Third Person’s POV
Seraya.
Foolish. Reckless. Divine.
His fists curled at his sides as he moved. He could still feel the warmth of her mouth, the fierce grip of her fingers in his coat, the whispered dare of her defiance. Seraya had crossed a line neither of them could retreat from.
He turned sharply into a side corridor, one seldom used except by servants and guards, and allowed the revelry to fade behind him.
He had no destination in mind. He did not wish to see Elowen’s judgment in her eyes, nor to endure the smug expression he knew Theron would wear if he saw even a flicker of guilt in Caelum’s bearing. But the gods had no care for what he wished.
“Elowen.”
She stood in wait just beyond the western gallery, half-veiled in torchlight, the hem of her ice-blue gown brushing the polished stone. Elowen’s arms were folded neatly before her, her expression schooled into something unreadable, though her voice did not carry its usual softness.
“Caelum.”
He heard her before he saw her. Elowen stood by the columns of the west gallery, the pale silk of her gown catching in the breeze.
“You should not have done that.” Her voice was low, careful. “He saw you.”
Caelum strode past her.
“You’re being watched,” she pressed, stepping in line. “If you wish for this treaty to last, you’ll rein in whatever this is.”
He stopped. Only once. His voice was ice.
“Mind yourself, Elowen.”
He did not glance back.
The palace grounds stretched wide beneath the torchlight. Roses climbed the trellises, unbothered by royal ruin. Caelum walked, but his stride did not slow. His pulse roared. His breath came shallow.
He should have gone to his rooms. Should have washed the heat from his skin, torn off the memory with it.
But his feet turned elsewhere.
He found her on the lower terrace.
Seraya reclined alone, a single hand curled around a goblet of wine. The moon caught in her hair like silver thread. She looked up, unsurprised.
“Your sister has sharp eyes,” she said, her voice low and measured, like the beginning of a chess move. “But a dull sense of timing.”
Caelum said nothing. His grip tightened at his side. With long strides, he crossed to her and seized her arm—not harshly, but with enough command that she stood at once, the wine abandoned at her feet. She did not resist.
He shut the door behind them and turned the bolt. The sound of the lock settling echoed like a sword being drawn.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, each word sharpened by the restraint it cost him to speak them.
Seraya met his gaze without flinching. Her chin lifted slightly, as though she dared him to repeat himself. “And you’re not?”
He stepped toward her. “You kissed me. In front of him.”
Her lips curved, but there was no humor in the smile. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”
His breath caught.
“I wanted a dozen things,” he growled, his voice grating against his own teeth. “None so stupid as that.”
She crossed her arms, the fabric of her gown shifting with the movement. “Then you’re angry because I did it first.”
“I’m angry because you made a spectacle of it.”
Her laugh came short and quiet, sharp as a cut. “You think this palace needs help making a spectacle of me?”
He turned away from her for a breath, running a hand through his hair, before facing her again.
“You use me,” he said. “Whenever it pleases you.”
“I use you?” Her voice rose, clear and bright with disbelief. “You stride through my halls like a ghost in mourning, acting as though your touch is some punishment. As though you do not burn the same.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“No. But you owe yourself the truth.”
Their eyes locked again, the silence stretching too long to be harmless.
“You want me,” she said. “But you cannot decide if it’s me you crave, or just the ruin of him.”
The breath he had held released with force as he crossed the room in a single stride.
His hands seized her wrists, pinning them against the cold stone wall, the contact rough with urgency. His body pressed into hers—solid, burning, seething. The stone behind her was freezing. He was anything but.
“You are insufferable,” he growled, his voice laced with hunger and fury.
“You are a coward.”
Then he kissed her.
It was a clash of mouths and heat and temper—raw and punishing. No pretense of romance. Just teeth and tongue and fire. Her moan broke through the kiss, husky and shocked, and his hand left her wrist to grip her jaw, holding her there as if he didn’t trust her not to vanish.
She tore at his coat, nails catching the buttons, dragging it down his shoulders and letting it fall. His hands found her waist, sliding up her spine with brutal slowness. The silk of her gown shifted with every breath, every press of his body against hers.
“You’re trembling,” he whispered against her lips, a wicked smirk curving. “You want this?”
Her breath hitched. “Shut up.”
“Say it,” he demanded, voice like gravel. “Say you want me.”
Her hips shifted against him, and the sound she made was low—unintended, almost pained. “I want you,” she breathed. “There. Are you satisfied?”
“Not yet.”
He kissed her again—sloppier this time, hungrier. Her moans were quicker now, less restrained. His hand slid beneath the hem of her gown, trailing up the inside of her thigh until her leg hitched around his hip. Her fingers dug into his bare shoulders, her back arching as his touch found skin that made her curse beneath her breath.
She gasped into his mouth. “Gods—Caelum—”
“That’s it,” he muttered, dragging his lips along her throat. “Say my name like that again.”
She bit his shoulder, hard enough to draw a groan from him. Her voice came wrecked. “You’re out of control.”
“And you like it.”
But then something shifted.
He felt it—the moment her tension turned. The way her fingers paused, how her breath stuttered in a different rhythm.
But her eyes had changed.
She shoved him back, breath ragged. Her chest rose and fell in shallow bursts.
“You want me,” she said, voice trembling. “Or do you just want to ruin him too?”
He did not answer.
His jaw locked. He stooped to lift his coat from the floor, brushed past her without a word, and left the room, the door swinging shut behind him.
30
