Betina joined the flurry, her loose gray bun bouncing on her nape as she worked alongside them.
Ingredients continued to spin through the air, and a pitcher floated itself to the sink. Water turned on all on its own. One of the staff sent dough rolling itself out across the countertop with a flick of her hand. Magic filled the air.
So unlike back home.
So forbidden.
But was there truly anything wrong with using magic like this? They were cooking. Using an unconventional way to do so, but only making food.
They weren’t destroying the realm.
Trew shifted on his stool, his jaw twitching like he was trying not to bite something.
“If everything’s so good,” I said softly, “why are you grimacing?”
He blinked and fed me a tight, polite smile. “The food is amazing. It always is.”
I turned on my stool to face him fully. His body was so close I could see the shadow where his collarbone dipped into the top of his dark tunic, a faint bruise-blue vein along his neck. I studied his face, but he gave me nothing. Not a flicker of grief. Not a trace of pain. But it was there. I couldfeelit, a clenched, hollow thing deep inside him.
“We should walk,” he said suddenly, easing off the stool in one fluid motion. He grabbed my hand off the island. Held tight when I tried to tug it away. “Let Betina and the others get back to work.”
I slid off my stool, and a soft growl ripped up my throat as I tried to yank my hand away from his.
He fed me a slick smile and linked our fingers tighter together. Onlythe fact that he was so gentle about it kept me from telling him to let me go.
He tugged me out of the kitchen like I was a ribbon he’d caught and didn’t plan to release.
In the hall, I tried to twist free again, but his grip remained firm, as if he didn’t even notice I was trying.
Only the twitch of his mouth told me he did.
Surprise flickered through me. He was stronger than he looked. I considered using one of my favorite breaking moves, the kind that would leave him on his knees blinking up at the ceiling. But the hallway was still within earshot of the kitchen, and I didn’t want to humiliate him in front of his staff.
We cleared the corner. I slid my fingers into the start of the maneuver.
He twisted effortlessly, deflecting the motion like we were sparring for fun. And kept hold of my hand as if letting go had never been an option.
“I don’t bite,” he said dryly. “Unless invited, of course.”
Heat shot up my neck and took residence in my face. “I suspect you don’t let many people touch you.”
“You’re right. But you can touch me anytime.” His voice didn’t sound mocking or cruel. Just rough with honesty.
I wasn’t used to being the exception, especially not with him. He was fire and warning bells. But now his touch skimmed over me like I might dissolve beneath it, and I hated how much I wanted to lean in.
I decided to let him hold my hand—for now.
He led me through dim corridors, turning left, then right, then left again. The torchlight blurred the path behind us, and within ten minutes, I’d lost my sense of direction. Every hallway in this cursed castle looked the same. Arched ceilings, intricate molding, stone floors softened only by the occasional rug and the whisper of heat.
We passed a bathing room, the door cracked open, and before I could question it, he tugged me into the parlor beside it.
It was warm. Not just in temperature, but in feeling. Velvet drapes the color of wine framed tall windows, parted to let in moonlight. An elegant sofa angled toward a wide hearth, with a muted oil painting of a great white stag hanging above it. At his nod, the logs lying in the grate flared to life, crackling, spilling golden flickers across the walls.
I’d barely taken a breath before he sat on the sofa and pulled me down with him, straight into his lap.
“What are you doing?” I twisted, trying to lever myself off.
His arms banded around me. “Holding you.”
