Heat bloomed under my skin. I swallowed.Gods.
Varyth took adeliberate breath, schooling himself back into theunshakable, untouchableHigh Lord, straightening his tunic, smoothing his hair.
And then, with all the effortless authority of a ruler who hadn’t been caught against a wall with his hands down my pants, he strode back into the castle.
40
Crisp morning air filled my lungs, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint, lingering traces of last night’s storm. I stood in the courtyard, adjusting the fabric of my dress, trying to ignore the quiet unease curling in my stomach.
The gown was beautiful—a deep forest green, flowing, elegant, its intricate embroidery whispering of status and intention. It fit perfectly, hugging the curves that had returned to my frame. A year of running and starving had stripped them from me, carving my body down to sinew and desperation. But the fae magic that now lived in me seemed to have hurried along their return. I’d always had a curvier figure, and its return was comforting, in a strange way—like reclaiming a piece of my old self.
But still, the gown felt wrong.
To me, it was a cage. Its weight coiled around my limbs, the fabric too fine, too delicate. If this went wrong, if the meeting turned, it would not be an outfit for survival.
It would be a damned death sentence.
I sensed him before I heard him. Before he even stepped close enough for our breaths to share the same air. His presencewasn’t merely something to be noticed, it kissed my skin with quiet intent.
Varyth stood behind me, his body brushing lightly against mine, a wall of strength.
Then his nose skimmed the curve of my throat. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, not touching beyond that single, maddening brush, as though memorising the shape of me without his hands.
When his voice finally came, it was a murmur made of silk. “You look… perfect.”
Perfect.
A word that should have soothed me but instead was a chain. Because perfection was fragile, and fragile things shattered when struck hard enough.
His hands settled on my waist, and I leaned back into him. It wasn’t a decision. It was instinct. His grip tightened in response, fingers flexing against my hips as a low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest.
He pressed closer, fitting himself to the curve of my spine. The heat of him bled through my skin. I could feel every breath he took, every tremor of restraint vibrating through him.
And then his lips touched my neck.
A featherlight brush. A sin of a kiss.
He traced a path up the line of my throat until my head tipped slightly of its own accord, giving him more.
Reality slipped.
Thought dissolved.
There was only the warmth of his breath against my skin, the pressure of his hands grounding me while everything else threatened to fall away.
Each press of his mouth was careful, but there was heat beneath it. A simmering, restrained hunger.
My hands lifted, one finding the back of his hand where it gripped my waist, the other slipping into his hair. Silken strands curled around my fingers as I held him there, not yet ready to let the world return.
His breath hitched and his grip tightened, one hand sliding slowly, up my side.
“You drive me mad,” he whispered, voice no longer silk, but smoke and want.
I turned in his arms, facing him fully.
His mouth found mine instantly.
There was no gentleness. It was heat and hunger and the desperate thing that lived under our skin. His hand slid up to cradle the side of my face, thumb brushing beneath my jaw.
