Page 20 of Sun's Roar

After finishing her bath, she dried herself and slipped into the green sundress Deina had provided. The fabric felt luxurious against her skin, the cut somehow perfectly suited to her curvy figure. She examined herself in the ornate mirror. The dress complemented her pale skin and made her hazel eyes appear more green than brown. Her damp red hair hung in loose waves past her shoulders.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Deina waited with a silver brush in hand.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing to Helena’s hair.

Helena hesitated, then nodded, allowing Deina to guide her to a cushioned seat at a vanity table. Gentle hands worked through her tangles with surprising efficiency.

“So, when exactly can I meet this mysterious prince?” Helena asked, watching Deina’s reflection in the mirror.

“After your hair is dry, I’ll escort you to dinner,” Deina replied, her motions rhythmic and soothing. “He’s eager to see that you’ve recovered.”

Helena sighed. “I guess I can’t exactly refuse dinner with the man who saved my life, even if it is my new boss who lied about his identity.”

Deina’s hands paused momentarily before resuming their work. “I’m sure all your questions will be answered soon enough.”

Helena sat perfectly still as Deina’s nimble fingers worked through her long hair, applying gentle pressure against her scalp with each stroke of the brush. The rhythmic motion was almost hypnotic, and despite her confusion about the bizarre situation, Helena found herself relaxing slightly.

“Would you like your hair up or down for dinner?” Deina asked, catching Helena’s gaze in the vanity mirror.

“Down is fine,” Helena replied. “Really, you don’t need to fuss over me.”

Deina smiled knowingly. “The Prince appreciates beauty. It would be a shame not to highlight yours.”

Helena felt heat rise to her cheeks. “I’m not trying to impress anyone. I just want answers.”

“And you’ll have them soon.” Deina set down the brush and reached for a small velvet pouch. She withdrew a collection of cosmetics that looked far more expensive than anything Helena had ever purchased.

“Is the makeup really necessary?” Helena shifted uncomfortably.

“Just a touch,” Deina insisted. “To bring out what’s already there.”

Helena sighed and allowed Deina to proceed, feeling increasingly out of her element. The chef in her was accustomed to practical ponytails and minimal makeup that wouldn’t melt under kitchen heat. This level of pampering was foreign territory.

Twenty minutes later, Helena barely recognized her reflection. Deina had applied just enough cosmetics to enhance her features without looking overdone. Her hazel eyes appeared brighter, framed by subtly darkened lashes, and her lips shimmered with a rosy tint. The green dress complemented her fair complexion and made her red hair look like living flames cascading over her shoulders.

“There,” Deina announced, stepping back to admire her work. “Simply radiant.”

Helena touched her face lightly. “I look like someone else.”

“No,” Deina corrected. “You look exactly like yourself—just enhanced.”

With gentle insistence, Deina guided Helena through the castle’s stone corridors. Their footsteps echoed against marble floors as they passed tapestries depicting forest scenes and fierce wolves. Suits of armor stood sentinel at regular intervals, their metal surfaces gleaming in the light of wall-mounted sconces.

“This place is massive,” Helena whispered. “How old is it?”

“Parts date back centuries,” Deina replied. “The Prince’s family has maintained it for generations.”

They approached a set of double doors carved with intricate woodland scenes. Two uniformed men stood guard, bowing slightly as Deina and Helena approached. With a synchronized movement, they pulled the doors open.

Helena stepped into a vast dining hall dominated by a long wooden table beneath a chandelier dripping with crystals. Candles illuminated the space with a warm, flickering glow. Her attention, however, fixed immediately on the man standing at the far end of the table.

Not Victor. Sol.

The same dark brown hair, short on the sides and fuller on top. The same neatly trimmed beard and mustache framing a strong jawline. The same broad shoulders beneath an impeccably tailored suit. The same man who’d flirted with her at the restaurant—who she’d thought was just some charming stranger.

His intense green eyes locked with hers across the distance, and Helena felt a jolt of electricity shoot through her body. He wasn’t just looking at her, he was devouring her with his gaze, an unmistakable hunger in his expression tempered with something that resembled reverence.

“You?” Helena stopped cold, her hand flying to her chest. “You’re the Prince?”

---