She turned, silk whispering as she looked over her bare shoulder.
Storne stood in the doorway, the torchlight behind him cutting him in half—commander in shadow, consort in memory.
The chamber smelled faintly of charred sage—what the priests burned to ward off old magic, though the scent had long since turned sour.
“Welcome, Masten,” Zeporah purred.
The gown clung like a second skin, green as forest dusk. Her hair fell unbound, long brown wisps tumbling down her back.
“You watched me ride in,” Storne said, his tone flat, measured.
Zeporah’s smile deepened—the curve of a knife drawn from its sheath.
“That’s not all I can do.”
She drifted closer, fingertips trailing the line of his arm.
“I feel you when you dream of me.”
Then, lower—almost breathless:
“When you miss me.”
He jerked from her touch, but her gaze caught the tear in his tunic, the faint scar beneath.
“You’ve not been home in some time,” she said softly, tilting her head.
“I have no need of hearth or walls,” he replied, voice rough as gravel. “There are taverns enough with warm beds and warmer women. And Amerei spends her days here anyway. No husband. No family yet.”
Zeporah’s smile was slow, indulgent, as though she’d been waiting for the opening.
“Then let us remedy that.”
Her dark eyes flicked to his.
“A marriage could be arranged. She would serve well in Dunfel—at my son’s side.”
Her mouth curved, lips full and teasing.
“Link her with his steward.”
Storne huffed a laugh.
“Isn’t a steward abitbeneath her station?”
“She’s hardly privileged to choose,” Zeporah countered smoothly, circling him like a serpent tasting the air. Her hand rose, grazing the chain at her throat—the emeralds catching firelight.
Storne’s jaw flexed.
“You wear Cassandra’s jewels now?”
Her smile cut daringly, bright and cruel.
“Better on my skin than locked in a box.”
His breath hitched, memory pressing close.
“She wore that the night we were married.”
