But it didn't release them.
The shatter was real—she felt the old curse splinter like glass through her bones, the pleasure-pain coils snapping one by one. But beneath the breaking, something else rose. A new current, honey-thick and golden, wound up from the ruined spell and locked tight around her thighs where they pressed against his shoulders. His jaw trembled where it hovered, inches from her heat, and she felt the effort it took him not to close the distance—felt it in the way his hands dug into the mattress on either side of her hips, in the ragged sound of his breath against her skin.
"Adil." His name came out broken. A question she didn't know how to finish.
He made a sound low in his throat. Not a word. Something animal. He was straining against the new binding, she could see it in the cords of his neck, the way his whole body shook with the force of holding back. The golden thread pulsed between them, warm and alive, and she realized with a cold clarity that the spell hadn't freed them—it had only changed its shape.
"I can't—" His voice was raw, barely recognizable. "I can't move. She won't let me."
She. The spell. The magic that had bound them since the duel. Still here, still watching, still hungry.
Esme's heel pressed into his back. Not to push him away. A command. A plea. The same word in two different languages, and she didn't know which one she meant anymore.
The golden thread tightened. She felt it coil around her lungs, her throat, the base of her spine. Not painful. Not the cold lash of the old curse. This was warm. Patient. A living wire that hummed between his lips and her sex, refusing to let either one complete the act.
"Then don't move," she said, and her own voice surprised her. Steady. Sure. "Stay right there."
She shifted beneath him, just a fraction, and the spell sang in response—a low thrum that vibrated through her pelvis, up her spine, into her skull. Her hips lifted, just slightly, and the motion brought her closer to his mouth without breaking the spell's hold. A negotiation. A surrender disguised as a demand.
Adil's eyes found hers from between her thighs. Amber. Burning. The scar on his cheek stood out white against his dark skin, and she watched his pupils dilate as he understood what she was offering. Not resistance. Not a fight. A different kind of breaking.
"If I move," he said, each word forced through clenched teeth, "she'll lock us both. We'll stay here until dawn. Frozen."
"Then don't move." She said it again, slower this time, and let her thighs fall open wider against his shoulders. "Let me do the work."
The spell pulsed. Approval. Hunger. The golden thread between them thickened, and she felt the heat of him even through the inches that separated his mouth from her skin. His breath. The tremor in his lips. The wet shine of saliva at the corner of his mouth where he'd already tasted her once, before the shatter, before the new binding.
"Esme." Her name in his mouth like a wound. "If you do this—"
"I know." She reached down, her fingers finding his hair, tangling in the short curls at his nape. The spell didn't stop her—it only held the parts of them that mattered. His mouth. Her center. The space between. "I'm choosing it."
The flicker across his face was raw. Unshielded. She saw the war there—the part of him that wanted to believe the spell had made them do this, that none of it was real, that he could walk away at dawn and call it magic. And the part of him that already knew better. The part that looked at her like she was the only real thing in this cursed room.
His hands moved. Not toward her—the spell held them pinned at the wrists, pressed flat to the mattress on either side of her hips. But his fingers curled, just slightly. A gesture she wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been watching. He was trying to reach her. Even locked in place, he was reaching.
She lifted her hips again. Closer. The heat of his breath ghosted over her, and she felt herself clench around nothing, felt the slick evidence of her want gather at the entrance of her sex. He was close enough to smell her—she knew he could, knew the exact line of his nostrils flaring, knew the way his eyes darkened when her scent hit him.
"Tell me what you want," he said, and the command in his voice made her stomach tighten. Even pinned, even helpless, he was still Adil. Still the man who'd faced her across a dozen dueling circles, who'd matched her spell for spell, who'd never once looked away from a challenge.
"I want you to taste me," she said, and the words felt like crossing a border. "I want to feel your mouth on me when nothing is forcing you to do it."
The spell shivered. The golden thread vibrated, and she felt the pleasure-pain residue flicker at the edges—not the full cold lash, but a reminder. A warning. They were still bound. Still in danger. But the new magic was different. It didn't punish. It watched. Waited. Demanded something she couldn't name.
"I'm not forcing it." His voice cracked on the last word, and she felt the truth of it in her bones. "I've wanted this since the first time I saw you in the dueling ring. Wanted to pin you down and taste every corner of you until you forgot your own name."
The air left her lungs. He'd never said anything like that before. Never let the mask slip far enough to show the hunger underneath. And now it poured out of him, unstoppable, the confession raw and unguarded in the candlelight.
"Then taste me," she whispered. "Adil. Please."
He couldn't move. The spell held him rigid, his mouth a hand's breadth from her sex, his whole body locked in place. But his eyes—his eyes moved over her like a touch. Like he was memorizing the exact shade of her skin in the low light, the way her chest rose and fell, the tiny tremble at the corner of her mouth where she bit her lip.
"I need you to come to me," he said, and the vulnerability in his voice was a blade. "I need you to close the distance. So I know."
She knew what he meant. So he knew it was her choice. So he could carry this memory out of the cursed room and never wonder if the magic had made the decision for her.
Esme hooked her heels over his shoulders, the rough wool of his shirt catching against her calves. The spell hummed, curious, waiting. She tightened her thighs against the sides of his head, felt his breath hot and uneven against her inner thigh, and then she lifted her hips and pressed herself to his mouth.
The contact was electric.
The golden thread blazed white-hot between them, and she felt the spell lock around her like a fist. But Adil's mouth was on her—finally, fully—and the spell couldn't stop that. Couldn't undo the fact that she had chosen this, had pushed herself against his lips, had claimed the contact he couldn't initiate.
He moaned against her. A broken, desperate sound that vibrated through her entire body. His tongue was flat at first, broad strokes that tasted her from entrance to clit, and she arched into the contact with a cry that echoed off the stone walls. He was devouring her. Even pinned, even held in place by magic, he was devouring her like a man starving, like she was the first real thing he'd touched in years.
"Adil—" His name became a gasp as his mouth found her clit, lips closing around the sensitive bundle of nerves with a precision that made her see stars. He sucked, gently at first, then harder, and she felt the pleasure spike through her belly, her thighs, the base of her skull. The golden thread pulsed in time with her heartbeat, and she realized the spell was feeding on her pleasure. Drinking it. Using it to bind them closer.
She didn't care.
His tongue moved in circles, alternating pressure and speed with an instinct that felt like years of practice. But she knew his history. Knew he'd never done this before—not like this, not with someone he actually wanted. The knowledge made it sweeter. Made every stroke of his tongue feel like a discovery, like he was learning her body in real time and worshiping every inch of the lesson.
"Open your eyes," she said, and her voice came out ragged, barely controlled. "I want to see you."
He looked up. His amber eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, his mouth still pressed to her sex, his tongue still moving in that devastating rhythm. The sight of him like this—the proud, dangerous enchanter on his knees between her thighs, pinned by magic but still choosing to stay, still choosing to taste her—undid something in her chest.
She felt the orgasm building. A slow, deep pressure that started at her core and radiated outward, warming her limbs, loosening the tension in her shoulders. The spell recognized it too—she felt the golden thread tighten, felt the magic coil in anticipation of the release.
"Don't stop," she breathed. "Adil—don't you dare stop."
He couldn't answer. His mouth was occupied, his hands pinned, his whole body locked in service to her pleasure. But he doubled down. His tongue flattened against her clit and pressed, hard and steady, while his lips sealed around her and sucked. The combination was devastating. She felt herself climbing, felt the edge approaching, felt the spell lean in like a predator scenting blood.
She came with his name on her lips, crying out as the pleasure crashed through her, wave after wave that the spell caught and wove into the golden thread. Her thighs clenched around his head, her hips grinding against his mouth as she rode the orgasm out, and he took every second of it—drank her pleasure like it was his only source of air, moaned against her sex as she pulsed against his tongue.
When the last tremor faded, she lay panting, her body limp and drenched in sweat. The golden thread had gone quiet, sated, pulsing with a gentle warmth that felt almost like contentment. Adil's mouth was still pressed to her, softer now, his tongue tracing lazy circles through the aftermath as if he couldn't bear to stop touching her.
"You can move now," she said, and her voice was hoarse.
He lifted his head slowly, his lips slick and swollen, his eyes dark with hunger that hadn't been satisfied. The spell released his wrists, and he pushed himself up, his body covering hers, his hands finding her waist, her hips, her thighs—touching everywhere at once, as if he needed to confirm she was real.
"I'm going to fuck you now," he said, and the words landed like a promise. "And I'm going to take my time."
The spell leaned in. Hungry.
His weight settled over her, the hard length of him pressing against her still-sensitive center, and she felt the spell curl between them like a living thing, tasting their anticipation. It hummed through the space where his chest met hers, a low vibration that made her skin prickle and her breath catch. Adil's hands found her wrists, pinning them above her head, and the gesture was so familiar—so perfectly him —that she almost laughed.
"You're not going to move," he said, and it wasn't a question.
"I put my mouth on you first. You're already ahead."
His eyes darkened. The scar on his cheek caught the candlelight as he leaned down, his lips brushing her jaw, her throat, the hollow where her pulse hammered. "That wasn't a request."
The spell rippled between them, curious, waiting. Esme felt it coil around her ankles, her knees, the small of her back—not restraining, but watching. Testing. She arched beneath him, a deliberate movement that dragged her hips against his, and the magic shivered in response.
"Then don't ask," she said. "Take what you want."
A muscle jumped in his jaw. His grip on her wrists tightened, not painfully, but enough to remind her that he was stronger. That he could hold her down. That the choice to stay still was hers only because he allowed it.
"I warned you," he said, his voice dropping to a register that made her stomach clench. "I said I was going to take my time."
"And I said I liked your mouth. We both say things we mean."
He laughed—a low, rough sound that she felt against her skin. "You're impossible."
"You've been trying to pin me down in a duel for three years. You love that I'm impossible."
His mouth found hers before she could finish the sentence. Hard. Claiming. The kiss was nothing like the tender exploration of before—this was a branding, a statement of intent. His tongue swept into her mouth, and she tasted herself on him, the salt and musk of her own arousal still coating his lips. The intimacy of it sent a jolt through her, sharp and electric.
When he broke the kiss, they were both breathing hard. The spell had gone quiet, coiled tight around them, its attention absolute.
"I'm going to fuck you," he said again, slower this time, his lips brushing her ear. "And when I'm done, you're going to know exactly who you belong to."
"Bold words from a man who spent the last twenty minutes with his tongue between my thighs."
He pulled back, and the look in his eyes was something between fury and adoration. "You're trying to make me lose control."
"I'm trying to make you move."
She felt his cock twitch against her, hot and hard through the fabric of his trousers. He was still dressed—they both were, mostly—and the unevenness of it made her skin prickle. He'd taken her apart with his mouth while wearing every layer of his pride. Now he was the one exposed, straining, desperate.
His hand left her wrist. She felt him shift, felt the rough wool of his trousers drag against her thigh as he freed himself. The tip of his cock brushed against her folds, slick from her earlier arousal, and they both inhaled sharply.
"Look at me," he said.
She did. His amber eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, the whites ringed with gold. He looked feral. Hungry. Like a man on the edge of a precipice.
"If you want me to stop—"
"I don't."
The spell tightened around them, a living corset of magic that pressed them together. Esme felt the head of his cock nudge against her entrance, felt the heat of him through the thin barrier of her own slick, and her body responded without permission—hips tilting, muscles clenching, a small sound escaping her throat.
"Tell me you want this," he said, and his voice cracked. "Not the spell. Me."
"I want you." The words came out before she could think, raw and honest and terrifying. "I've always wanted you. Even when I hated you. Especially when I hated you."
Something broke in his expression. The last wall, the final shield. He lowered his head, pressing his forehead to hers, and for a moment they just breathed together, the spell vibrating around them like a held note.
Then he pushed inside her.
The stretch was exquisite—slow and deliberate, inch by inch, as if he was determined to memorize every part of the journey. Esme felt her body yield to him, felt the wet heat of her own arousal easing the way, felt the spell pulse with approval as he seated himself fully, his hips flush against hers.
They both stopped. Frozen in the perfect, unbearable fullness of the moment.
" Fuck," he breathed, and the word was a prayer.
She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, her eyes wet, her whole body trembling with the effort of not shattering. He was inside her. The man who had been her enemy, her equal, her obsession—he was inside her, and it felt like coming home to a house she'd never known she built.
He didn't move. Just stayed there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged in the space between their lips. The spell hummed around them, a low thrum that vibrated through her pelvis, up her spine, into her skull.
"Adil."
"I know."
He drew back, slow, almost torturously slow, until only the head remained inside her. Then he pushed forward again, just as slow, and the drag of him against her walls made her gasp.
"You feel—" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "You feel like nothing I've ever—"
"Don't talk." She hooked her ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper. "Fuck me."
The spell laughed. A low, pleased sound that vibrated through the golden binding, and Esme felt the magic shift—no longer watching, but participating. It wrapped around her lungs, her throat, the base of her spine, amplifying every sensation, every tremor, every small sound he drew from her.
He found a rhythm. Long, deep strokes that Bottomed out inside her, each one hitting a spot that made her see stars. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her hips, her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples until they peaked hard and aching. The candlelight flickered across his back, the muscles shifting under his dark skin, and she watched him with the detached clarity of someone who had crossed a line and couldn't go back.
"Faster," she said, and he obeyed, his hips snapping against hers, the sound of skin on skin filling the room.
The spell wound tighter. She felt it coil around her clit, a phantom mouth of magic that copied the rhythm of his thrusts, pressing and releasing in perfect time with his movements. The sensation was dizzying—pleasure layered on pleasure, real and unreal, each stroke amplified by the magic's touch.
"What—" She couldn't finish the question. The magic was touching her, fingers made of heat and intention, rubbing her clit in counterpoint to his thrusts.
"The spell." Adil's voice was strained, his eyes locked on hers. "It's— fuck —it's helping."
"Helping?" The word came out broken as the magic tightened its rhythm, matching the speed of his hips.
"It wants you to come." He bit his lip, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. "It wants to feel you come around my cock."
The vulgarity of it, the unfiltered need in his voice, sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She was close—so close—the phantom pressure building alongside the real friction, the two sensations weaving together until she couldn't tell where the spell ended and her body began.
"I'm going to—"
"I know." He drove into her harder, faster, the bed frame creaking beneath them. "Come for me. Come on my cock."
The spell pressed down on her clit, once, twice, a third time—and she shattered.
The orgasm tore through her with a violence that surprised them both. She cried out, her back arching off the mattress, her inner muscles clamping down on him in waves that seemed to go on forever. The spell caught every pulse, every tremor, and fed it back into the golden binding, turning her pleasure into a feedback loop that intensified with each passing second.
Adil groaned above her, his hips stuttering as she clenched around him. "Esme—"
"Don't stop." She barely recognized her own voice, hoarse and desperate. "Don't you dare stop."
He didn't. He kept moving, kept thrusting, riding her through the aftershocks until she was oversensitive and gasping. Then he pulled out—so suddenly that she whimpered at the loss—and flipped her onto her stomach.
The movement was so fast she barely had time to react. One moment she was on her back, the next she was on her knees, her face pressed into the rough linen, her hips raised. He settled behind her, his hands finding her waist, pulling her back against him.
"I'm not done with you."
She looked over her shoulder, meeting his eyes in the candlelight. The scar on his cheek was stark against his flushed skin, his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving. He looked like a man possessed—and she loved every second of it.
"Then don't be done."
He entered her from behind, a single deep thrust that stole her breath. The angle was different—deeper, somehow, the head of his cock pressing against a spot that made her toes curl. The spell adjusted, the phantom touch finding her clit from this new position, never missing a beat.
He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust driving her forward until her hands slipped on the sweat-damp sheets. She buried her face in the pillow, muffling her cries, and he leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth at her ear.
"I want to hear you."
"Then make me louder."
His hand slid between her thighs, his fingers replacing the spell's touch, finding her clit with unerring accuracy. He rubbed her in circles, keeping time with his thrusts, and the dual stimulation sent her spiraling toward another peak faster than she'd thought possible.
"Adil—"
"Again." The command was rough, almost a growl. "Come again. I want to feel you."
She couldn't argue. Couldn't think. The pleasure was too much, too bright, a star going supernova behind her eyes. She came with a sob, her body convulsing around him, and this time he followed her, his hips slamming forward as he buried himself deep and pulsed inside her, hot and endless.
The spell shuddered. A wave of golden light rippled through the room, visible even through her closed eyelids, and she felt the binding shift—not break, but soften. The pressure eased, the hungry edge blunted, as if the magic had been fed and was now content to curl up and digest.
They collapsed together, a tangle of limbs and sweat and cooling skin. Adil pulled out, rolled onto his back, and stared at the ceiling. Esme lay beside him, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat slow from its gallop.
Neither spoke for a long time.
The candle guttered, shadows swaying across the stone walls. The spell hummed, a low, satisfied purr that vibrated through the mattress, the floor, the air itself. Esme felt it settle around them like a blanket, warm and heavy and patient.
Adil's hand found hers. Interlaced their fingers. Squeezed once, twice, a silent question she didn't know how to answer.
She turned her head, looking at him. His eyes were closed, his jaw slack, the tension in his face smoothed away by exhaustion. He looked younger like this. Less like the cold enchanter who had faced her across a dozen dueling circles, and more like the boy he must have been before the scars and the walls and the curse.
"Adil."
He opened his eyes. Amber, softer now, reflecting the dying candlelight.
"We're not free," she said. "The spell is still here."
"I know."
"It's different, though. Quieter."
He turned his head, meeting her gaze. "It got what it wanted."
"And what was that?"
He didn't answer. But his hand tightened around hers, and his thumb traced a slow circle on her palm, following the silver scar that marked her as his equal.
Outside the window, the first gray light of dawn crept over the horizon. The spell hummed, content, and Esme closed her eyes, letting herself drift in the warmth of his body, the weight of his hand, the fragile, terrifying hope that maybe—just maybe—the morning would bring something other than more chains.
The dawn light crept across his cheek, and she saw the spell shimmer in his irises—not broken, but watching, waiting for the next moment of hunger.
Esme's fingers tightened around his. "It's still there."
"It's always going to be there." His voice was flat, resigned. "I don't think we break it. I think we satisfy it."
"Like feeding a dog."
"Like feeding a god."
The metaphor landed wrong in her chest. She pushed herself up on one elbow, the rough sheet pooling around her waist. The candle had burned down to a nub, the flame swimming in a pool of wax. Gray light filtered through the single window, revealing the room in all its squalor—the cracked stone, the threadbare blanket, the iron lock on the door that had held them since the duel.
"Then what happens when we stop feeding it?"
Adil didn't answer. His hand found hers again, his thumb tracing the silver scar across her palm. She felt the calluses on his fingertips, the ridges of old burns from spellwork that had gone wrong. The same hands that had held her down, that had touched her with desperate reverence, that had gripped her hips while he drove into her.
"It lets us leave." He said it slowly, as if testing the words. "Or it locks us back in the old pattern. Pain and pleasure. The whip and the kiss."
"You think it could revert?"
"I think it's watching us to decide which version of the cage it prefers."
The spell hummed, a low vibration that travelled up her arm from where their hands touched. It felt almost amused. Almost fond. The way a cat looks at a mouse it hasn't decided whether to eat.
Esme sat up fully, the sheet falling to her lap. The air was cold against her skin, raising goosebumps across her shoulders and arms. She didn't reach for her clothes. The dress lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, her smallclothes somewhere on the floor, and the distance between her and them felt like a line she wasn't ready to cross.
She looked at him instead. The way the dawn light traced the scar on his cheek, the hollow of his throat, the dark hair on his chest that tapered down toward his belly. He was beautiful in the way a blade was beautiful—dangerous, deliberate, designed for a single purpose. But she had seen him break. Had watched his composure crack open like an egg, spilling confession and hunger and something that looked terrifyingly like tenderness.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"We find out what the door does."
He didn't move toward it. Neither did she. The door was a question neither of them wanted answered, because the answer was binary: freedom, or a deeper cage.
"Before that." She gestured between them, at the sweat-dried on her skin, the ache in her thighs, the ghost of his mouth still pressed between her legs. "This. Us. What happens to this?"
His jaw tightened. The muscle jumped once, twice, before he spoke. "That depends on whether you can stand to look at me when we're not being forced together."
The honesty of it knocked the air from her lungs. She had expected deflection. Sarcasm. The cold mask he wore like armour. Instead he had given her the raw truth, and she didn't know what to do with it.
"I've always been able to look at you," she said. "That's never been the problem."
"Then what was?"
"Wanting to." She laughed, a hollow sound. "I could look at you all day, Adil. I just couldn't admit I liked it."
The spell pulsed between them, warm and curious, drinking in the confession like it was another kind of fuel. Esme felt it in her chest, a gentle pressure that eased something she hadn't known was clenched.
He sat up, mirroring her position. The sheet fell to his waist, and she saw the marks her nails had left on his shoulders—thin red lines that curved over the muscle like a map of her desperation. He looked at her with those amber eyes, and she saw the war in them still, but quieter now. The weapons had been laid down, even if the truce was temporary.
"I hated you," he said, and the words came out like a confession. "Not because you were my enemy. Because you were the only person who could match me, and I couldn't decide whether I wanted to beat you or bed you."
"And now?"
"Now I know the answer." He reached for her, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb tracing the corner of her mouth. "I want both. I want to duel you until we're both bleeding, and then I want to fuck you until neither of us can stand. And I want to wake up and do it again."
Her breath caught. The spell purred, a golden hum that vibrated through the mattress, the walls, her bones.
"That's a lot of wanting for a man who might be stuck in a room with me forever."
"Then it's a good thing I've never been afraid of commitment."
She laughed—a real laugh, surprised out of her, bright in the gray dawn light. The sound seemed to startle them both. Adil's lips curved into a smile, slow and rare, and she realized she had never seen him smile before. Not like this. Not without cruelty or calculation behind it.
"You should do that more often," he said.
"Laugh?"
"Surprise me."
The spell rippled. A wave of warmth spread from the golden binding, and Esme felt it loosen around her ribs, her throat, the space between her thighs. Not a release—not yet—but an easing. A negotiation. The magic was learning them, adjusting to the shape of their desire, and she wondered if that was the key. Not to break the spell, but to befriend it.
"We should try the door." She said it reluctantly, but the words had to be spoken. "Before the spell changes its mind."
"What if it's locked?"
"Then we find out what the spell wants next."
He held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. They disentangled from the sheets, the cold air biting at their skin. Esme found her dress on the floor, pulled it over her head, didn't bother with the smallclothes. Adil dressed in silence, his trousers and shirt, the same clothes he had worn when they were thrown into this room. The fabric was wrinkled and damp, but he made no complaint.
They stood together at the door. The iron lock was old, rusted, the keyhole dark. Adil reached for the handle, his hand hovering an inch away.
"Together?" he asked.
She nodded.
Their hands closed over the handle at the same moment. Cold iron bit into her palm, and she felt the spell tense—a held breath, a coiled spring. Then Adil turned the handle, and the door swung open.
The corridor beyond was empty. Gray stone walls, a torch flickering in a sconce, the smell of damp and dust. Freedom. Real and undeniable and deeply unsettling.
Esme stepped over the threshold. The spell didn't stop her. Didn't lash out. Didn't drag her back. It just hummed, contented, a living warmth coiled around her ribs.
Adil followed. They stood in the corridor, the door open behind them, the dawn light spilling through the window at the end of the hall.
"We're free," she said, and the words tasted strange.
"We're still bound." He pressed his hand to his chest, where the golden thread pulsed beneath his skin. "The spell came with us."
She felt it too. The warmth in her chest, the hum in her blood. They had carried the curse out of the room, and it showed no sign of leaving.
"What does it want now?"
Adil turned to face her. The dawn light caught his eyes, turning them to molten gold, and she saw the spell shimmer in the depths of his pupils. "The same thing it's always wanted. Us. Together. Hungry."
He stepped closer, and she didn't step back. His hand found her waist, his thumb pressing into the dip of her hip, and she felt the spell curl around them like a living thing, purring with approval.
"We should find somewhere private," he said, his voice low. "Before the spell decides to demand an encore in the middle of the hall."
"You're assuming I'd object."
His eyes darkened. The smile that spread across his face was slow and wicked, and she felt her pulse quicken in response.
"I'm not assuming anything," he said. "I'm asking."
She rose on her toes, her lips brushing his ear. "Then find us a room."
The spell blazed between them, golden and fierce, and Esme felt the hunger rise again—not desperate, not urgent, but patient. Deep. The kind of hunger that knew it had time.
Adil took her hand, his fingers threading through hers, and led her down the corridor toward the dawn.