Seraya’s POV
I heard the door open before I saw him.
The latch slipped free in that clean, quiet way it always did, like it belonged to him now. I didn’t rise from my seat by the window. The light of morning had yet to climb fully over the gardens, and the chill still lingered beneath the stone floor.
Caelum entered without asking.
His steps were careful, deliberate, but there was no uncertainty in them. He stopped a few paces from me, holding a folded parchment in his hand. His expression was unreadable—no anger, no warmth, just the same quiet calculation I’d seen in war meetings and treaty talks.
“Two weeks,” he said, as though reading it aloud were easier than meeting my gaze.“We follow your cycle. We maintain appearances. No questions. No emotions. You allow me access, and I keep you protected.”
I said nothing at first. My eyes fell to the parchment. I could feel the weight of it already—what it meant, what it didn’t.
“And if it fails?” I asked. “If no child comes of it?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Then we decide what comes next.”
I stared at the document, not reading it. I didn’t need to. The terms were clear—and cleaner than what we had already done. This put a boundary around it. This made it survival.
“I agree,” I said. My voice didn’t shake.
There was no reason to refuse. Not now.
But once the page was folded again, the silence between us remained. Thicker than before. Not awkward, not tense—but full. Heavy with what had already passed between us. The things we still wouldn’t say.
He inclined his head once and left as he had come—without looking back.
But as the door closed behind him, I found myself wishing he had said something else. Anything else.
That night, he returned.
I was already beneath the covers when I heard the door open. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting long, slow-moving shadows against the drapes. I faced the window, my back to the door. My gown was thin, the sheets thinner, but I didn’t reach for more. I didn’t move when I heard the soft rustle of fabric as he undressed. I felt the mattress shift beneath his weight. Still, I said nothing.
He didn’t speak either. No commands. No assumption.
The heat of his body radiated against my spine. I could feel the dip of the bed where he lay behind me. When his hand slid to rest lightly at my waist, I stiffened. The touch wasn’t rough. It wasn’t even firm. But I hadn’t expected softness.
A moment later, his lips pressed against my shoulder. The kiss was slow. Not quite tender—but cautious, perhaps even thoughtful.
I turned away from him slightly, not out of fear, but self-preservation.
“This isn’t about feeling,” I said.
His voice came low, steady against my skin. “No. But you still deserve care.”
I said nothing more.
And neither did he.
We lay like that, quiet and still, skin against skin, without movement. The tension between us had not vanished—it lived beneath the silence, pulsing faintly beneath each breath we took. But there was warmth too. And exhaustion. And a strange, reluctant peace.
I fell asleep with his hand still resting at my waist.
The second night came without ceremony.
I stood at the mirror, brushing out my hair when he arrived. I didn’t turn to greet him, but I heard the door close, the faint sound of boots against the floor. When I climbed into bed, he followed soon after. The room was dim, lit only by the fire’s low flicker.
He lay behind me again.
But this time, I turned.
I faced him.
He said nothing, but his hand came to rest lightly on my hip. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t ask why he touched me as he did—gently, but with possession behind it. Our eyes met in the dark. He moved closer.
When I leaned in, he met me halfway.
The kiss was different from before. Slower. Measured. His hand slid from my hip to the back of my neck. My fingers found his chest, not out of want, but need. There was heat between us—sharp, patient heat. But still, it ended before it deepened.
I pulled away first.
Neither of us said why.
I turned again, and this time, he let me.
Sleep came, but not easily.
On the third night, I waited.
He arrived without delay. No words passed between us. I had not lit more than two candles. I had not dressed to invite anything, and yet I did not hide myself either. The sheets were cool when I climbed in, but they warmed quickly when he joined me.
He didn’t reach for me at once. He waited. Perhaps he knew I would not push him away this time.
When his fingers brushed the small of my back, I exhaled. Not sharply. Not in protest. I allowed it.
His hand explored the curve of my waist, the length of my thigh. My breath came slower.
His lips grazed the nape of my neck. I did not stop him.
When he touched me again, lower this time, I let my legs shift to give him room. My fingers twisted in the sheets. I did not speak. Neither did he.
After, we lay tangled. Our limbs overlapped. My head rested near his chest. His hand remained at my hip.
We did not speak of what it meant. We did not revisit what was said days before.
This wasn’t about emotion. We had agreed on that.
And yet, some part of me stayed awake longer than it needed to, counting his breaths, waiting for something I could never ask for.
30
