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When I finally blow out the candle and climb into bed, I toss and turn throughout the night, half hoping, half fearing Riven will seek me out.

He doesn’t.

The next few days pass in a blur of giddy laughter and swooning as the brides go on their individual courting sessions with Riven. Each time a female comes back from their alone time with him, she’s doe-eyed and gushing, and each time a name is called that isn’t mine, my stomach sinks.

When we’re sent to our separate chambers after another day of courting and etiquette lessons, I can’t take the not knowing anymore.

Using the staff corridors, I head to Riven’s study.

The door is closed, but golden light shines from beneath it.

He’s in there. I can feel it in a way I cannot explain, like there’s a thread between us tugging me toward him. I place my palm flat against the marble frame and breathe through my nerves.

It’s Riven, for Dagny’s sake.

Riven, who made a supreme’s vow to me to ensure there wasn’t a power imbalance between us.

Riven, who granted me a lofty sum as his royal advisor.

Riven, who fought a frost-wraith for me.

Riven, who promised to keep me safe.

My heart gallops faster than Cinder as I knock on the door.

“Come in,” he calls out.

My chest squeezes painfully at the sound of his voice as I reach for the handle and let myself inside.

“Gwyn,” he says, jumping to his feet. He says my name without any warmth. That painful squeeze doubles, as if his indifference has hands of its own, and I lean against the wall for support. “I was just leaving.”

I nod, giving the impression that what he’s saying makes perfect sense, even though the letter he’s writing remains only half-finished.

He looks so tired with his shadowed gaze and the faint purple circles underscoring his eyes. Part of me aches with worry that he’s had trouble sleeping because of his argument with Arkyn or the blight. But there’s a quieter part of me that fears he’s spent the last few nights with someone other than me.

I know why the latter churns my stomach. I just don’t want to admit it.

This isn’t like me. I am not possessive or lovesick or clingy.

I don’t know what to say, but I should say something because he’s just staring at me with that godsforsaken indifferent mask of his, now carefully glued back together, and I hate it.

“I needed to talk to you,” I settle on.

He comes around the desk and opens the door to his study, gesturing for me to leave first.

With mere inches between us, all filled with tension, the distance feels uncrossable.

I don’t move from where I lean against the wall. I simply stare at his extended hand, wondering how we went from having his hands knotted in my hair as he fucked my mouth to this.

I swallow and muster up the courage to whisper, “Have I done something?”

“No.”

My eyes flick up to his. For the first time, I don’t believe him.

“Then why have you been avoiding me?”

“Because you’re a distraction.” He clenches his jaw. “We agreed to just sex so long as it didn’t interfere with the bargain, right?”