Are you opposed to it?" He asked, shaking me from my thoughts, "Relations with the same sex?"

"I believe love is something us, as people, have no right to dictate. It is a beautiful, natural thing that manifests in many ways. So, no I am not opposed to it." I watched him, trying to understand why he had asked something so out of place.

"Interesting." His soft lips slowly curled into a smile, as he looked at me with desire filled eyes. "Very interesting indeed."

. . .