And—
Her scent.
Not the lingering trace of the perfumed oils they used in the baths. That was there, yes. But beneath it washer.
Night-blooming jasmine. Burning sage. And something older, stranger. Something that reminded him of stars bleeding light over a war-torn sky.
It hit him all at once, memory and omen tangled together, unbidden and unwelcome. Something in his chest twisted.
He glanced over.
She was facing him. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Loose strands of copper hair spilled across her face and pillow, catching the firelight like threads of gold.
His hand drifted closer beneath the blanket.
Not to touch. Just tobe.
But then he felt it. The faintest brush, her fingers against his.
And before he could pull away, before the panic could reach his spine?—
Two of her fingers—small, callused, stubborn—curled lightly around his own beneath the blanket, a tether in the dark.
Everything inside him stilled. The shadows. His thoughts. Even his breath.
Ashterion stared at the ceiling, muscles locked. He knew he should pull away. Knew the right thing, the smart thing, was to sever the contact immediately. To remind her, and himself, that this was nothing. That she was nothing.
But stars, when was the last time someone had touched him like this?
Not with violence. Not with hunger. Not in expectation of pain or pleasure or power.
Just… touch.
She hadn’t even looked at him.
Her breathing remained steady. Her eyes stayed closed.
And a part of him cracked.
Not all at once. Just a hairline fracture beneath the surface of all the masks and armour. A place he hadn’t felt in centuries.
He let his fingers remain where they were, curling slight against hers.
Ashterion swallowed hard, eyes burning as he stared at the darkened ceiling above.
The silence stretched on, the kind that could break a person if they weren’t careful.
But it didn’t matter.
Couldn’t matter.
Not now.
Not when he’d already sealed his fate.
In a few days, she’d be back where she belonged, surrounded by her court.
Withhim.
