Armish's POV
For once, Armish woke up without immediately questioning her life choices.
Soft sunlight poured through the enormous, crystal-draped windows, casting gentle beams across the absurdly luxurious room. Pale silver curtains swayed, velvet bedding weighed her down like royalty had designed her blanket prison.
For a moment… peace.
And then reality punched her in the face.
Last night.
The gorgeous, terrifying silver-haired stranger — had hovered beside her, practically radiating protective alpha energy, motioning for her to sleep.
Armish had argued in whispered sarcasm, of course.
"Sleep? Dude, I don't even know where I am! No clue who you are! I'm possibly kidnapped by some medieval cult—"
Him? Not impressed.
The man had literally pressed a giant, calloused palm gently over her eyes, forcing them closed with ridiculous care, his voice rumbling low and unfamiliar in her ear.
"Vel'en sai… sha'len…"
Whatever that meant.
She was 90% sure it translated to "Sleep, little gremlin" or "Stop talking, weird Earth girl."
Her brain, utterly fried, had obeyed. Mostly.
Now morning light sparkled across polished marble floors, strange silver runes hummed faintly along the walls, and—
Voices. High-pitched. Feminine.
She blinked groggily as a parade of maids appeared — young, graceful women in pale silk uniforms, carrying trays of towels, robes, and what looked suspiciously like royal-grade spa supplies.
"Uh… hey?" Armish croaked, voice still scratchy.
The maids gasped softly — wide, curious eyes locking onto her as if they'd discovered a mythical creature.
One of them clapped excitedly, speaking rapid, lyrical words that sounded like wind chimes mixed with alien gibberish.
Before Armish could protest, they swarmed.
"Wait, wait—hold up—!" Her voice cracked as two petite maids grabbed her hands, urging her gently out of bed, while another practically skipped toward an adjoining door.
Inside?
The bathroom from a billionaire's Pinterest board.
A massive tub carved from glowing, pale stone. Steam drifted lazily across the surface, sparkling with something that probably wasn't FDA approved. Silver fixtures. Soft, enchanted light. And enough expensive soaps to fund an entire Sephora.
Panic.
"Okay, okay, I can wash myself, thanks—whoa, personal space—"
They didn't understand a word. But they understood the mission: Bathe the chaotic, confused human.
The smallest maid grabbed shampoo. The taller one seized a loofah like it was a battle weapon. The third? Already trying to untangle Armish's hopeless bird-nest hair.
Soap splashed everywhere. Towels scattered. Someone knocked over a pitcher of water.
Total spa war zone.
"Hey! I can scrub my own arms—nope, that's my foot—soap in my eye—Ow! Who throws a loofah?!" Armish spluttered, flailing like a slippery eel as the determined maids tag-teamed her.
One maid slipped dramatically, crashing into the stone wall with a high-pitched yelp, legs flailing in the air.
Soap bubbles drifted like party confetti.
Armish sat in the giant tub, drenched, clutching a towel around herself, glaring as the remaining maids giggled in their strange language.
"This is not how I imagined castle life," she muttered darkly, wiping foam off her forehead.
And then…
The door opened.
Boots. Heavy. Familiar footsteps.
Oh hell no.
Armish turned—just as the person I have hate and love relationship walked in, silver eyes sharp, tall frame filling the doorway like a damn god of chaos and unwanted timing.
Towel. Only towel.
Her. Sitting there. Dripping. Practically naked. Soap foam sliding down her arm.
Armish screamed like her vocal cords owed her money.
"GET OUT!" Her shriek ricocheted off marble walls, nearly shattering the stained-glass windows.
His brows shot up. His sharp jaw tightened, but his glowing gaze darted to the towel situation. His silver eyes snapped to hers — unreadable, but faintly amused.
One of the maids slipped again in panic, crashing into the side table with a squeak.
Armish grabbed the towel tighter, cheeks blazing molten red, voice cracking:
"GET. OUT. NOW."
He held his hands up in universal 'don't-kill-me' surrender, backing out gracefully — but the faintest smirk tugged at his lips as he disappeared.
"Pervert king," Armish hissed under her breath, dunking her face in the nearest fluffy towel to hide her mortification.
The maids? Giggling. Great. Now castle gossip would crown her 'towel girl' by sundown.
---
Thirty minutes later…
Armish stumbled into the grand dining chamber, thoroughly bathed, reluctantly dressed in another silky, moon-themed gown — thankfully, no towel involved.
The room? Straight out of fantasy novels.
Enchanted chandeliers hovered, silver fire crackling softly within glass orbs. The polished floor reflected intricate wolf and star patterns. A long dining table stretched across the space, covered in exotic fruits, pastries, bread, and things she couldn't pronounce.
And him.
Brooding at the table, navy shirt unbuttoned just enough to show sharp collarbones, silver hair still damp. His eyes found her instantly — soft, sharp, impossible to read.
Armish's stomach did… unfortunate gymnastics.
"Great. Towel guy is breakfast guy," she muttered.
A maid gestured for her to sit beside him — of course — because fate clearly hated her comfort zone.
Awkwardly, she shuffled to the chair, avoiding his burning gaze, sliding into place beside him. The proximity? Way too close. His leg brushed hers beneath the table.
Her brain short-circuited.
He said something low — foreign words wrapped in velvet and steel. His voice softened, expression gentle despite the unreadable language barrier.
His hand hovered — offering her a piece of warm bread, steam curling from the crust.
Peace offering?
Despite herself, Armish's lips twitched.
"You're lucky you're pretty," she whispered, taking the bread.
Armish had barely settled into her chair beside the pretty dude when the heavy door creaked open again.
Great. More spectators.
In walked King Broody and Queen Perfect-Hair — both glowing like they'd stepped out of a royal shampoo commercial. The King's sharp gaze scanned the room with military precision, lingering on Armish, narrowing slightly like she was still an unsolved math problem.
The Queen? Silver hair cascading, eyes warm yet impossibly observant. Her expression softened when she spotted Armish — almost like she was amused by the disheveled human clinging to dignity by a thread.
Silver stood briefly, nodding to them in that formal, regal way. Armish awkwardly tried to mimic the nod, nearly head-butting the table in the process.
They joined the meal, taking seats across from her.
Suddenly, breakfast turned into a royal summit.
Delicate plates of sliced fruit, warm pastries, crystal glasses of something sparkly — all laid out like an edible art display. Armish had never felt more out of place… or more hyper-aware of every crumb she touched.
His hand hovered near hers again — brushing fingers as he passed her a platter. His parents noticed. The Queen's lips twitched, eyes dancing with amusement. The King? Expression carved from stone, but his gaze never missed a beat.
Tension? Off the charts.
Every time Armish nibbled her bread or sipped the oddly floral drink, she caught dude's watchful eyes… then his parents'… then her own face reflected in the polished silverware, still flushed from earlier towel-related trauma.
Trying to act cool, she leaned toward him, whispering under her breath, "Is this normal? Or is this 'we interrogate the weird human over croissants' energy?"
He didn't understand the words — but her tone? Her side-eye? That, he absolutely caught. His lips curved faintly, eyes crinkling at the corners.
King Broody exchanged low words — firm, questioning. His gaze flicked between them, lingering on Zarek's protective proximity.
Queen Perfect-Hair? Gently buttering her bread like breakfast drama was just another Tuesday.
Armish bit into a flaky pastry, feeling like an alien being sized up by majestic wolves — because… well, that's probably accurate.
But dude's knee bumped hers beneath the table again — steady, grounding, quietly possessive — and for once, the butterflies didn't feel like pure panic.
The table buzzed with foreign conversation, regal tension, and unspoken questions.
Armish sat, chewed, and mentally cried.