I do not answer. Words are unnecessary.
Instead, my fingers find the first button. I work them loose with swift, practiced efficiency, the fine fabric parting beneath my touch. Her skin is warm and unblemished, a study in perfection.
And yet I feel nothing.
No hunger. No heat. Not even the ghost of a stirring in my blood.
Marlayna tilts her head, as if waiting for something more, but I give her nothing. This is not seduction. This is strategy. A game played in whispers and shadows, in silk sheets and half-truths.
The last button slips free. Her gown slackens around her shoulders, the fine fabric whispering against her skin, threatening to slide away completely. But just before it can pool at her feet, she catches it in her fists, holding it tight as she glides toward the bed.
She moves like she expects to be worshipped. Like the sight of her reclining across the silken sheets, her gown slipping just enough to bare the soft swell of her breasts, should send me into a frenzy.
But the only thing that burns in me is the consuming ache of absence.
Not for her.
For Amara.
If it were Amara stretched out before me, there’d be no hesitation. No strategy. Just raw, ruinous need to have her, claim her, hear her cry my name as she clawed at my skin. I’d take my time unraveling her, tasting every inch, coaxing the sweetest sounds from her lips until she was trembling beneath my tongue. I would worship her, over and over, until she came undone in my mouth, her pleasure washing over me like a blessing, long before I ever sank into the unbearable heat of her. The only warmth that could ever truly sate me.
The thought alone sends a sharp rush of hunger through me, but it is not for the female sprawled before me. Even in the haze of my own longing, Marlayna remains nothing more than a pale imitation of desire.
“Come, my prince,” she murmurs, her voice threaded with anticipation as her hair lifts in the breeze. “Time to honor our bargain.”
“Yes,” I say, my voice low, carried on the same wind that catches her hair. “A warm and willing body between your sheets.”
She nods, lips parting, teeth grazing the curve of her bottom lip in anxious excitement.
But then the door groans open behind me.
Marlayna stiffens, her eager expression vanishing in an instant, swallowed by something colder.
Boot steps sound against the floor, measured and unhurried, and then the door clicks shut once more.
Reon steps forward from the dark, coming to stand at my side.
And in the quiet that follows, I can almost hear the pulse hammering in Marlayna’s throat.
“What is this?” she snarls, eyes flashing with fury.
“This,” I say smoothly, barely restraining my grin, “is Lord Reon of Eyr’Drogul.” I tilt my head toward him. “And he is more than happy to honor our bargain on my behalf.”
With the ease of someone born to charm, Reon sweeps back his copper hair and offers a lazy half-bow, the moonlight catching on the sharp gleam of his canines as he straightens.
“Lady Marlayna,” his voice a low rumble beneath his grin. “It will be my pleasure.”
Her face twists in disbelief. “This is not what was bargained.”
My brows lift in mock confusion. “A warm, willing body. Was that not your request?” I clap Reon’s shoulder. “You’ll find he meets those requirements very well.”
“Deceiver,” she spits, her hands curling into fists. “I could have you killed for this.”
I step closer, letting the weight of my gaze settle over her. “Bargains are dangerous things, my lady. Especially when made by Fae.” I let the words hang between us, then smirk. “For one who so longs for the old ways, perhaps instead of outrage, you should embrace this moment.”
The silence draws taut between us, each waiting to see who will make the first move. In the end, it is Marlayna who yields, though not without a flash of irritation in her eyes.
“Fine,” she concedes, voice clipped. “I've had too much wine to be particular. Lord Reon may not be your equal, but he will do.”
