A flicker of mischief—quick, restrained. “It’s better that way.”
“Five minutes,” he said. “If you hate it, we leave.”
I should have refused. But some small, traitorous part of me—the part still raw and shaking—wanted to see. Slowly, reluctantly, I nodded. “Fine. But only because I can’t sit here with you and this silence for another moment.”
My gaze slid to the snowy white gown. It had felt like a taunt earlier. Now it felt like armor.
“I can dress myself,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. I lifted my chin toward the door.
Veyrion rose smoothly, inclining his head. His eyes lingered—too steady, too knowing—before the corner of his mouth curved. “As you wish,” he murmured. “Though I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t enjoy helping.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I yanked the furs tighter around my shoulders and glared. “Out.”
His low chuckle rumbled like distant thunder. He slipped into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him.
Only then did I let out the breath I’d been holding.
The fabric shimmered as I lifted it—heavy with that silver-threaded hem. I slid the gown over my head. The fabric fell down my skin like water. The fur-lined cloak settled over my shoulders.
I smoothed my braid over one shoulder and stared at myself in the bronze mirror.
My eyes were red. My cheeks pale.
But the dress made me look untouchable. Like someone who wasn’t coming undone.
When I opened the door, Veyrion was waiting. His arm bent toward me—an escort offered without words.
I arched a brow, fingers tightening on the clasp at my throat. “Not enough mead tonight for that.”
His grin flickered, but he didn’t argue. He simply turned, boots echoing softly against stone.
I followed. He led me down a long corridor hung with banners, torchlight flickering against carved wood, until he stopped before a heavy oak door bound with iron.
My stomach tightened.
I froze. “This is your chamber.”
“It is,” he said, expression unreadable.
Veyrion strode past me without hesitation, as though I hadn’t just accused him with every inch of my posture. He shed his cloak across the back of a chair and reached for a heavy iron kettle resting on the hearth.
I stayed rooted just past the threshold, arms crossed tightly over my chest. “I’m not coming in there.”
“Okay,” he said simply.
I scoffed. “I’m not one of your conquests, or a whore, or whatever else you drag behind these doors.”
That wolfish grin flashed—infuriating in its calm. “No,” he said, quiet and certain. “You’re not.”
He crossed the room with unhurried steps and set the tea tray on a small table near the bed. I should have turned away. Returned to my chamber. Locked the door. But something about his calm—about the space he left me to choose—kept my feet rooted.
The room was larger than mine, warmer too. Fire crackled in a wide stone hearth, throwing heat into every corner. Furs draped the carved bedframe, pelts spilling onto polished floorboards. Shields and axes lined the walls in symmetrical display, iron gleaming in firelight. The headboard rose high, knotwork carved deep into dark wood.
A warrior’s den—softened by warmth and flame. Beneath it all, the scent of him: pine and smoke, cut with something colder, sharper—fresh-fallen snow.
I crossed my arms tighter, unimpressed on principle, even as my pulse betrayed me. “Cozy,” I said flatly.
Veyrion’s mouth curved. “I think so.”
