Like expectation.
But they don’t appear challenging.
Not like the first.
Not like Grier.
The room hums with voices, clinking cups, the crackle of the Great Flame—but my awareness narrows until it’s just him.
Thorne at my side.
The heat of his arm brushing mine.
The way his attention never truly leaves me, even as he answers them in short, controlled replies.
I feel it—the constant tether of him.
Not a pull exactly.
More like an awareness.
As if I exist in the same gravity well and he’s learned my orbit by heart.
Present.
Possessive.
Watchful.
Like if he looks away for even a breath, I might dissolve back into smoke and memory.
The last minister withdraws with a bow and a murmur of blessing.
The doors close.
The hall seems to exhale.
Thorne turns to me fully at last.
It’s startling—how different he looks without an audience.
No armor of ceremony.
No measured distance.
Just him.
Heat and shadow and intent.
“What?” I ask, nerves sparking as his gaze holds mine. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His eyes track my face slowly, like he’s cataloging something precious. Or volatile.
“I expected you to fight me on this,” he says. “To be outraged. To refuse my claim.”
“I thought about it,” I answer honestly.
One dark brow lifts.
