Claimed By The Tyrant King

Rosalind arrived at her chamber with her footman guiding her toward the bed, and the moment she sat down, she was still shaken by how her life had flashed before her eyes.

She had come dangerously close to being burned alive, and if not for the man before her, she did not even want to imagine how it would have ended. Swallowing hard, she slowly lifted her gaze to meet his, her thoughts circling around the same question she could not seem to silence...why had he risked himself for her without hesitation?

"Are you alright, my lady?" Rowan asked.

Rosalind loosened the cloak around her shoulders and gave a small nod, though her fingers still trembled slightly. "I’m alright," she answered quietly, before her gaze lifted fully to him. "But what about you? Are you hurt?"

The image of him gripping the burning fabric with his bare hands replayed in her mind again, and no matter how she looked at him now, she could not accept that he had escaped unscathed.

"I’m fine," Rowan replied, his tone firm but dismissive.

Rosalind did not seem to believe him as she rose from the bed without another word and moved quickly to the cupboard, searching through the arranged bottles and jars until she found the balm Alaric had given her earlier. She hesitated for only a moment before taking it, then returned to Rowan and extended it toward him.

"This should help with the burns... I’m sorry I caused you trouble," she said softly.

Rowan lowered his head slightly. "It’s nothing," he repeated.

Her eyes slowly shifted to his hands, and she noticed the way his fingers were curled, almost as if he was deliberately hiding them from her sight. That alone made her step closer without thinking. She reached for one hand, and the moment she saw the redness and damage across his skin, her eyes widened.

Reaching for the other hand confirmed it, both were injured, and badly.

"There’s no way you’re fine," Rosalind said and added firmly. "Sit down. I’ll take care of it."

Rowan did not move at first, only looking at her with that same unreadable expression he always carried, but Rosalind’s patience had already worn thin.

Without waiting for permission, she placed her hands on his strong arms. The contact seemed to catch him off guard just enough for her to guide him onto the edge of the bed.

She quickly opened the balm and took his hand, supporting his palm while carefully spreading the ointment across the burns. Her movements were gentle but focused, as though she didn’t want to cause him any more pain than necessary.

A sharp hiss escaped his lips.

Rosalind glanced up briefly before returning her attention to his hand, then leaned slightly forward and blew softly across the injured skin to ease the sting.

Rowan went still.

His gaze fixed on her almost immediately.

He did not speak and did not look away, even when he tried to shift his attention elsewhere, he could not. Something about the way she cared for his wounds held him in place. The light from the room softened her features, catching in the loose strands of her hair while her brows remained slightly drawn in concentration. She tended to his hands carefully as if his pain mattered to her.

And yet, he found himself watching her closely.

Rosalind, unaware of his gaze, continued tending to his other hand in the same careful manner until she finally finished and straightened up.

"You should avoid using your hands for anything for now," she said, her voice softening.

And she added more quietly, "It must hurt so badly..."

Rosalind’s expression then tightened again as she turned back to him. "Why didn’t you think before using your hands to put out the fire?" she asked, frustration slipping into her tone. No matter how she tried to understand it, it made no sense to her. He was only her footman, and they were not close enough for him to risk himself like that, yet he had been the only one to move toward her when everyone else had stepped away.

"You would have been burned," Rowan answered simply.

Rosalind paused, and for a moment, silence settled between them.

Then she exhaled slowly and said, "Thank you."

Rowan did not respond. He simply looked at her for a brief moment before rising from the bed. Instinctively, Rosalind took a small step back as he bowed his head slightly.

"I shall take my leave, my lady," he said.

She nodded quietly and moments later the door closed behind him, leaving her alone in the quiet of the room.

Outside, Rowan let out a slow breath.

He had wanted to leave earlier, but Rosalind’s stubborn insistence on tending to his wounds had kept him there longer than he intended.

Yet it was not the burns on his hands that occupied his mind...

Earlier, on the ballroom floor, when the fire had started and Rosalind had moved in panic, his attention had been drawn to something he should not have seen so clearly.

A crescent-shaped mark on her collarbone.

And a chill ran through him.

It couldn’t be...

—So that you may know my daughter better, she has a crescent shape on her collarbone...

The words returned like something long buried being dragged back to the surface.

For so long, he had ignored the signs... the way she spoke... Especially with the unfamiliar accent that did not belong to this kingdom, the songs she sometimes hummed under her breath that he recognized from another land entirely. None of it had seemed important at the time, but now everything aligned in a way he could no longer dismiss.

Except the mark...

That had been the final piece.

Rowan’s jaw tightened.

If what he suspected was true, then Rosalind was not simply a noble lady serving under the king’s arrangement.

She was someone he had believed was lost and had been searching for long ago.

... To think that she had been right here all along.

Rowan’s gaze shifted toward the closed door behind which Rosalind remained, and for a moment he stood still, the weight of realization settling heavily in his chest.

Rosalind Calder was no longer just a stranger to him, for she was meant to be his.

****

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