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It didn’t move. If anything, it settled more firmly, his thumb tracing idle, maddening circles against my thigh through the fabric, gathering the silk higher with every pass.

“Atlas,” I muttered through my teeth, turning my head so the table couldn’t see, “Behave.”

He didn’t so much as glance at me. He only leaned in, as though murmuring some private royal aside, and breathed against my ear,

“They will only know, little bird, if you react to it.” Then his hand slid higher, fingertips grazing the bare, sensitive skin of my inner thigh.

I sat bolt upright, a strangled sound catching in my throat, and turned it into a violent, entirely unconvincing cough.

Beside me, smooth as anything, Atlas reached for the wine and refilled my glass.

“Here,” he said, the soul of solicitous concern, pressing it into my hand. “You must be parched.”

I took it, gritting out a “Thank you” so sweet it could have rotted teeth, and downed half of it in one go. All the while, he chuckled low, very obviously pleased with himself. Finally, mercifully, he at least withdrew his hand… For now.

The wretched, insufferable, devastating man.

I was just beginning to recover when he reached for one of the Star-bloom pastries, broke off a small, flaky piece, and lifted it to my lips, his other hand cupped beneath to catch the falling crumbs.

“Open,” he ordered, though his voice was soft.

And the thing was, there was nothing teasing in it now. Nothing performative. Just him, watching me with a tenderness that made the whole roaring hall go quiet at the edges as their king fed me by hand, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

And well, I opened my mouth and let him.

The pastry melted on my tongue, buttery and herby and unfairly delicious, and a low, helpless sound of pleasure escaped me before I could stop it.

Atlas went very still.

“Oh my god,” I mumbled, reaching for another piece, “that is genuinely the best thing I have ever…"

“Alexandra.” His voice had dropped an octave, rough at the edges, before he nudged my cheek with his nose, dropping to my ear so as he could warn,

“Making those sounds is not helping me keep my hands off you.”

I felt my cheeks heat all over again, even as a slow grin tugged at my mouth.

“Well,” I said primly, licking a crumb from my thumb just to watch his eyes darken, “this entire banquet was your idea, Your Majesty. You’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

“A miscalculation,” he agreed gravely, “I am beginning to deeply regret.”

“You’ll survive.”

“Will I?” His gaze dropped to my mouth and back up. “I am not at all certain I will make it to dessert.”

I laughed, and for a while, that was all there was. Food, and warmth, and the easy roll of banter between the three of us. Lazaros throwing in one outrageous comment after another. Aster grumbling, deflecting, and occasionally surprising me with something dry enough to make me choke on my wine. And then there was Atlas, with his hand a steady, grounding weight on my knee.

Then it struck me, somewhere in the middle of it, how much lighter Lazaros was than his brother, how easy it was to laugh with him, and how badly I had needed exactly this. To sit at a table and feel, for one stolen evening, almost ordinary.

It couldn’t last. Of course, it couldn’t.

But for once, I let myself enjoy it while it did… Imposter syndrome and all.

It was much later, when the last of the platters had been cleared away and the goblets refilled for a third time, that a low ripple of movement spread through the hall. Servants slipped between the tables, drawing them back toward the walls, opening up a wide expanse of gleaming marble at the center of the room. Along one side, a long table appeared as if by magic, laden with towering desserts, and people began to drift toward it to help themselves.

So, when Atlas rose and held out his hand to me, I assumed I knew exactly where we were heading.

“See,” I said, smug, slipping my hand into his and letting him draw me to my feet. “You made it to dessert after all.”