He wasn’t symmetrical. He never had been. One eye a fraction larger than the other. His nose too prominent, slightly crooked from a break that hadn’t healed cleanly. His top lip was thinner than the full, expressive bottom one. And that beard—it was wild, a little too long, a little too coarse.
But gods, he was still him. Still the one man who never tried to conquer her, only to match her. Still the only one she hadn’t been able to forget.
“You look tired,” she said softly, her fingers brushing the rim of a crystal perfume bottle.
He didn’t answer. Just stood there in the center of her chambers, dagger still in hand. He looked at the weapon, accusation in his gaze. He reached for his side and, with a curse, sheathed the blade.
Raveena forgot about Charming. Forgot about Snow. Forgot about the crown and the court and the game she'd been playing with cutthroat queens and fickle princes. Forgot the castle, even—the thing she claimed to love most.
Because he was here. And when Graham was here, there was no room for anything else. He’d always done that to her. Always made the rest of the world fall away.
With Graham, she could close her eyes and not watch her back. She could breathe without planning her next move. She could put down her burdens—the crown, the expectations, the ice that curled tightly around her chest—and rest in the warmth of him.
Graham knew what she needed without asking. Knew how to touch her like he was reading a map only he had memorized. She didn’t have to command, didn’t have to beg. Though he would make her.
And gods, she wanted him to make her beg. He was the only person she was happy to go to her knees for.
She turned from the mirror. The weight of his gaze wrapped around her like a chain. Slowly, deliberately, she gathered the hem of her velvet gown. With her fingertips, she lifted it up, inch by inch, revealing the pale skin of her thighs. Just as she was about to bend the knee, Graham shifted.
His eyes darkened. Suspicion flashed like a storm cloud. Raveena saw the flicker in his jaw, the tension rolling down his arms. And then—rage.
He moved.
Not like a man possessed by lust. He moved like a lover, consumed by fury. He prowled toward her in three sharp strides,yanked the fabric up with rough hands—hands she’d once worshipped—and stared down at the flesh between her thighs.
His breath hitched. His face turned murderous. “Who did that to you?”
It wasn’t until she followed his gaze that she remembered. The bruise. A shadow blooming violet on the soft inner part of her thigh. A careless grip, a pleasure-less moment she hadn't thought twice about.
“It’s nothing,” she said, but the words were brittle.
Graham’s hand hovered over the mark, trembling. Not from desire. From restraint.
“You call that nothing?” he hissed.
“You’ve given me worse bruises.”
"Only after I made you forget your name and then pass out from pleasure."
Raveena waggled her head at the truth of those words.
"It was one of the princelings. Charming, I'm guessing."
Raveena shrugged noncommittally instead of confirming it.
"Either he's an inexperienced child or an inconsiderate twat. Or both, I'm assuming."
She twisted her lips. Charming was both. An expert lover like Graham would know.
"I'm guessing he didn't make you come."
Again, she didn't answer. She didn't need to. Graham would know.
"Bastard. I'll tie his dick in a knot."
Raveena smiled then. She rarely saw the jealous side of Graham. The man knew that no one could turn her inside out like he did. He'd warned her about that, and he'd had the right of it.
She hadn't had a proper orgasm in three years. Certainly not in her husband's bed where he preferred she lie back and thinkof Thornhall. Actually, that was exactly what she thought of when the old man had done his royal duty atop her.
