“You're staring,” he says, his voice rough with sleep.
“You're worth staring at.”
Something flickers across his expression at the compliment. Surprise, maybe. Or uncertainty. As if he's not accustomed to being seen as anything other than a threat or a lord to be feared.
“Did you rest well?” he asks.
“Better than I have in years.” I don't expect to be so direct. “You?”
“I did not expect to rest at all. But yes.”
We lie facing each other in the weak morning light, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. The connection forged in the Orchard hums between us, stronger after a night of sharing space. I want to touch him, to trace the sharp line of his jaw, to see if his skin is as warm as it appears.
Before I can act on the impulse, a sharp knock interrupts the moment. He sits up immediately, thepeaceful expression vanishing behind his usual mask of controlled alertness.
“Master.” Scratch's voice carries through the heavy door. “Forty-eight years, seventy-one days until my service ends. And we have uninvited guests.”
He rises from the bed, his movements economical and swift, crossing to the door. When he opens it, Scratch's six eyes take in the scene—me rumpled and disheveled on the furs, the clear indication that we spent the night together.
“Details,” Kiakoa commands.
“Small force approaching from the west. Eight riders, flying no banners but wearing Vasek's colors.” Scratch pauses, his attention flickering between us. “They maintain proper distance from our gates, but their intentions appear... observational.”
“Scouts.”
“Most likely. Though they make no effort to conceal themselves.”
Kiakoa nods curtly. “Alert the border guards. Standard positions, but no aggressive action unless they breach our perimeter.”
“Already done, Master.”
The door closes, leaving us alone again. In daylight, the dress looks intimate rather than formal, clinging to my body in ways that emphasize every curve.
“Eight riders isn't exactly an invasion,” I say.
“No. But it's not diplomacy either.” He moves to the tall wardrobe, selecting practical clothes—dark leather and wool that will allow freedom of movement. “Word travels fast. One of Jesseth’s guards must have been in Vasek’s pay.”
“What does he expect to learn?”
“Whether I am truly strengthened by our connection or simply distracted by it.” Kiakoa fastens a sword belt around his waist, the familiar weight seeming to settle him into his role as protector. “Whether you are an asset or a weakness.”
“And what will he find?”
“That depends on how we handle the next few hours.”
The walk back to my chambers takes longer than it should. He keeps stopping, finding excuses to touch me—brushing hair from my face, checking the healed bite marks on my throat. Each contact is brief but deliberate, as if he needs physical confirmation that last night happened.
“We should prepare for—” he starts, then stops when I turn to face him in the narrow corridor.
“For what?”
“For whatever comes next.” His hands come up to cup my jaw, his thumbs brushing against my skin. “I have never had anything worth protecting before. The feeling is... unsettling.”
“Good unsettling or bad unsettling?”
“I don't know yet.”
I rise on my toes, bringing my mouth close to his. “Kiss me.”
