Thane thought for a long moment. “He has gathered all kinds of magic-users to himself, and he has manipulated some of the magic to suit his needs. I was his only weather mage. He could have a portal mage.”
Knowing the king, and how he hoarded resources and people, it was likely. He had responsibilities, so he couldn’t constantly slip away to be at the tower. The tower’s magic was old, deliberate. If the king had designed this place specifically for Aveline—to contain her—then conventional entry might be irrelevant. He could step through a doorway in his palace and arrive here without crossing the forest at all.
Which meant we needed to be ready at any moment for entry at any level. I hated being vulnerable.
“Either way,” I continued, “we should sleep in the lower level. It gives us the best chance for escape and to make a stand.”
Thane nodded slowly, rising from his chair. His movements were stiff, reluctant, his gaze drifting toward the corridor where Aveline had disappeared. “The nest?—”
“No.” The word came out too sharply. I forced myself to soften it. “We leave her alone. She made that clear. Honor her wishes. Give her choices.”
His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. We had left our gear—bedrolls and packs—in the lower level, so we headed down the spiral staircase. The tower’s hum followed us, a low vibration that seemed to pulse with our descent, as if it were measuring our intentions.
Before descending, Thane glanced up one level at the landing that led to the nest.
I could see it from here—the doorway half-open, the soft glow of candlelight spilling out, the impression of cushions and furs piled deep. Her scent drifted from that direction, warmer here, richer, as if the nest concentrated it.
Thane’s shoulders tensed. He took half a step toward it.
I caught his arm and pulled him down toward the ground level where we’d first entered. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t?—”
“You were.” I didn’t release him until we reached the bare stone chamber at the tower’s base. Our entry point had sealed completely, no seam visible, no indication that a doorway had ever existed. I confirmed our gear was still there and had not been tampered with, then turned to face him.
Thane stood in the center of the room, looking lost in a way that made my chest tighten with something uncomfortably close to guilt. His hair was disheveled from running his hands throughit, his posture hunched slightly as if he were carrying a weight I couldn’t see.
“She’ll be fine,” I said, though I wasn’t sure why I reassured him.
“She’s alone.” His voice was rough, threaded with frustration. “She’s been alone for years, Malric. And we just showed up, told her everything she believed was a lie, threatened to kill her father?—”
“He deserves it.”
“That’s not the point!” Thane’s magic flared, the air crackling with the promise of a storm. He clenched his fists, visibly fighting for control. “You bullied her. You cornered her. You didn’t give her a chance to?—”
I moved before I had fully decided to.
Three strides brought me to him. My hand closed around the front of his tunic, and I shoved him back against the stone wall hard enough that his breath left him in a rush. Our bodies collided, his back hitting the wall, my chest pressed against his, the space between us eliminated in a heartbeat.
Thane’s eyes widened, storm-bright and startled.
“I believe,” I said, my voice coming out raw, “we have unfinished business.”
His breath caught. The hitch in his chest, the way his body went rigid beneath mine. For a moment, I thought he might push back, might argue, might tell me to let him go so he could comfort the princess we’d both been circling like starving wolves.
Instead, his gaze dropped to my mouth.
That was all the permission I needed.
My hand slid down between us, rough and deliberate, and closed over the hard length of him through his leathers. He was already straining against the fabric, thick and hot beneath my palm, his arousal unmistakable even through the layers.
Thane’s head fell back against the stone, a low, broken sound tearing from his throat.
“Is this what you need?” I asked, my voice low, stroking him firmly, roughly, the way I knew he liked when words failed and bodies spoke louder. “Or were you planning to take this upstairs to her?”
“Fuck you,” he gasped, but his hips rolled into my hand, seeking friction, seeking more.
I smiled, sharp and possessive. “Not tonight.”
