“What if I don’t want to?” she shot back, her voice defiant as she pulled free. With a flick of her wrist, she discarded her shawl, tying it low on her hips in one fluid motion.
I flexed my fingers, unable to stop the smirk that crossed my face. “Some things are better when savored.”
Her steps were deliberate as she moved toward me, the fringe swaying with each subtle shift. “I’ll savor the memory,” she whispered. “Let me be consumed.”
A growl tore out of me, a low primal approval as I swept her back against my chest. She practically climbed my thigh, wrapping her leg around to tuck meagainst her. Her lips parted in a breathless gasp and I didn’t allow her to catch her breath before I moved her.
Inside, a symphony played. Drums pounded a wild rhythm of need while violins screamed in crescendo, their urgency matched only by the pressure of her body against mine. Her gasps became part of the music, feeding the blaze beneath my skin.
When she spun away, my focus faltered, drawn to the sway of her hips. She matched my tempo as if hearing the same invisible melody, moving with a synchrony that defied reason.
As if we shared the same soul.
She came crashing close, and the music surged to its climax. My hand found her thigh, jerking it to my waist. Her whimper cut through the pounding in my ears as she arched against me. Her hair spilled toward the floor, her back bending with a grace that defied logic. Every part of her leaned into my strength, trusting me to hold her as her chest rose and fell, her hips grinding against my thigh. She offered me everything without hesitation.
I could have taken her—there on the stage, against the wall, anywhere. I wouldn’t have needed words. Already, she belonged to me in every way that mattered. She stoked the fire in me, daring it to consume us both. Whatever I gave, she would take and demand more.
But she wasn’t mine.
She. Wasn’t. Mine.
I tugged her upright, and she wavered before finding her footing. When I let go, her body seemed to protest the loss. Sweat glimmered at her temples, and loose strands clung to her flushed cheeks—a portrait of effort and passion.
“You know the steps,” I murmured, my fingers twitching at the loss of contact.
“You’ll dance with me?” Her words came in ragged breaths, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the question.
“If another man dared to try, I’d kill him.” My voice dropped to a growl, raw with everything I couldn’t express. Every fiber of me burned to pull her close, to let instinct take over, but I held back.
Her blush deepened, the red blooming across her cheeks betraying her attempt to stifle a grin. She knew. She basked in my jealousy, soaking it in like sunlight.
“We might burn Radaan to the ground in the process, but yes, Princess. I’ll dance with you.”
Dinner with the Sol family felt like stepping into another life. Here, I could almost forget my crown, my title. Nienna’s leg curled around mine under the table as she chatted with Gayle about mountain folk fashions. The warmth of her touch made it easy to imagine we were ordinary.
Not a princess promised to another. Not a king who had signed away his own son to her hand. Just two people, ripped from the grip of reality, clinging to a fragile illusion.
But I was too far gone. Our hearts were too tangled.
Her laughter rang out, unguarded. Golden hair spilled over her shoulders, free of royal pretense. The simple dress she wore carried no embroidery, no jewels—just her. She looked as if she belonged to another world, one that didn’t care for crowns or courts.
Our eyes caught—hers, gleaming with quiet joy. The subtle shift of her calf against mine made my heart lurch. Her touch was a silent plea, tugging me closer, tethering me to the moment. I eased my leg against hers, giving in.
We were a tangle of contradictions, our lives as entwined as our legs underneath the table. Our secrets lay hidden there too, just beneath the surface, waiting to rise and destroy us.
This couldn’t last.
But for now, I would savor every second.
The following morning, the Sols led the way to the manor’s only other entrance. Nienna’s fingers tightened around my arm as Greaves trailed behind, a new blade strapped to his chest. He looked content, his usual restlessness replaced by the calm of his task.
He had returned by midday and, as we prepared for dinner, he rambled on about ore and blacksmiths. I listened with half an ear, more focused on him than the heat building inside me from the proximity to Nienna. It was difficult to keep my attention elsewhere.
Somewhere between his eager talk, I’d agreed to buy some of the ore for the palace blacksmith’s use.
The massive doors to the manor groaned open. They were towering, thick as a man’s chest, reaching from the vaulted ceiling to the stone floor. Four guards strained against their weight, pushing them apart. Sunshine flooded the courtyard, making Clay and his wife stand a little straighter.
Nienna stiffened beside me, her hand clutching my arm. I placed my own hand over hers, holding tight, feeling the tremble in her fingers. She was leaving the manor’s safety behind. In public, she wore a mask—a role she played well.
