She moved with a kind of grace that made the world fall away. Her breath hitched against his neck, her hips circling, rising, falling, riding the crest of something primal and sacred. He held her, anchored her, lost in the tide of her pleasure. She gasped his name as her body clenched around him, and he held on as she cried out, trembling in his arms.
For a moment, neither of them moved. She collapsed atop him, breath warm on his collarbone, hair spilling like sunlit silk across his chest. His heart pounded so hard it echoed in his bones. He was still inside her. Still shaking. Still hers.
When she finally rose, her eyes were wild and bright, her body radiant. She looked like something out of legend. A goddess ravishing a mortal man. He didn’t belong in her world, but he would make her his.
She began to move again, slow and purposeful. Every rise and fall was a promise, a vow, a question he couldn’t answer except with his body. He filled his hands with her breasts, worshipped the lines of her face, and drowned in her eyes. Their bodies moved together in reverence, in need, in joy.
When he came, it was not a peak but a surrender. He clutched her against him and let go in deep, shuttering gasps.
Afterward, they lay quiet and breathless in the hush that followed the storm. Helen tucked herself against him, a contented sigh ghosting across his chest.
Nic stroked her back, traced the curve of her spine, and pressed his lips to her temple. He breathed her in—her warmth, her scent, the mingled salt of sweat and desire. His hand drifted to her belly, and in the soft pull of sleep, he wondered what lay in their future.
The days bled into each other, heat, sweat, aching limbs. The rigorous sparring under torchlight, the blades casting fitful shadows against the training yard. Sweat stung his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something that didn’t taste like dirt or urgency.
“Again,” one captain barked.
Nic raised his sword. His arms trembled with the effort.
Later, when the others slumped gratefully into benches for a hasty meal, Nic sat in silence, grinding a pebble beneath his boot just to stay awake. He caught himself staring through the firelight, searching for a figure he wouldn’t find.
Helen.
He hadn’t seen her since that night in the villa. And in the haze of fatigue, she drifted further away, like a dream he barely remembered having.
He scrubbed a hand down his face.
There was no room in his head for sweet words or reckless plans. Not with Jacob looming like a wall he didn’t know how to scale. Not when his body felt moments from collapse.
Each night as he fell into his bed, the sky already streaked pale with dawn, all he could manage was one last thought—fragmented and sour—
Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow he’d figure out what to say to Jacob.
Nearly two weeks after Helen’s trembling confession, a folded missive bearing her name arrived at the end of a brutal training day. The captains had pushed them to the brink again, and Nic’s hands still shook from sword drills. He didn’t stop to change. The note said urgent. And if something had happened—if her parents knew—he wasn’t going to wait for sleep to make it worse.
By the time he reached the villa, his shirt was stuck to his back with sweat, and he smelled like every mile he’d walked. He barely raised his fist to knock before the door yanked open.
Helen stood there, eyes red-rimmed, her whole body tight with the kind of sorrow that made the ground pitch beneath him. Panic hurtled to the back of his throat.
He shut the door behind him fast. “Are you alright? What’s happened? Did your parents find out?”
“No,” she said quickly, “they don’t know anything.”
His chest rose and fell once, sharp and shallow. Relief was there, but it tangled messily with dread. He walked her to the sitting room and collapsed into a chair, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
“I’m so tired, Helen,” he muttered. “Can you please just tell me why I’ve been summoned?”
She sat across from him, small and shivering in the armchair, her fingers twisting into her dress. “You don’t have to ask my father anymore.”
He straightened slowly. “We’ve had this talk, Helen.”
“I mean—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t have a reason to anymore.”
Silence pressed between them.
Then he asked—too loud in the quiet—“What do you mean?”
She broke. “The reason is gone!” she gasped, tears surging. “I—I started bleeding last night.”
