She drew in a steadying breath, and after a moment, nodded. She hadn’t noticed him reaching for her hair until she felt the ghost of his fingers on her scalp. Instinctively, her spine tightened, bracing for a memory of a bloodless palm pressed to her hand that didn’t come. Before she could react, he touched the first pin.
A shudder rippled through her body.
He stepped behind her, removing one pin, then another, each metal piece slipping free. The weight of her hair began to loosen, and then they were no longer confined. Thick waves tumbled past her shoulders, cascading down her back, spilling like liquid silk. A slow exhale left him, almost inaudible, but she heard it.
Felt it.
Evelyne’s breath caught as he threaded a careful hand through her hair, untangling the thick waves with a tenderness that made her stomach tighten.
He gathered a lock, twisting it lightly before letting it fall through his palm.
“…It’s beautiful,” Alaric murmured. “No wonder you hide it. It feels almost forbidden.”
Evelyne closed her eyes for a fleeting second.
“It’s… tradition,” she managed.
He brushed a stray strand behind her ear. From there, his touch drifted to her shoulder.
“I know,” he said. “And it reminds me of you.”
His touch traced down her arm, gliding over the thin fabric of her sleeve like a cartographer learning new terrain by candlelight. Then lower, until his palm hovered over the inside of her wrist, circling gently, as though mapping the rhythm of her pulse.
“Do you want me to keep going?” he asked.
Evelyne inhaled, but the breath caught—shallow, sharp.
Heat pooled low in her stomach, a slow ache blooming with every second his skin lingered near hers.
She gave a small nod, so quick it almost surprised her.
He moved closer, his eyes watching her. His hand slid to the ties of her robe, slowly untied it. Evelyne’s breath caught when fabric loosened. Without breaking the eye contact, he brushed her shoulders and drew it away, the robe slipping soundlessly to the floor.
“You must've noticed I don't like traditions,” he murmured. “I don’t always understand them.”
Alaric’s attention dropped, studying her the way a scholar might regard a rare, untouchable relic—something he couldn’t fully comprehend, yet found endlessly captivating.
“But you're the only one I want to respect.”
Evelyne clenched her fingers at her sides, trying to wrest away the warmth creeping up her spine. He barely touched her, yetshe felt it everywhere, heat blooming in places she had never thought about before.
She swallowed hard, chin lifting. “If you’re trying to seduce me by disregard for our heritage again, I feel obliged to inform you that equating a royal bride with a sacred custom—”
He stepped closer, looking straight into her eyes. His expression was focused, eyes dark.
“—is, at best, wildly inappropriate and—”
He kissed her.
Mid-sentence. Without hesitation.
Finally.
And just like that, the rest of her words vanished between them.
The first touch was a whisper—barely pressure at all. It startled her in its restraint. For the space of a heartbeat, she flinched at the unknown, muscles tightening as if bracing for something harsher, something she knew too well. But it didn’t come. It was gentle. Careful. And against her better judgment, she let herself ease into it.
Then he angled his head and kissed her again—slower, deeper, yet still tender. A question shaped like a promise. His mouth carried the warmth of him, a trace of wine and citrus lingering in the air between them.
