She felt herself pulled then, hard, by her face, caught in both his hands, bringing her face within inches of his. She stared back wide-eyed into those fathomless green eyes, flickering in the firelight and filled with emotion. The anger, annoyance, those she could see easily enough, but underneath… Was that desperation? Fear? And… hunger?

“I do not” He growled, “think of you as a child.” He wound the fingers of one hand into her hair, and the other drifted down to her waist and pulled her flush against him. She gasped, suddenly finding their lips barely a breath apart. “Do I have to spell it out for you?” She could feel the warmth of his breath fanning across her lips.

“N-no.” She breathed, half hypnotized by those flickering eyes. She licked her lips nervously. “I, um, I think… I think I understand.”

“Good.” The annoyance in his eyes flickered out, and something else, something she couldn’t read, took its place. His eyes half closed as he held her there for a moment. His gaze flickered down to her lips, and then back up to her eyes. His thumb was making lazy circles on the small of her back, half distracting her. “Lena…”

“Damien?” She brought her hands up to rest on his chest. The hand that was tangled in her hair tightened, drawing her closer. For one brief, tantalizing moment his lips brushed against hers, soft and light as a feather, barely there.

Lena opened her eyes to the scent of morning dew. She sat up slowly in her bed roll, rubbing sleep and that damned dream from her eyes. Not again. She sighed. She didn’t know how to fight, she sewed beautifully, and, okay, so Damien did treat her like a child, but… It wasn’t like she was used to life on the road...

“Good morning, Princess Lena.” Damien said from by the fire. He spooned up a bowl of whatever he was cooking over the fire and brought it to her. It was some kind of porridge. Not what she was used to, but she supposed she no longer had room to complain.

“You should probably stop calling me that, Sir Damien.” She said quietly, staring into the bowl, as though it held all the answers for everything that had happened the past few weeks. The coup, the escape, the endless days of walking, escorted only by the last knight still loyal to her father… She was no princess, not anymore.

She felt a calloused hand under her chin, tilting her face up to look at him. The last remaining vestiges of the dream came back to her, that gentle brush of lips, and she was sure she was blushing. It wasn’t fair. She was certain she was falling in love with him. She was equally certain he did not see her as anything except her father’s daughter.

“Never.” He said quietly. “I will call you princess until my dying breath, even if you never again sit on a throne. I owe your father that much.” He released her and went back to the fire. She watched him go, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. Of course. He only cared for her because of her father.

She had a choice to make, didn’t she?