Somehow, this casual version of him looked even more formidable. More touchable. More impossibly sexy.
Heat flooded her cheeks as her gaze traced the strong column of his throat, the way the henley’s neckline revealed just enough skin to make her wonder what lay beneath. When her eyes finally met his, she caught the flash of satisfaction in those pale blue depths—as if he’d deliberately chosen clothes designed to scramble her brain.
His devastating smile confirmed her suspicion. “You look much better.”
His gaze swept over her with clinical assessment, checking for lingering signs of her earlier collapse. She watched tension leave his shoulders when he registered her steady posture, the healthy color returned to her cheeks, and the determined set of her jaw. That silent relief warmed her unexpectedly, the realization that he’d been genuinely worried settling something restless in her chest.
“I feel much better,” she assured him, lifting her chin with more confidence than she possessed. Her grip on the recipe notebook tightened. “I’m ready to work.”
His answering nod was small but sincere, approval flickering in his eyes. When he gestured for her to follow him, the movement carried none of the formal protocol she’d expected. This felt less like a prince escorting a guest and more like a man stepping beside a woman he was trying to win over.
Stop it,she commanded herself as they began walking through corridors lined with silver-veined stone.Focus on the task at hand.
“I have an idea,” she said as polished marble clicked beneath their feet. “For tonight. Something to showcase what I can actually do instead of...” She gestured vaguely. “Whatever that disaster was this morning.”
“I’m listening.” His voice held genuine interest, not polite indulgence.
“Dessert samples. A tasting menu combining Earth techniques with Nova Aurora ingredients.” The words tumbled out faster as her excitement built. “Something familiar but new. Something that shows your pride I’m not just some fragile human who faints at inconvenient moments.”
She expected him to question the ambition of preparing everything in a single afternoon. Expected practical concerns about timing, logistics, the sheer scope of what she was proposing.
Instead, he surprised her.
“Excellent idea,” he said easily, as if her success was already guaranteed. “You can present them at tonight’s feast. My pride will be eager to experience what you bring to us.”
The confidence in his tone made her stomach flutter with something dangerously close to anticipation. He believed she could do it. Trusted that whatever she created would be worthy of attention.
“I’ll help you so it’s more manageable,” he added, as if assisting her was the most natural decision in the world.
Faith nearly stumbled. “You really don’t need to. I’m sure you have other royal duties to attend to this afternoon.”
“But I want to help you.”
The idea of a future king spending hours baking beside her was almost absurd—and deeply, dangerously endearing. Thisman who ruled a pride of apex predators, offering to measure flour and fold batter like any ordinary kitchen assistant.
“I can handle it alone?—“
“I know you can. But you don’t have to today.” The simple declaration stopped her protests cold. “Besides, I’m curious to see how your mind works. How you create something from nothing.”
“Alright, I guess an extra set of hands wouldn’t hurt,” Faith conceded softly.
When the kitchen doors finally swept open, Faith almost forgot how to breathe. She’d expected grandeur—this was a royal palace after all—but nothing had prepared her for the sheer magnitude of culinary paradise spread before her.
The space stretched endlessly, easily three times larger than her entire bakery back home. Rows of pristine ovens lined the walls like sleeping giants, their surfaces gleaming under soft ambient lighting that made everything feel warm and inviting rather than sterile. The low hum of controlled heat whispered promises of perfect baking conditions.
“This is incredible,” she breathed.
Counter space extended in smooth, unbroken lines of what looked like polished granite shot through with veins of silver that caught the light. Her fingers traced the cool surface, half-convinced this dream would dissolve under her touch. Back in New Jersey, she fought daily battles with a temperamental oven that required coaxing and a workspace so cramped she could barely turn around with a mixing bowl in her hands.
“The pantry,” Kovrak said, his voice carrying quiet pride as he gestured toward an archway that beckoned like a portal to another realm.
Faith followed him, her heart hammering with anticipation. When they stepped inside, she actually gasped.
Shelves climbed toward vaulted ceilings, filled with jars of spices in jewel tones she’d never seen—deep crimsons that seemed to pulse with inner fire, emerald powders that sparkled like crushed gems, and golden dusts that caught the light and threw it back in warm spirals. Flours ground from grains with names that rolled off Kovrak’s tongue like poetry filled containers of every size.
“This is Xylan flour,” he explained, lifting a jar of pale blue powder. “It adds a subtle sweetness and makes pastries incredibly light. And this—“ He reached for another container filled with what looked like crushed pearls. “Ground moonberry. Sacred to our culture. It tastes like vanilla kissed by starlight.”
His patience amazed her. Here was a man who commanded armies and governed a kingdom, taking time to explain the nuances of baking ingredients with the care of a master chef. When he showed her fruits that shimmered faintly under the lights—some translucent as amber, others deep purple with veins of silver—she felt like a child in the world’s most beautiful candy store.