Part of me wants him to.
The admission makes me want to vomit. I set the teacup down with shaking hands, pressing my palms flat against the counter. I can't want that. Can't wanthim. Valas is handsome, yes—devastatingly so, with those elegant features and that obsidian hair and those eyes that seem to see straight through me. And he's good. Kind. Patient with Amisra, devoted to Daryn, respectful in ways that make my defenses feel flimsy.
But he's still a dark elf. Still part of a society that treats humans like livestock. Still someone who could decide tomorrow that I'm his property and face no consequences for it.
Still someone who looks at me like I matter.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the contradictions to make sense. They don't. They never do. I'm attracted to him—have been since the first time he healed Amisra's fever, his hands gentle and his voice soft and his entire focus bent toward making a child comfortable. I've watched him with Daryn, seen the grief he carries so carefully, noticed how he tries so hard to be invisible around me. To not frighten me.
And I am frightened. Not of him specifically, but of what wanting him means. Of how easily I could forget that kindness doesn't erase power. That attraction doesn't mean safety. That dark elves use humans, break them, discard them when they're finished playing.
The tea has gone lukewarm. I pour it anyway, carrying the cup toward the library where I left my book. Somewhere to hide. Somewhere to breathe. Somewhere far away from thoughts of moon-violet eyes and dangerous wanting.
Amisra fights sleeplike it's a personal enemy. She argues, negotiates, tries every delay tactic in her considerable arsenal. I stay patient, reading one more story, singing one more song, adjusting her blankets just so until finally,finally, her eyes flutter closed. Her breathing evens out, small chest rising and falling beneath the quilt.
I watch her for a moment longer than necessary. This little girl with her pale lavender eyes and her father's smile. This child who will lose everything too soon and doesn't even understand it yet.
My throat tightens. I slip from the room quietly, pulling the door almost-closed behind me. The hallway stretches dark and empty, evening shadows pooling in corners. The house settles into nighttime silence—that particular quiet of a place winding down, servants retired to their quarters, Daryn likely asleep in his study again.
I should go to bed. Should retreat to my small room and lock the door and not think about conversations overheard or desires I can't afford. Instead, my feet carry me toward the kitchen. Toward tea, maybe. Or food I'm not hungry for. Any excuse to delay being alone with my thoughts.
The kitchen isn't empty.
Valas stands by the counter, moonlight streaming through the window to paint him in silver and shadow. He's holding a mug—tea, probably, from the steam curling upward. His obsidian hair has come partly loose from its tie, falling forwardto frame his face. He looks tired. Beautiful. Dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with violence.
He sees me in the doorway and goes very still. Like he's afraid sudden movement will spook me. Like I'm something wild that might bolt.
He's not wrong.
"Keira." My name in his voice does things to my pulse that I refuse to acknowledge. "I didn't think anyone else would be awake."
I could leave. Should leave. Back away and disappear and maintain the careful distance I've been cultivating for months. But I'm exhausted and lonely and for one moment, I don't want to work so damn hard to keep all my walls up. So, I step into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind me with soft finality.
"I just put Amisra to bed." The words come out steadier than I feel. "Thought I'd make tea before turning in."
"Let me." He moves toward the kettle before I can protest, long fingers reaching for clean mugs. "Meadowmint?"
The fact that he knows—that he remembers—makes something flutter in my chest. "Yes. Thank you."
We fall into strange, weighted silence. He prepares the tea with careful precision, measuring leaves like they matter, heating water to the exact right temperature. I watch his hands and try not to think about how they'd feel against my skin. How they'd been so gentle with Amisra. How they could be gentle with me, if I let them.
If I was foolish enough to let them.
"She recovered well." Valas glances at me while the water heats. "From the fever. No complications?"
"None. You made sure of that." I lean against the counter, maintaining distance even as something in me wants to close it. "She asks about you. Likes that you are here so much. You've become quite the favorite."
His smile is small, private. "She's easy to love."
"She is." My voice softens without permission. "Daryn's lucky. To have her. I couldn't imagine having a little girl as great as her."
The kettle begins to whistle. Valas pours water over leaves, the familiar ritual playing out between us. He slides a mug across the counter—not too close, not presumptuous—and I accept it with murmured thanks.
"How is he?" I ask, because it feels safer than the things I want to ask. "Daryn. Really."
Something shutters in Valas's expression. Pain, carefully controlled. "Declining. The latest remedy isn't working any better than the others." He drinks from his own mug, jaw tight. "I keep thinking I'll find something. Some answer I've missed. But time is—" He stops. Starts again. "Running out."
The grief in his voice is raw enough that I forget to guard myself. Forget I never talk to him, that I always keep a wall up between us. "I'm sorry. I know he's important to you."
