Jorrin lingered in the doorway, shifting awkwardly. “I debated coming at all.” His gaze darted over her veiled form before he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I revisited Veil Law.” He gestured vaguely to the room. “This… would be frowned upon.”
He hesitated only a moment before crossing the threshold, the door clicking softly shut behind him. The table waited for two, a modest spread of food and a pitcher of wine waiting between them.
Jorrin’s eyes flicked to the meal, then back to her.
Ilys crossed her arms. “Not another word of boring Veil Law. I am a Veilwalker. I, above all, know what Death dictates and what the Shepherd allows.”
Jorrin exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so.
She gestured awkwardly to the meal. “You’re here now. Let’s enjoy this.”
He eyed her for a long moment before stepping forward, pulling out a chair. She did the same, sitting opposite him, watching as he surveyed the food with wary amusement.
She rushed to fill the pause before it turned awkward. “Tell me about your day.”
Jorrin blinked. “That eager to hear about the riveting life of an aspiring soldier?”
“Desperately.” She grabbed the pitcher and poured him a glass of wine, pushing it toward him.
Jorrin took a sip of wine, rolling the cup between his fingers before giving her a knowing look. “I will be dragged across the yard for this.”
Ilys arched a brow beneath her veil. “Dragged? That’s dramatic. You’ll get a mild scolding, at worst.”
“By Grim?” Jorrin scoffed. “He does not deal in mild scoldings. He looks at one like he’s already planning your funeral.”
“That is just his face.” She smirked, reaching for the bread, tearing off a piece.
Jorrin shook his head, grinning. “I swear he’s caught me looking at you before.”
Ilys stilled, fingers curling around the crust of the bread. “Looking at me?”
Jorrin oscillated, then leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. “You are the most terrifying creature in the castle. That demands attention.”
She let out a short laugh. “Flattery. You should be more careful. I might start thinking you enjoy my company.”
Jorrin animatedly shook his head. “Well, I must, considering I ignored every piece of sense in my body and came here.”
“You debated coming,” she corrected, lifting her cup. “But curiosity won in the end.”
Jorrin tilted his head, watching her. “And why invite me? What great curiosity drove you?”
Ilys stilled. For a breath, she considered the truth. The real, unvarnished, wholly terrible truth that she wanted him. His voice settled in her skin. When he smiled—honest and unguarded—divinity bloomed beneath her ribs, owing itself to him alone, not fate. His hands were calloused and sure, and she had imagined them on her. At her waist. In her hair. Between her thighs. She had never been kissed, not truly, but she’ddreamed of it in stolen moments; a soft and slow, teeth grazing, lips desperate kiss. She’d dreamed of him.
She wanted to be touched.
To be tasted.
To be known.
Now, as Jorrin watched her across the table, Baron’s story pressed against her skin like cold sweat.
She loved her King. She did. She loved the shape of her duty, the architecture of obedience. She loved the quiet reverence of a world in order, the sacred path she had been born to walk. It had been poured into her like oil. She had been forged for it, bled for it, blessed for it.
But gods—gods—how she wanted this instead, wantedhim. The solid line of his shoulders. The balanced calm in his gaze. The thought of him above her, breath caught, eyes full of need.
She had never prepared for this kind of hunger, and now it ached in her bones.
She didn’t tell him the story of the Veilwalker who’d died with his hands tangled in love and the scent of another on his skin. Instead, she looked at Jorrin, and her voice came out softer than she meant, almost a plea. “I wanted to remember what it means to choose.”
