“Did you?”
I nod.
“More than once.”
His mouth curves—not a smile. Something sharper. Interested.
“I would not have given up easily,” he says, voice low.
“I know.”
That’s the truth of it.
I felt that the moment he kissed me.
This isn’t a man who bluffs. Or retreats.
I inhale, and his scent fills my lungs—smoke and iron and something faintly sweet beneath it, like embers banked just right.
It doesn’t make it harder to breathe.
It makes it easier.
Like I’ve finally found the right air.
And if that isn’t a red flag, I don’t know what is.
“I know what’s at stake, Thorne,” I say quietly. “Masha told me about Nightfall. About the SoulTakers.” I hesitate, then add, softer, “Your people are at war.”
His expression hardens—not with anger, but resolve.
“The entire realm is at war,” he murmurs. “With those who would unmake it. We cannot let them win, milady.”
“I agree,” I say. My fingers curl against the edge of the table, grounding myself. “That’s why I didn’t fight.”
Something shifts in him at that. Surprise, maybe. Or respect.
“Brave little Shula,” he says.
Not mocking. Almost reverent.
“Are you overwhelmed?”
I glance at the remnants of dessert—molten caramel cooling in delicate swirls, salt glinting like starlight—then back at him.
At the firelight caught in his eyes.
At the reality of where I am.
“Terrified,” I admit.
His hand lifts, stops just short of touching me, as if he’s giving me the choice even now.
“And?” he prompts.
“And, I’m oddly okay with that,” I finish.
His breath hitches. Just barely.
