She remained silent, unwilling to break the spell of honesty, allowing herself instead to feel the steady drift of the comb through her tangled, damp hair. Each stroke was sure, controlled, and not once did he hurt her.
She wanted to trust him. Wanted to lean back into the impossible spell of gentleness he wove with each careful stroke of the comb. For one breath, then another, she let herself hover there, on the edge of surrender.
But she understood too well how dangerous this was. To succumb so easily, to forget what he was, what she was, would be her undoing.
So she steeled herself.
"Tell me this, then," she said quietly, her voice cutting through the hush. "Why did that thought not occur to you with any of the others? The men and women who fell beneath your hand?"
The comb paused only a fraction before moving again, steady, patient.
"Because," he said, his tone unflinching, "I've never had to kill a queen before. Let alone a noble and honorable one."
The words sank into her like a stone dropped into deep water, rippling through the silence between them.
He did not stop combing, each stroke slow and deliberate.
"I've slain soldiers," he said, voice even, untroubled by the admission. "Lords and knights. Orc chiefs and rival clans. Assassins who came for me in the dark. All of them had already chosen their path. Men and women who decided long ago to live by the sword, and so they died by it."
The comb slid through another knot, his hand patient, careful.
"But you…" His breath stirred the strands at her temple. "You are not like them. You've wielded a blade, yes—but in spite of your title, not because of it. To kill you would have been…" His voice roughened, just slightly. "A waste."
"A waste," she repeated flatly, turning the words over as slowly and carefully as he combed her hair.
She stood in the warm sunlight, velvet heavy around her, allowing his slow caress. Every drag of the comb reminded her of the dangerousness contained within him—and of his restraint. His gentleness.
Their first real touch.
This man who was to be her husband.
And even as her skin tingled under his careful hand, she resolved to free herself. To slip from his grip, his power. Onceshe was back in her castle, within the walls of Istrial, it would be easier. Her people. Her mages. Perhaps he underestimated her. Or perhaps he was already one step ahead.
He moved closer.
"You have the mantle now. The crown," he murmured, his voice deep as stone. "These lands have always belonged to both our peoples. Our fates are already bound. Why not change everything?"
A sudden realization struck her, sharp and unexpected. A low, soft chuckle escaped her lips. "I understand," she said. "You're an idealist."
He did not rise to her taunt. Instead, he leaned in, parting her hair at her neck, pushing it gently aside. She felt his warm breath, the graze of his tusks against her skin. Then—his lips, brushing a slow, assured kiss there.
The tremor it sent through her betrayed her utterly.
Just one kiss. Slow, warm, infuriatingly certain.
It shouldn't make her react this way. But it did.
This male… Dangerous. Compelling.
"Idealist?" His voice vibrated against her skin. "Maybe. If being idealistic means I'm mad enough to claim you, then yes."
She didn't shy away. In fact, when he relented, she almost missed his lips.
"You truly believe you can make this… more than what it is?" she asked, her voice low, caught between disbelief and something more dangerous.
His fingers slid along her jaw, strong, unyielding, until he turned her head, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Try me."
