The Rejected Rogue Was Their Lost Princess

“What are you doing here?” Talon opened the door himself, his expression a mix of surprise and concern. “When did you get back? Why didn’t you let me know?” His voice softened as he took my hands in his, warming them between his palms. “It’s such a heavy snow. Aren’t you cold?”

I gave him a small smile, pulling my hands away to place the steaming bowl of broth on the table. “I brought you some hot soup,” I said, my voice steady despite the storm brewing inside me. “I didn’t realize you had guests. I’ll leave you to your gathering.” I dipped my head slightly in a gesture of respect and turned to leave.

“Wait.” Talon’s voice stopped me in my tracks. He reached for the leather jacket hanging by the door and draped it over my shoulders. “Go back to the packhouse and wait for me, alright?” His eyes gleamed with something warm, almost tender, like stars hidden in the night sky.

I nodded, keeping my gaze down. “Alright,” I murmured, my voice barely audible. I stepped out into the snow, the jacket wrapping me in its warmth. The cold night air bit at my cheeks, but inside, I felt a strange, lingering heat—like the remnants of a fire I couldn’t quite extinguish.

But it didn’t last. Less than fifteen minutes later, the window of the room opened. The bowl of broth I’d spent weeks perfecting, the one I’d carried through the snow to bring him, was unceremoniously dumped into the icy night. The sound of it hitting the snow was muffled, but the act itself cut deeper than any words could.

I stood there, the jacket suddenly feeling heavier, as if it carried the weight of everything unsaid. The warmth it had provided moments ago now felt like a cruel illusion. I turned away, the snow crunching under my boots, and disappeared into the night.