Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 270: What She Wants, She Gets

Leaning against Leroy’s chest, Lorraine’s fingers traced idle patterns over the firm rise and fall of his breathing. The faint glow of the fire danced across his skin, still warm from the closeness they had shared moments ago. Lorraine’s lashes fluttered as she looked up at him, her voice soft yet imperious.

"I want a bath... A warm bath."

The words fell like a royal decree.

It had been three days since she last truly bathed; a scandalous stretch by her standards. Yes, Leroy had warmed water for her to wipe herself each night, ever attentive, ever patient... but it wasn’t the same. A bath was not merely for cleanliness; it was ritual, comfort, identity. She craved the feel of scented oils, the rise of steam, the moment her body could melt into warmth and forget the world.

Leroy’s gaze dropped to her, his lips twitching before the faintest sigh escaped him.

Three days. Only three days, and his darling wife, once the epitome of composure, was testing the very edges of his restraint.

He had been a soldier for a decade, a crown prince before that. He had fought through hunger, frost, and sleepless nights beneath bleeding skies. Comfort was a luxury, not a right. But Lorraine... his brilliant, stubborn, impossible wife... she could unravel his composure with a single look.

It wasn’t even the bath, he realized. It was the way she watched him as he prepared their makeshift bed on the cold stone floor, the way she pursed her lips when he served her dried bread with an apologetic smile, the way she dared to look disappointed, adorably, infuriatingly disappointed, every time he failed to make the wilderness behave like a palace.

Seriously, she thought he could somehow make insects stop crawling in her general area! She didn’t speak bugs!

He was losing his patience. And his heart.

When she pouted and looked away, he leaned down and kissed her, hard enough to silence her complaint, long enough to remind himself why he endured her madness.

She sighed into the kiss, melting against him, her earlier demand dissolving into the air between them.

He pulled away, resting his forehead against hers, breathing out through a quiet smile.

"I’ll find you a bath," he murmured.

She smiled. And once again, he was reminded why he was in love with her. This pompous prickly porcupine... She loved him that much and believed he could solve anything! What could he do with her?

And then he rose, the cold morning air replacing her warmth as he stepped out of the cave. He had no idea how he was going to keep that promise. The nearest village was miles away, the forest unkind and silent. But when his wife asked for something, he would give it to her, no matter how impossible it seemed.

Because loving Lorraine meant fighting battles far stranger than war.

Leroy stepped out of the cave, rubbing his forehead, muttering under his breath. The air was sharp with the scent of pine and damp earth, mist curling between the trunks like ghostly silk.

"Three days," he grumbled, pushing through the undergrowth. "Three blasted days and my wife’s already losing her royal mind."

His boots crunched over frost-hardened leaves as he scanned the landscape for anything resembling a pond, a stream... anything. The forest sloped downward, rocks slick with moss and the faint trickle of water somewhere below.

He sighed. "A bath, she says. In the middle of a cursed mountain forest." He ducked under a branch and shook his head with a crooked smile. "What next, mouseling? Silver trays and rose petals?"

The word slipped out naturally—mouseling. The little name he’d love to use whenever she’d scurry away from him, and when she did so, to scurry away from the cold each night to curl against him. He couldn’t even stay angry, saying it.

"She’s lucky I love her," he muttered, stepping over a fallen log. "Spoiled little porcupine."

That one, too, came with a smirk. The way she’d bristle at the smallest inconvenience, muttering under her breath while still clinging to him for warmth... it was impossible not to find it endearing.

He followed the faint sound of water until it grew louder, steadier, like the hum of a heartbeat. And then he saw it.

A cave mouth, half-veiled by a curtain of ivy, steaming faintly in the morning air.

Leroy’s brows rose.

He ducked inside. The stone walls shimmered faintly in the filtered light, and in the center... there it was. A pool of clear water, swirling lazily with tendrils of steam rising from its surface.

A hot spring.

He blinked, stunned for a moment, then chuckled low in his throat. "Well, look at that," he murmured, voice echoing faintly against the stone. "Seems the gods do take pity on madmen."

Something splashed... a small, furry creature, perhaps a mountain hare or some forest rodent, bobbing in the water as if it too had claimed the spring. Leroy arched a brow. So, this hot spring was safe.

"Not today, friend," he said, crouching to shoo the creature out. "That’s my wife’s royal bath you’re soaking in. Run away before you become our dinner."

The animal darted out, offended, and he laughed quietly, shaking his head. He dipped a hand in the water, and it was perfectly warm, like heaven itself had decided to humor him.

He leaned back on his heels, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across his face.

"Well then," he whispered to himself, pride curling through his chest like fire. "Let’s see my little porcupine complain now."

By the time he returned, Lorraine had wrapped herself in his cloak, sitting cross-legged near the dying fire with the sort of pout that could undo a kingdom. Her hair was tangled from sleep, her cheeks rosy from the cold, and her expression — equal parts defiance and impatience — nearly made him laugh out loud.

He stopped at the cave entrance, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. She looked like a sulking cat, elegant even in misery.

"You took your time," she said, her voice soft but petulant, like a queen expecting a miracle.

"I found your bath," Leroy said, crouching beside her. He brushed a stray curl from her forehead and grinned. "Though I can’t promise rose petals or a marble tub, Your Majesty."

Her eyes brightened, disbelief flickering in them. "You found one?"

He nodded, feigning nonchalance. "Of course I did. Your husband might be half-dead, half-hunted, but he keeps his promises."

Lorraine blinked at him, and then — as if the seriousness of their journey, their exhaustion, and the ruins they left behind had never existed — she broke into a smile. "Show me."

He helped her up, his hands lingering at her waist longer than necessary, and led her through the misty woods. The air smelled of damp moss and pine sap, and sunlight pierced through the trees in golden shafts that made the world feel momentarily sacred.

When they reached the cave, steam wafted gently through the opening. Lorraine stopped in her tracks, her lips parting in quiet awe.

"It’s warm," she breathed, stepping closer. The heat touched her face, and the sight of the crystal water reflecting the muted light made her heart stutter. "You weren’t joking."

Leroy folded his arms, a smug little tilt to his head. "Told you I’d find one."

She turned to him, eyes narrowing. "You’re impossible."

"And yet you love me."

She made a sound between a laugh and a sigh, and for the first time in days, she looked like herself again. The queen beneath the soot and travel dust, radiant even in disarray.

Lorraine slipped her hand into his and looked up at him through her lashes. "You’re forgiven, for being slow."

He chuckled, his thumb tracing the back of her hand. "And you, for being impossible."

The wind outside rustled the trees like applause. The air smelled of earth and heat and new beginnings.