Kallias stepped onto the dock, eyes taking in the emptiness. “It’s peaceful.”
“And private.” I reached for a boulder, tugging off my boots. “Draconia is all stone and noise. People are always watching. Mother taught me to sail as a girl. This place became my escape—away from Ronan, from the Spire, from everything.”
“Your father let a child out to sea?”
“No doubt Argos flew overhead.” I shook my head, stacking my boots beside the dock. “But back then, it felt like freedom.”
Kallias watched me, his gaze lingering.
“Where do you want me, Kal?” Greaves asked. He stood in the boat, black uniform baking under the day’s heat. His eyes flicked to my bare feet, then to his king.
“Wherever’s comfortable,” Kallias muttered, his attention never leaving mine. “What are you doing, Nienna?”
“Swimming.”
“Sun above.” He cursed under his breath.
“You’ve never swum before?”
“Not in the ocean.”
“Help me with these laces?” I turned, pulling my hair over one shoulder, offering him my back.
He stepped in close. His fingers worked the knots loose, slow and careful. His mouth brushed my ear, voice low. “Just how far are you stripping?”
“Enough to swim.”
“Would that be all of it?”
“Kallias, if you refuse to give me all of you before we wed, you certainly won’t see all of me.”
A laugh caught in his throat as he dropped his forehead to my shoulder. “Thank Elohios.”
The dress slipped. I held it against my chest as the fabric slid down my arms. His lips trailed kisses, the edge of his scruff scratching along my skin—soft and warm and maddening.
With a heavy sigh, he dropped beside me and yanked off his boots. Greaves sat with his back turned, one foot propped along the dock’s sun-bleached planks, the other dangling above the glinting water.
I let my dress fall. Cool air brushed my skin as I stepped free of the fabric and shook out the sand. The folds draped easily over the boulder, catching a shimmer of light.
Kallias wrestled with his mantle. I waited, arms folded, watching. He unclasped the last chain, gaze flicking to mine. The conflict there—always layered, always restrained—pinched at me.
“Just catch it,” he said.
Some part of me bristled that he still wouldn’t let me help remove it, but I caught the heavy gold all the same, setting it atop my dress. Sunlight sparked off the engraved shoulder plates, carving shadows across the fabric.
He peeled off his vest, folded it with rigid care, then stripped his tunic. Still, he refused to meet my eyes. His shoulders flexed, every muscle taut as the shirt cleared his head.
The wound had sealed. Silver strands were growing back across scorched flesh. His chest glistened, a map of hard lines and sharp dips. Pale skin was taut over his abs, and as he twisted, shadows caught along his muscled sides.
No softness remained—just the strength he refused to let fade with age.
He paused at his belt. He glanced over, jaw tight. His gaze drifted across my chest binding, trailed down my torso to the hem of my trousers. Traced the dip and swell of my hips, my bare feet, then climbed back up.
He sniffed. His hands fell from his belt, as if my clothing had sealed his decision.
“Yours are too baggy,” I said, crouching to tug at the loose fabric clinging to his calf. “Mine won’t drag me down.”
“I’m not swimming,” he muttered, stepping away.
