“It’s like you said—I’m a thief,” I say, licking chocolate from my finger. “And thieves don’t share,Your Highness.” I say the last word with as much mirth as I can muster. “But I suppose I should thank you for funding my midnight heists.”
I down my milk and rise to leave—just as it magically refills itself.
His gaze shifts to the glass, then to the plate again. A ghost of a smirk touches his lips as he reaches past me to grab a muffin from the plate—the plate that suddenly has half a dozen more muffins on it.
I blink, startled, as a second glass appears in front of him.
As if the kitchen wants us to linger. To share them.
I watch him take a slow bite. My eyes drop to his mouth, remembering how it felt against my cheek. How those steady hands guided me effortlessly in the garden, on the dance floor. The way he held me carefully, like I was something precious.
Or something dangerous.
His words from that night echo through me:There are many things I’d enjoy teaching you, Fire…The way he said it—soft, desperate, laced with desire—made me flee from the ballroom.
And now here I am again, trapped in that same magnetic pull, my every instinct screaming to run.
His nearness hits me like flame. The scent of him—smoke, pine, and something darker—curls around me. My pulse thunders.
“You chose Wednesday.”
I blink at the sudden shift in tone and settle back onto my stool.
“I thought you’d pick Saturday,” he continues between bites. “Or Monday.”
“And be forced to endure the pleasure of your illustrious company two days in a row? I think not,” I retort.
For half a second, something dims behind his eyes. Then it’s gone, his expression smoothing back into cool indifference. Disappointment? Why would he be disappointed?
More importantly, what is he still doing here with me when Seraphina is probably in his bed, waiting for him to return? The image flashes hot and unwanted, twisting something sharp in my chest.
I don’t care. I refuse to.
I straighten my spine anyway, as if bracing against the thought itself.
“Shouldn’t you return to your chambers? Won’t a certain queen-to-be be wondering where her king disappeared to?”
His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking once before he schools his expression. “Seraphina? I sent her away hours ago,” he says matter-of-factly, with no hint of emotion.
The relief that sparks in me is immediate—and deeply unwelcome.
“Jealous, are we, Fire?”
I scoff and turn away, trying to hide the slow burn creeping up my cheeks, betraying me.
He studies me like he can see straight through the lie, then leans down, closing the distance and dropping his voice to a whisper.
“Say the word, and tomorrow is yours.”
His voice is a caress. I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears. He pauses, his gaze skimming my face like it’s a map he’s memorizing. Then, after a beat—quieter, more dangerous:
“In fact,” he says, reaching up and taking a loose curl between his fingers, “we could even start it right now.”
He tucks the stray strand behind my ear, grazing his knuckle along my cheek. My breath catches at the contact.
I hate it. I hate the flutter in my chest. I hate how, whenever I’m around him, I feel safe—unguarded—even though I know that, other than the dragon, he is the most dangerous being in existence. But mostly, I hate myself, because part of me—some reckless part—wants to say yes.
“No.” I force the word out, clearing my throat. “I don’t want to spend tomorrow with you. In fact, I don’t want any days with you.”
