Trousers went down next. Then he grabbed the nearest sheet from the bed and wrapped it around his hips.
“You’re absurd,” came her voice, muffled behind her hands.
“Yes, but helpful,” he replied, already making his way toward the door with deliberate purpose. “And tragically good-looking, so you’ll have to forgive me.”
Behind him, he caught the sound of her trying—and failing—not to laugh. A choked sort of noise that made his chest warm in the strangest, gentlest way.
He pulled open the door.
The dimly lit corridor stretched before him, and sure enough, Isildeth stood nearby, her posture straight but the slight slump in her shoulders betraying her exhaustion.
“Isildeth!”
His voice made the maid turn quickly, surprise flickering across her face when she took in his appearance.
“Yes, Your Highness?” she said, masking her reaction with well-practiced politeness.
Alaric beckoned her closer.
Seven guards exchanged a look so weighted, that Alaric had no doubt it would echo through these halls by morning, and probably pick up a few embellishments along the way.
“You can go to sleep now,” he replied. “The Princess will be staying here tonight. You don’t need to wait for her. Come back in the morning.”
Isildeth blinked—first in shock, then with a flush of embarrassment rising to her cheeks. Curiosity crept in, easingthe lines of her brow, softening into something close to tenderness—until she pulled herself back into control. Her attention flicked toward the chamber, then returned to him.
“Of course, Your Highness,” she said after a pause, bowing her head slightly. “I will return in the morning. Is the princess… well?”
Alaric softened just a fraction.
“She’s fine,” he replied. “Go get some rest, you look exhausted.”
Isildeth hesitated for a brief moment. Then, from inside his chamber, Evelyne’s voice called out.
“I’m fine, Isildeth. You may go.”
That appeared to satisfy her. Isildeth gave a final nod, dipped into a bow, and swept away down the corridor. Alaric shut the door with a muted thud and faced the room once more.
Evelyne angled her head aside, an exhale slipping sharp through her teeth. “For Rhyssa’s sake, get dressed,” she muttered.
Alaric laughed. “I thought I was a vision.”
She didn't answer, though he caught the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth. It was the kind of expression that shouldn’t be remembered this clearly. The kind that belongs in paintings, not memory. The kind that makes you believe that maybe Gods aren’t so special after all. That maybe there’s something holier in her smile than in all stars combined.
Her robe had fallen slightly off one shoulder, and she hadn’t bothered to fix it. That, more than anything, told him she was tired.
He pulled on his trousers and then approached slowly, crouched beside her. Reached out. His fingers found a loose strand of hair and brushed it from her face.
He let his fingertips linger for a breath, brushing along her cheek, then down the line of her jaw. Her skin was warm, herbreath a little uneven. His pulse kicked up in response, because of course it did.
Alaric exhaled slowly, the fire in his veins demanding more, but she needed something else right now.
“We should sleep,” he said softly.
She gave a small nod. He remained still for a beat, then offered his hand. She accepted with care, and he helped her up without effort.
They lingered there, unmoving. His hands settled lightly at her waist before gliding upward—unhurried, measured—until they came to rest at her shoulders.
She didn’t recoil. She simply looked up at him.
