Thane exhales, inclining his head. “Jarek, Rian, and I were on patrol all day. We barely made it back in time for the bonfire.”
I glance toward the darkness beyond the outpost—then back at him. Tension coils in his shoulders, the weight of the day still carved into his jaw.
“How do things look out there?”
Thane rolls his shoulders, as if trying to shake the day from his skin. “Quiet—for now.” His gaze flicks past me toward the firelit celebration then back, more guarded now. “Too quiet. Jarek thinks it’s just the Solstice keeping things still. Rian isn’t so sure.”
He pauses. Then quietly— “I’m not either.”
I take another sip of wine, tilt my head, and smirk. “All that time out there, and you still made it back just in time to brood by the fire? Impressive.”
Thane laughs—rich, unguarded. A rare crack in the armor he wears so well. The sound wraps around me, warm and unexpected, pulling something loose in my chest.
The wine slides through me, warm and heady, softening the edges of the world. I shift my weight—just slightly—and misjudge my balance. His hand is there instantly. A reflex. A steadying grip on my arm.
It’s nothing. Just instinct. A simple gesture. But it lingers—just a heartbeat too long.
I look up, pulse skipping. His fingers are warm, solid, grounding.
The space between us feels smaller now. Tighter. The revelry blurs into something distant. Somewhere behind us, Lyra laughs. But here, in this sliver of stillness—it’s just Thane and me.
And that look in his eyes—the one I can’t seem to breathe around.
“Are you going to keep brooding all night,” I challenge, arching a brow, “or do Warlords actually dance?”
Thane doesn’t answer right away, just looks at me. His thumb brushes against my arm before he lets go, slow and deliberate, the warmth of his touch lingering long after it’s gone.
“Not here,” he says at last, voice low, quiet—almost intimate.
Something about the way he says it—calm, certain, edged with something unspoken—makes me want to push him. To see what’s beneath the composure.
Or maybe it’s the wine.
I take a step closer, swirling the wine in my cup. “Not here? That sounds an awful lot like an excuse.”
My voice is light, teasing—but there’s a challenge underneath it. One I don’t bother hiding.
Thane’s eyes meet mine—dark, steady, almost smoldering. Then, a slow smirk curves at the corner of his mouth—subtle. Unmistakable.
“You think so?” he murmurs, voice like low embers—coaxing, not deflecting.
The distance between us now is mere inches. One move—just a reach of my hand—and I could trail my fingers down his chest. Broad. Solid. I think of how those sculpted muscles flexed when he sparred shirtless with Garrick a few weeks ago.
And by the gods above, I still see it.
I nod, bold with wine and the pulse of the night in my veins. “I do.”
His gaze drops to my hand. To the way my fingers curl tight around the cup. When it returns to mine, there’s something darker there. Curious. Wanting.
“And what if I said I just don’t dance?” His voice is low. Almost lazy.
I arch a brow, letting the silence stretch. “I’d say you’re lying.”
“Hmm . . . you’ve put me in a pickle, Amara.”
Gods—the way he says my name. Like he’s tasting it. Like it means more than it should.
“Do what’s good for the realm . . . ” he murmurs, taking a step closer, “or dance with the Spiritborn.”
