Thorne’s mouth curves.
“Careful,” he murmurs, leaning closer. “You are enjoying yourself openly.”
“I ran into a fire today,” I murmur to him under my breath as the last course is set before us, “and I was kidnapped to another realm.”
His eyes seem to burn as he takes in my response.
The molten caramel dessert glows faintly on the plate, salt catching the firelight like crushed stars.
“I’m allowed to enjoy dessert,” I finish.
His mouth curves—not a smile, exactly, but something dangerously close.
A low sound rumbles from his chest, felt more than heard.
Approval. Amusement. Maybe hunger.
“Then eat, Shula” he murmurs, voice meant only for me. “You have earned it. And I assure you, you will need the fuel.”
Oh. Oh. Wait. Did he really just say that?
He floods my system, but I don’t respond because there’s no time.
Around us, the hall comes alive again.
A man introduced to me as Grier Pyros approaches first, a cup of dark wine cradled carefully in scarred hands.
He bows—like a serious old-timey bow.
“My Lord,” he says, then hesitates before turning his gaze to me.
Not unkindly. Measuring, but I don’t think it’s cruel.
I mean, why would it be?
“And, my lady. May the Flame favor your union. If the bond takes, The Ember Vein will burn brighter for it.”
There it is. I hear it in the word if–insolence, disbelief, disrespect—and it infuriates me.
I don’t even know why it should. Only that it does.
Thorne growls deep in his throat, and after a long moment he inclines his head.
Just once, though.
And I catch the subtle tightening of his fingers against mine—pride and maybe even rage held tightly in check.
Another minister follows.
Then another.
A flame-tender with burn-silvered hair offers a stiff smile.
A sentinel with half a face rebuilt by magic thumps his fist to his chest.
An older forge-keeper mutters a blessing under his breath that sounds like a prayer spoken directly to fire.
Each congratulation lands like a weight.
