She matters. That’s the simplest way to put it. She matters in ways I’m not prepared to examine. In ways that make my carefully constructed walls feel fragile.
A knock at my door.
I know who it is before I open it. Can feel her fire signature through the wood—muted, guttering, but unmistakably hers. My hand pauses on the handle. Centuries of control screaming that this is dangerous, that letting her in means letting her past walls I’ve built for reasons. Good reasons.
I open the door anyway.
She stands in the corridor, wearing a simple shift that must belong to one of the Fire-Bringer women. The thin fabric clings to her curves, doing nothing to hide the body beneath. Her dark hair is loose around her shoulders, still damp from bathing, and the copper highlights catch the torchlight from the sconces. Her feet are bare on the cold stone. And her eyes—her amber eyesthat burn white when she wields her power—are raw with a pain that makes my chest ache.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.” Her voice is rough. Stripped of the regal control that usually shields her. “I know I said I needed space, but?—”
“You don’t have to be.”
I step aside. She moves past me into my quarters—this space I’ve kept private for centuries, this sanctuary of ice and precision that has never contained another person’s warmth. Her scent drifts past as she enters: something floral from her bath, underlaid with smoke and magic and something that’s purely her.
The door closes behind her, and the sound is louder than it should be.
TWENTY-TWO
AUREN
She stands in the center of my room, arms wrapped around herself, and I don’t know what to do with my hands. Centuries of experience in war and politics and the delicate dance of dragon power, and I’m paralyzed by a woman in a borrowed shift.
“This isn’t—” She stops. Starts again. “I’m not here because I need comfort. I’ve had enough of people trying to comfort me.” Her chin lifts, and I see the princess beneath the grief. The warrior beneath the sorrow. “I’m here because I need something real. Something that has nothing to do with sisters or duty or ancient magic.”
“What do you need?”
Her gaze holds mine. The rawness is still there, but something else is rising beneath it. Something that makes my blood heat despite the ice in my veins.
“You.” The word drops between us, and the air in the room changes. Charges. “I need you, Auren.”
I should ask if she’s sure. Should point out that she’s grieving, exhausted, not in a state to make decisions she might regret. Should do any of the sensible things that centuries of discipline have prepared me for.
Instead, I cross the space between us.
I don’t grab her. Don’t rush. I stop close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin, close enough that her breath catches when she has to tilt her head back to meet my gaze. My hand rises slowly, giving her time to pull away, and cups her jaw.
Her skin is warm—so warm—against my perpetually cold palm. She gasps at the temperature difference, but she doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering half-closed.
“Are you certain?” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Because once I start, I don’t know if I can stop.”
Her hand comes up to cover mine, pressing my palm harder against her cheek. “I don’t want you to stop.”
Something cracks in my chest. A wall I’ve maintained for decades, maybe longer. The ice that formed when Lyric died—I feel it fracturing, giving way to heat I’d forgotten I was capable of feeling.
I kiss her.
Soft at first. Testing. My lips brush against hers, and she makes a small sound in the back of her throat that sends fire racing down my spine. I pull back just enough to look at her—her eyes are closed, her lips parted, her face flushed with something that has nothing to do with grief.
“More,” she breathes.
I stop being gentle.
I kiss her with centuries of denied passion, of controlled hunger, of wanting things I told myself I didn’t deserve. My hand slides from her jaw into her hair, tilting her head back as I deepen the kiss. Her mouth opens under mine, and she tastes like fire and something sweeter—something that’s purely her.
Her hands find my bare chest, palms pressing against skin that hasn’t felt warm in longer than I can remember. But she’swarm. She’s burning. Her fingers trace the lines of muscle, exploring, mapping territory that no one has touched with any kind of tenderness in my entire existence.
“Cold,” she murmurs against my mouth. Not a complaint—an observation. Her hands keep moving, spreading across my chest, my shoulders, down my arms.
