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The training yard still smelled of sweat and leather, even this early. Kael splashed cold water on his face from the stone basin, letting it run down his neck and soak into the collar of his tunic. His muscles ached from the morning drills—Mason had pushed them harder than usual, and his shoulders burned with that satisfying soreness that meant he'd actually been trying.

"Kael, have the oddly riders not stricken you yet?" Mason's face was as red as his hair, still heaving from the final sprint.

"Not quite." Kael cupped another handful of water, let it run over his wrists. "I wasn't as loud as you and Aiden."

Mason snorted, but he was grinning. "Loud. Right. That's what we're calling it when a man can't keep his breakfast down after twelve laps."

"Speaking of loud," James cut in, tugging his tunic over his head, "have any of you heard the trumpets? Early, before dawn?"

Aiden stretched, his shoulder popping audibly. "I know it. Some princely event. Tonight's a ball to be held—a request by the king's daughter, I'm pretty sure."

"Princess," Mason corrected, but his tone was distracted. He was already thinking about breakfast.

"Right. Princess." Aiden rolled his shoulder, winced. "Same difference to us. We'll be standing guard while the nobles drink themselves stupid."

They gathered their things, still talking—something about which lord would embarrass himself first, which lady would wear something too revealing. Kael followed them toward the hall, his stomach growling, his mind only half on the conversation.

Then he saw brown curls.

He stopped. His feet simply refused to move.

"What's have you held up, mate?" James turned, frowning.

Kael's mouth worked, but nothing came out. The curls moved through the far corridor, disappearing around a corner, and his chest went tight. She was here. In the palace. His heart slammed against his ribs.

"I'll—" He swallowed. "See you there. Need a moment."

James opened his mouth to ask something else, but Mason grabbed his arm and pulled him along. Kael barely noticed them leave. His hand pressed against his chest, over the thundering thing that wouldn't calm down, and he forced himself to breathe.

She was here.

He'd thought about her all night. Her hands on his scars. Her mouth on his. The way she'd pressed against him on that flour-dusted counter like she wanted to climb inside his skin. He'd barely slept. And now she was here, in the palace, and he had no idea what to do with his face or his hands or the heat crawling up his neck.

He followed the corridor where she'd disappeared.

---

The great hall stretched wide and cold, marble floors reflecting the morning light in pale gold streaks. Elara stood beside her father near the long table where the king's steward was examining their samples—loaves of braided bread, delicate pastries filled with cream, a tower of sugared fruits that had taken her father three days to construct.

"The princess requested something delicate," her father was saying, his voice carrying the particular strain of a man trying not to sound desperate. "Light. Nothing too heavy for dancing."

The steward nodded, making notes on a parchment. Elara kept her hands folded in front of her, the picture of a dutiful daughter, but her eyes were already wandering. Scanning the arches and doorways. Looking for dark hair and gray eyes and the particular way the air changed when he was near.

She felt him before she saw him. A prickle at the back of her neck. A weight in the air.

She turned her head just slightly, and there—half-hidden behind a pillar near the eastern corridor—was Kael Voss.

He ducked back the moment her gaze found him. Too slow.

Elara bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. He'd been watching her. The composed knight's son, the one who spoke in clipped sentences and could probably gut a man without blinking, was hiding behind a pillar like a boy caught stealing sweets.

Her father was still talking. The steward was still nodding. Neither of them was paying her any attention.

She slipped backward, one step, then another, keeping her movements small and unhurried. By the time her father glanced over his shoulder, she was already halfway to the eastern corridor, and he only saw his daughter studying a tapestry with apparent fascination.

The moment she rounded the corner, Kael was there. She hadn't realized how close he'd gotten—his back against the stone wall, his chest rising and falling too fast, his gray eyes wide and fixed on her face.

"You followed me," she whispered.

"You were in the hall." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "I was walking. It's a corridor. Anyone can walk in a corridor."

She stepped closer. "You were hiding."

"I wasn't—"

"Behind a pillar."

His jaw tightened. The flush that crept up his pale cheeks was fascinating—she watched it travel from his neck to his ears, a slow tide of pink that made her want to press her mouth to the heated skin.

"Elara." Her name came out half a warning, half a plea.

"Kael." She let the syllables drag, honey-slow. "Are you going to stand there and pretend you weren't looking for me?"

He didn't answer. His hand twitched at his side like he wanted to reach for her and was fighting it. Every muscle in his body seemed strung tight, a bowstring drawn to the point of snapping.

She glanced back toward the great hall. Her father was still occupied. The steward was still scribbling notes.

"Come with me," she said.

She didn't wait for an answer. She turned and walked deeper into the corridor, and she knew—she knew—he would follow.

---

He did.

She heard his boots on the stone behind her, a steady rhythm that matched the pulse in her throat. She didn't know where she was going, exactly—the palace was a maze of corridors and chambers she'd only visited a handful of times—but she kept moving until they found a door that was half-open, revealing the dusty quiet of a library beyond.

She slipped inside. He followed.

The door swung shut behind him with a soft click that seemed very loud in the silence.

The library was small and clearly neglected—shelves crammed with faded spines, a single narrow window letting in hazy light, dust motes floating in the air like slow-motion snowfall. It smelled of old paper and beeswax and something faintly floral, maybe dried lavender tucked somewhere out of sight.

Kael stood with his back to the door, his hands at his sides, his eyes on her. The composure he wore like armor around everyone else—it was already cracking. She could see it in the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his fingers curled and uncurled against his thighs.

"You came back," she said.

"You told me to."

"I told you yesterday." She took a step toward him. "I didn't know you'd be in the palace today."

"I train here. Every morning." His voice was rough. "I didn't know you'd be—"

"Presenting pastries?" She let her smile curve slow. "My father's one of the main bakers. The princess likes his work. We'll be here all week preparing."

Something flickered in his eyes. Hunger. Hope. Fear. All of it tangled together.

"All week," he repeated.

"All week."

She closed the distance between them. Her body stopped just shy of touching his, but she could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the clean scent of soap and the faint salt of dried sweat from his training.

"Kael." She reached up and touched his jaw—just her fingertips, light as a breath. "Are you going to kiss me, or are you going to make me wait again?"

His hand came up and caught her wrist. Not hard. But not gentle either. His thumb pressed into the tender place where her pulse beat against the delicate skin, and she felt it jump under his touch.

"You're—" He stopped. Started again. "I can't think when you're this close."

"Good." She rose onto her toes. "Don't think."

He kissed her.

It wasn't like yesterday. Yesterday had been desperate, frantic, the kind of kiss that happened when two people had been pretending not to want each other for too long. This was slower. Deeper. His mouth moved over hers like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, and his free hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers threading through her chestnut hair, tilting her face up to meet him.

She made a sound against his lips—a small, pleased hum—and he shuddered. His whole body shuddered, and she felt it travel through his chest, through the hand on her wrist, through the mouth that was suddenly hungrier than it had been a second ago.

She opened her mouth under his, and his tongue found hers, and the kiss turned wet and hot and hungry.

Her hands slid up his chest. The tunic was rough under her palms, still damp in places from his training, and she could feel the solid warmth of him beneath the fabric. The scars she'd traced yesterday. The muscles that tensed when she touched him.

He pressed her backward. Her shoulders hit the shelves, and a book slipped off behind her, thumping to the floor, and neither of them cared.

"Elara." Her name was a groan against her mouth. "We shouldn't—here—"

"Then take me somewhere we should."

He pulled back just far enough to look at her. His lips were reddened, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his pupils blown wide. The composed knight's son was gone. The man in front of her was something else entirely—something raw and desperate and barely held together.

"My chambers," he said. "No one will look for me there. My father's in council until noon."

"Your father." A flicker of awareness. "The chief knight."

"Yes." His jaw tightened. "We'll need to be careful. If anyone sees—"

"Then we won't let anyone see."

She smoothed her palms down the front of his tunic, feeling the way his stomach clenched at her touch. "Lead the way."

---

They moved through the palace like ghosts. Kael knew the servant passages—the narrow corridors behind the grand halls, the staircases that spiraled up through the walls where no nobles ever walked. He kept her close, one hand wrapped around hers, pausing at every corner to listen for footsteps before pulling her forward.

Her heart was pounding. Not from fear—from the thrill of it. The secrecy. The risk. His hand was warm and solid around hers, and every time he glanced back at her, his gray eyes held that same desperate hunger she'd seen in the library.

They passed a window, and for a moment she caught their reflection: her hair slightly mussed, her cheeks pink, her lips still swollen from his kiss. She looked like a girl who'd been thoroughly kissed and was about to be kissed more. The thought sent a pulse of heat straight between her thighs.

His chambers were at the end of a quiet corridor on the east side of the palace. He unlocked the door with a key from his belt and pulled her inside, closing it behind them with the same soft click from the library.

The room was simple but elegant—a large bed with dark blue coverings, a wooden desk covered in maps and correspondence, a narrow window overlooking the training yard far below. A wardrobe stood against one wall, a washbasin against another, and a small fireplace sat cold and dark in the corner. Everything was tidy, precise, arranged with the kind of care that spoke of a man who liked order.

"Oh." Elara took a slow step into the room, turning in a circle to take it all in. "Your chambers are so beautiful."

She meant it. There was something about the simplicity of it—the clean lines, the muted colors, the way the morning light fell across the bed—that felt like him. Composed. Controlled. Waiting to be undone.

Kael locked the door behind them. The sound of the bolt sliding home was very soft and very final.

"No one comes here," he said. "Not during the day. Not without knocking."

"Good."

She turned to face him. He was still standing by the door, his hands at his sides, watching her with an intensity that made her skin flush hot.

"You're nervous," she said.

"I'm not—" He stopped. Exhaled. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I don't—" He ran a hand through his hair, pushing the dark waves back from his face. "I don't want to—you deserve—"

"Kael." She crossed the room to him, her footsteps soft on the wooden floor. "Stop thinking."

She reached up and cupped his face in both hands, drawing him down to her. His forehead touched hers, and his breath was warm on her lips, and she could feel the tension running through him like a current.

"I'm not going to break," she whispered. "I'm not a thing to be coddled and protected. I'm here because I want to be here. Do you understand?"

His hands came up and covered hers. "I know."

"Do you?"

"I'm trying."

He kissed her again—softer this time, so gentle it made her chest ache. His lips brushed hers like a question, and she answered by pressing closer, by parting her mouth, by sliding her hands from his face to his shoulders and pulling him down.

He walked her backward toward the bed. When her legs hit the edge of the mattress, he stopped, his hands coming up to frame her face. His thumbs traced her cheekbones. His gray eyes searched hers.

"Tell me what you want," he said. "Tell me, and I'll—"

"I want you to stop treating me like something fragile." She caught his wrists, pulled his hands down from her face, pressed them against her waist. "I want you to touch me like you mean it."

Something shifted in his expression. The tension was still there, but beneath it—something hotter. Something darker.

His hands tightened on her waist. Then he backed her up against the edge of the bed, and when she sat down on the mattress, he followed her down, bracing himself above her with one arm. His body caged hers—his chest inches from her breasts, his hips aligned with hers, his thighs bracketing her legs.

He kissed her throat. Gentle. Reverent. His lips brushed the pulse point, and she felt her breath catch.

"You're so—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I don't know the word for what you are."

"Then stop trying to find one."

Her hands moved. She slid them up his chest, feeling the heat of him through the tunic, the way his muscles jumped under her touch. She found the hem and pushed her palms underneath, pressing flat against his stomach.

His skin was hot. Smooth except for the scars she already knew were there. The muscles of his abdomen tightened under her fingers, and she heard his breath hitch.

"Elara."

"Shh."

She traced the lines of him. The dip of his navel. The hard plane of his stomach. The trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waist of his trousers. Her fingers found the edge of a scar—a thin, raised line near his ribs—and she followed it slowly, deliberately, watching his face the whole time.

His eyes had gone dark. His jaw was clenched. Every muscle in his body was rigid, fighting something she couldn't see.

"You can let go," she murmured. "I'm right here."

"I know." His voice was rough. "That's the problem."

She hooked her fingers into the waistband of his trousers. Not pulling. Just resting there, a gentle pressure that made his hips jerk forward involuntarily.

"Is it?"

"Yes." He dropped his head, his forehead pressing against her shoulder. "I want—I want to hold you. I want to keep you safe. I want to wrap my arms around you and never let go. But you don't want that. You want—"

"I want you." She tugged at his trousers. Just once. A small, insistent pull. "All of you. Not just the part that wants to protect me."

He lifted his head. Looked at her. His gray eyes were stormy, conflicted, and so full of wanting that it made her ache.

"Show me," she whispered.

And something in him broke.

He kissed her like he was drowning. His mouth was hot and hungry, his tongue pushing past her lips, and his hands—his hands weren't gentle anymore. They gripped her hips. Pulled her closer. Slid up her sides, pushing the fabric of her dress up with them, bunching it around her waist.

She moaned into his mouth. Her fingers found the laces of his trousers, fumbling with the ties, and his breath caught when her knuckles brushed against the hard length of him beneath the fabric.

"Wait—" He pulled back, panting. "Are you—do you—"

"Yes." She got the laces undone. Her hand slipped inside. "I've been thinking about this since yesterday. Since you left me in that bakery. I couldn't stop thinking about—"

Her fingers closed around him, and he made a sound she'd never heard a man make before. A choked, desperate noise that went straight to the heat pooling between her legs.

"Gods," he breathed. "Elara—"

"You feel that?" She stroked him, slow and deliberate, her thumb tracing the slick tip. "That's what I wanted. That's what I thought about all night. You. Hard. Wanting me."

He buried his face in her neck. His hips rocked into her hand, and his breathing was ragged, uneven, the breathing of a man who'd lost control and didn't want it back.

"I want to taste you," she whispered against his ear.

He shuddered. "You don't have to—"

"I know." She pushed at his chest, guiding him onto his back. He went willingly, his head hitting the pillows, his dark hair spreading across the blue fabric. "I want to."

She knelt between his legs. Her dress was still bunched around her thighs, her hair falling loose from its ribbons, her lips swollen and pink. She must have looked a mess—a baker's girl in a knight's bed—but when she looked at Kael's face, he was staring at her like she was something holy.

"You're beautiful," he said. "You're so—"

She lowered her mouth to his stomach and kissed the scar she'd traced earlier. He stopped talking.

She kissed lower. The trail of dark hair. The jut of his hip bone. The sensitive skin just above where her hand still wrapped around him.

"Elara." Her name was a warning now. Or a plea. She couldn't tell anymore.

She took him into her mouth.

The sound he made—a broken, desperate groan—filled the room. His hands fisted in the sheets. His hips bucked up, and she put a hand on his stomach to hold him still, and she took him deeper, letting her tongue trace the ridge along the underside, letting her lips slide down until he hit the back of her throat.

"Elara—I can't—you're—"

She pulled back. A strand of saliva connected her bottom lip to his cock. She licked it away, deliberate, and watched his eyes go impossibly darker.

"You taste like salt," she said. "And something else. Something I can't name."

"Gods above." His head fell back against the pillows. "You're going to kill me."

"Not yet." She took him again, deeper this time, and his hand flew to her head. His fingers tangled in her hair. Not pulling—just holding, like he needed something to anchor him.

She sucked him slowly. Leisurely. Let him feel every inch of her mouth, every stroke of her tongue, every moment of wet heat. She could feel him throbbing against her lips, could taste the salt of him leaking onto her tongue, and she swallowed it down without hesitation.

His hips were moving now—small, desperate thrusts that he couldn't seem to control. His breathing was ragged. His hand in her hair tightened.

"I'm close," he gasped. "Elara—I'm—"

She pulled back. Not completely—just enough to let him see her face. Her lips were wet and red and swollen, and she let her tongue move over them slowly before she spoke.

"Not yet."

His eyes flew open. "What?"

"Not yet." She crawled up his body, her dress dragging over his skin, her thighs settling on either side of his hips. "I want you inside me when you come."

His breath caught. "Are you—"

"Yes." She leaned down and kissed him, letting him taste himself on her tongue. "I'm sure."

His hands found her thighs. Slid up. His thumbs pressed against the soft skin where her legs met her body, and she arched into the touch, a moan slipping out before she could stop it.

His thumbs pressed deeper, finding the crease of her thigh, and she bucked against his hands.

And then everything shifted.

Kael rolled. His weight came down on top of her, his hips settling between her thighs, his forearms bracketing her head. Her hair spilled across his pillows in a chestnut wave, the ribbons lost somewhere in the sheets, and she looked up at him with those wide hazel eyes—half-lidded, trusting, filled with something that made his chest ache.

Her back hit the mattress and her hair spilled across his pillows in a chestnut wave. Her dress was a rumpled mess around her waist, her breasts still half-spilling from the neckline, and her smallclothes were a soaked strip of cotton clinging to her cunt. She looked up at him—frail, small, utterly trusting—and his heart slammed against his ribs.

His hands were shaking. He could feel the tremor in his fingers as he touched her face, her jaw, the vulnerable hollow of her throat. This was happening. This was actually happening.

"Kael." Her voice was hoarse from what she'd done to him, rough and sweet at the same time. "Please."

She licked her lips. They were still swollen, still pink, and he could see the glistening smear of his own arousal at the corner of her mouth. She didn't wipe it away. She let him see it.

"You feel so good," she whispered. "Please. Please."

His face flooded with heat. He thought he might actually combust—his skin burning, his pulse hammering in his throat, his cock so hard it ached against the wet cotton between her legs. She was looking at him with those eyes, those bedroom eyes, and he couldn't breathe.

He kissed her hands. The palms first, then the delicate bones of her wrists, the sensitive skin of her inner forearms. She shivered under his mouth, and he felt the tremor run through her whole body.

"Kael," she breathed.

He kissed lower. The curve of her shoulder. The base of her throat. And then her neck—the place where her pulse fluttered just beneath the skin, hummingbird-fast, alive. He opened his mouth against it. Sucked. Bit down just hard enough to leave a mark.

She gasped. Her hips bucked up against him, and he felt the wet heat of her through the thin cotton of her smallclothes, felt her grind against the hard length of his cock.

A sound crawled up his throat—raw, half-formed, a noise he'd never made before—as his hand slid down between them. His fingers found the damp heat through her smallclothes, and he pressed there, felt the shape of her through the thin cotton, felt his own hand trembling against the softest part of her.

She whimpered.

"Kael," she said again, and her voice was different now. Smaller. Needier. "Please."

He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. His fingers traced the seam of her, the wet fabric clinging to her slit, and his cock throbbed against her thigh so hard it ached. This was real. This was happening. His hand was between the legs of the baker's girl, and she was soaking through her smallclothes, and she was begging him.

"You feel so good," she whispered. Her tongue darted out, licked her lips—lips still swollen from sucking him, still glistening with the pre-cum he'd leaked onto her mouth. "Please. Please. Inside me. I need you inside me."

His face burned. Heat flooded his cheeks, his neck, his chest, until he thought he might actually combust. She looked up at him with those hazel eyes, half-lidded and glittering, and he saw it there: trust. Love. Want. All of it, aimed at him, and he was shaking so badly he could barely hold himself up.

His fingers curled into the wet cotton. Pressed. She felt the pressure through the soaked fabric, felt him tracing her slit with a reverence that made her thighs quiver, and her head fell back against the pillows, a moan spilling from her throat like honey.

He couldn't stop touching her. His fingers traced the soaked cotton again and again, following the seam of her cunt, pressing just enough to make her gasp but not enough to give her what she wanted. Her smallclothes were ruined—drenched through, clinging to every fold of her, and he could feel the heat of her through the fabric like a brand against his fingertips.

His thumb found her clit through the cotton. Pressed. Circled. She made a sound he'd never heard before—a broken, keening noise that started in her throat and dissolved into a sob—and her hips bucked against his hand with a desperation that made his cock leak against her thigh.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, Kael. I've waited. I've been so patient. Please."

She was trembling now. Her whole body shook beneath him, her thighs quivering on either side of his hips, and he could see the tears gathering in her eyes—not from pain, not yet, but from sheer overwhelming need. Her smallclothes were a ruin. He could feel her through them, could feel every fold and swell of her cunt, and she was soaked. Dripping. The wetness had soaked through the cotton and was slick against his fingers, warm and thick and utterly intoxicating.

He hooked a finger into the waistband of her smallclothes. Paused. Looked at her face.

"Kael." Her voice cracked. "I want you. Inside of me. Please."

He pulled the cotton aside.

The sight of her stole his breath. Her cunt was pink and swollen and glistening, her folds spread slightly from the pressure of his fingers, and he could see the slick evidence of her arousal smeared across her inner thighs. She was bare—smooth and soft and vulnerable—and when his fingers touched her skin directly for the first time, she gasped like she'd been struck.

He couldn't look away. His fingers traced her bare skin—slow, reverent—and she whimpered, her hips lifting toward his touch like a flower turning toward sun. The sound she made was small and broken and so desperately needy that his cock throbbed against her thigh, leaking onto her skin.

"Please," she whispered. Her dainty fingers found him again, wrapped around his length, and he felt how small her hand was against him—how impossible this seemed. "I'm so wet for you. Please."

His face went crimson. The heat crawled up his neck, his cheeks, the tips of his ears, until he was sure she could feel it radiating off him like a furnace. She was looking at him with those eyes—half-lidded and glittering and so full of want that his throat closed up—and her small hand was wrapped around his cock like she owned it.

"Elara." His voice cracked on her name.

"Please." She licked her lips again, and he watched her tongue move over the swollen pink flesh, watched it catch the glistening smear of him still there. "I've waited so long. Please don't make me wait anymore."

He kissed her hands. Both of them—lifting them from his body, pressing his mouth to her palms, her knuckles, the delicate bones of her wrists. She shivered beneath him, and he felt the tremor run through her whole frame, felt how small she was against his mattress.

"You're so—" He couldn't finish. His mouth found the inside of her forearm, the sensitive skin where her pulse beat fast and frantic against his lips. He kissed her there. Lingered.

She whimpered.

His hand slid back between her legs. This time there was no cotton barrier, nothing between his fingers and her slick heat, and when he touched her bare cunt she made a sound like something breaking—a gasp that was half-sob, half-moan, her hips bucking up to meet his touch.

"Lord," he groaned. His fingers slipped through her wetness, spreading her open, tracing the seam of her. "You're so wet."

"For you," she breathed. "Only for you. I want you inside me. Please, Kael. Please."

He pressed one finger against her entrance—just the tip, just barely—and she clenched around nothing, her inner muscles fluttering against his fingertip. She was so tight. So impossibly tight. He pushed in slowly, one thick finger sinking into her heat, and she cried out, her back arching off the bed.

"Ngh—!" Her tongue peeked between her lips, small and pink, and her eyes squeezed shut. "Oh!"

He froze. "Does it hurt?"

"No. No, don't stop. It's just—" She opened her eyes, and they were wet now, glistening with unshed tears. "It's so much. You're so much. But please don't stop."

He worked his finger deeper, slowly, feeling her stretch around him. She was impossibly tight—tighter than anything he'd ever felt—and the thought of his cock inside her made his head swim. She was so small beneath him. So fragile. Her thighs were trembling against his hips, and her chest was rising and falling in short, desperate gasps.

"Another," he murmured. "I need to—you're too tight. I don't want to hurt you."

She nodded frantically, her hair tangling against the pillows. "Yes. Yes, please. I can take it."

He added a second finger, and she keened—a high, breathless sound that went straight to his cock. Her inner walls clenched around him, hot and wet and so tight he could barely move, and he watched her face as he pushed deeper, watched her mouth fall open and her eyes go glassy.

"You're doing so well," he said, and his voice was rough, barely recognizable. "So good for me, Elara."

Her only response was a moan—low and desperate—and her hips began to rock against his hand, fucking herself on his fingers. The wet sound of it filled the room, obscene and perfect, and he watched her take him deeper, watched her small body open up for him.

"I'm ready," she gasped. "Kael, I'm ready. Please. I need you inside me."

He withdrew his fingers, and she whined at the loss. But then he was positioning himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against her entrance, and her whine turned into a shuddering breath. She was so wet—slick and hot and ready—but even so, he hesitated.

"Elara." He looked down at her—at her flushed cheeks and her swollen lips and her wide hazel eyes, still glistening with tears. "This might hurt."

"I know." She reached up and touched his face, her small palm cupping his jaw. "I want it to. I want everything with you."

He pushed.

The head of his cock breached her, and they both froze. The sensation was overwhelming—hot and tight and wet, her body gripping him like a fist—and he heard himself make a sound he'd never made before, something between a groan and a prayer. She was so tight. Tighter than his own hand. Tighter than anything.

He pushed deeper. Her body resisted—a tight, impossible pressure that made his jaw clench and his vision blur at the edges—and then something gave. A sharp snap he felt more than heard, a tearing sensation that made his stomach drop even as his cock slid further into her slick heat.

Elara screamed.

The sound ripped through the quiet of his chambers, raw and jagged, and he froze. Absolutely still. His hips locked, every muscle in his body going rigid as he watched her face contort—those wide hazel eyes squeezing shut, tears spilling down her flushed cheeks, her rosebud lips parted around a sob that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her chest.

He started to withdraw. The instinct was immediate—he couldn't hurt her, couldn't bear the sound she'd made, the way her body had torn around him—but her hands flew to his hips, fingers digging into his skin with surprising strength.

"Don't." The word was a sob, half-choked with tears, but her grip didn't falter. Her legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back, holding him in place. "Don't stop. Please. Please don't stop."

Her eyes opened. They were wet, the hazel swimming in unshed tears, but beneath the pain was something fierce—a need so raw and urgent that it struck him silent. She was looking at him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth.

"It hurts," she whispered, and a fresh tear slipped down her temple into her hair. "But I want it. I want you. All of you."

He didn't move. Couldn't. His cock was buried inside her—the head of him stretching her impossibly tight cunt, the shaft still mostly held back—and the sensation was overwhelming. She was so tight. Tighter than his fist. Tighter than a keyhole. He could feel every pulse of her heartbeat through the slick clench of her inner walls, and the thought that his cock was even able to fit inside her made his head swim with a dark, possessive amusement.

"Breathe," he managed. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "Just breathe, Elara."

She did. A shaky inhale that made her chest rise against his. He felt it—the press of her breasts through the thin fabric of her dress, the way her ribs expanded under his forearms. She was so small beneath him. So fragile. The crown of her head barely reached his shoulder when they stood, and now, pinned under his weight, she seemed almost childlike—except for the woman's body writhing against him, the woman's cunt gripping his cock.

His cock was inside her.

The thought landed somewhere in the back of his skull and spread outward like heat through his chest, a dark, startled amusement that made his lips twitch even as his heart hammered against his ribs. He was inside her. His cock—thick and aching and leaking—was actually buried in the tight, slick clutch of her cunt, and she was still so impossibly small beneath him that the sheer physics of it seemed like something that shouldn't work.

She drew another shaky breath, and he felt it everywhere. The rise of her chest pressed her breasts against him through the thin fabric of her dress. Her ribs expanded under his forearms, delicate cage flexing with each inhale. Her throat worked as she swallowed—a long, pale column of skin that he wanted to put his mouth on—and a fine tremor ran through her thighs where they gripped his hips.

She'd used her fingers before. She'd told him that, breathless and flushed, while he'd worked two of his own into her. But this was different. This was not the slim press of her own digits, the familiar curl she'd learned in the dark of her own bed. This was him—thick and foreign and so deep she could feel him in her throat, a pressure that ached up through her core and settled at the base of her tongue like a word she couldn't speak.

"I can feel you," she whispered, and her voice cracked. "All the way up here." Her hand lifted from his hip, trembling, and touched the hollow of her own throat.

Something in him broke.

A laugh punched out of him—low and rough and incredulous—and his forehead dropped to hers. "Elara." Just her name. Just the shape of it in his mouth. But it came out like a confession, like a prayer, like the only word he'd ever need to say again.

He pulled back—just an inch, just enough to feel the drag of her tight cunt against his shaft—and watched her throat work around a sound that never made it out. Her fingers were still pressed to the hollow of her throat, her pulse hammering against her own fingertips, and he realized with a jolt of dark wonder that she could feel him there. His cock inside her. The thick intrusion of him radiating up through her body until it lodged in her throat like a sob.

"Again," she breathed. Her hand fell away from her throat and grabbed his shoulder, nails biting into the muscle. "Do it again."

He did. He pulled back until only the head of him remained inside her—felt the fluttering clutch of her cunt trying to keep him, the wet suck of her body not wanting to let go—and then he pushed back in. Slow. So slow. Every inch a deliberate invasion, a claim he was only just beginning to understand he wanted to make.

Her head tipped back. Her mouth fell open. And the sound that came out of her was not a scream. It was lower. Rougher. A moan that seemed to start somewhere deep in her chest and gather momentum until it filled the room, until it filled his head, until he couldn't hear anything else.

He did it again. Pulled back. Pushed in. And again. And again. Finding a rhythm that was barely a rhythm at all—just the slow, grinding slide of his cock through her slick heat, the wet sound of her body opening for him, the way her inner walls clenched and fluttered around him like she was trying to memorize the shape of him.

He pulled back just enough to see where he entered her, and the sight tore a rough sound from his chest—half disbelief, half something darker. His cock was thick, the shaft glistening with her, and the way her small cunt stretched around him seemed like a trick of the light. It didn’t make sense. She was so fucking tiny beneath him, her thighs trembling, her belly taut with each breath, and yet there he was, buried deep inside her as if her body had been forged for this exact purpose.

A laugh caught in his throat, strangled into a groan as he pushed in another inch. He couldn’t get over it. The impossible tightness of her, the wet heat that gripped him like a fist, and the knowledge that his cock—all of it—was fitting inside her. She’d used her fingers before. He knew this, could picture those small hands between her thighs, never enough, never this. And now she was taking him, and from the way her throat worked as she swallowed, the ache there was a living thing.

Her hand drifted up, pressing at the hollow of her throat where a pulse beat wildly. He watched her fingers press in, as if she could feel him there—his girth filling her so completely that the sensation climbed into her ribcage. This was nothing like her own touch. This was a stretching that bordered on impossible, and yet she wasn’t pushing him away. She was pulling him deeper, her heels pressing into his ass, her cunt fluttering around him with desperate little spasms.

“I’m breaking,” she whispered. Her voice was a thread, raw at the edges. “I want to break. Under you.”

Something hot coiled in his gut at those words. He looked down at her face—those wide hazel eyes now glassy with tears and something else, something that looked like reverence—and he realized he was already lost. Already addicted. The way her rosebud lips parted around a sob that never quite formed, the way her cheeks flushed pink, the way her chestnut hair fanned across his pillow in a tangled mess. This was the sight that would ruin him.

He pulled back slowly, watching her face contort as he withdrew—the drag of his cock along her inner walls forcing a moan from her throat that was lower than before, less scream, more song. He thrust back in with a deliberate slowness that made them both gasp, and the sound she made shifted into something else entirely. A loud, breathless moan that filled the room. Her pain was bleeding into pleasure, and he could see it on her face, in the way her eyes fluttered half-closed and her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

“God,” he breathed. “The sounds you make.”

Her breasts were bouncing with each thrust, the movement drawing his gaze like a predator’s. The loose laces of her dress had slipped lower, and he could see the curve of her cleavage, the pale swell of skin that begged for his mouth. He couldn’t stop himself. His hand left the bed and found the front of her dress, yanking the fabric open with a force that tore a seam. Buttons scattered, forgotten, and her breasts spilled free—full and round, the nipples pebbled and dark against her fair skin.

He lowered his mouth to her chest and bit down. Not gently. His teeth sank into the soft flesh of her breast, and she cried out—a sharp, startled sound that melted into a moan as he sucked the skin hard into his mouth. He could feel the bruise forming under his tongue, the blood rising to the surface, and he knew the mark would last for weeks. He wanted it to. Wanted her to look in the mirror tomorrow and see the purple bloom of his claim on her body.

“Kael—” His name was a gasp, her fingers tangling in his hair and pressing him closer. “More. Please.”

He gave her more. His mouth moved to her other breast, teeth scraping the delicate skin, sucking hard until she writhed beneath him. He bit the underside, the side, the curve where her breast met her ribs, leaving a trail of blooming bruises that painted her skin like a dark garden. His cock never stopped moving inside her—slow, deep thrusts that kept her on the edge of something vast. He could taste the salt of her sweat, the faint sweetness of flour still clinging to her skin from the bakery, and he knew he would never smell fresh bread again without getting hard.

When he pulled back to look at her, his breath caught. She was a mess of marks and flushed skin, her breasts marked with his teeth, her hair a wild halo around her head. And her eyes—those hazel depths he’d seen cool and calculating in the bakery—were now soft, wet, utterly undone. She was looking at him like he was the center of her world, and the sight made his cock throb inside her with a new, desperate urgency.

He was a starved man. He hadn’t known it until this moment—hadn’t realized the hollow ache in his chest was hunger, not duty or discipline or the weight of his father’s expectations. But now, sinking into her, feeling her cunt clutch at him with each withdrawal, he understood. He had been starving his whole life. And she was the feast.

His pace quickened. The slow, grinding rhythm gave way to something harder, faster, the wet slap of his hips against her thighs echoing off the stone walls. She screamed—a sound that was half his name, half a prayer—and her legs gave out around him. Her thighs fell open, sprawled wide on the bed, leaving her completely vulnerable, completely open, completely his.

Her nails dug into his back. He felt the sharp bite of them through the skin, dragging down his shoulder blades, leaving furrows he’d wear with pride. Her eyes rolled back until only the whites showed, and her mouth fell open on a moan that seemed to pour from her soul. It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard—better than sword-song or victory cries or even the quiet hum of the training yard at dawn.

“Elara.” His voice was wrecked, barely a whisper, and her name on his lips felt like a benediction. “Look at me.”

She did. Her eyes focused with visible effort, locking onto his, and the connection was a live wire between them. He watched her face twist with pleasure, her tongue pressing against her teeth, her throat working as another moan built and broke. The sound was music—low and high, rough and smooth, a melody that played directly on his spine and made his balls draw tight.

He hammered into her harder, deeper, driven by the sight of her beneath him. Her breasts bouncing. Her mouth open. Her eyes rolling back again as she lost the battle to keep them on him. The marks on her skin glowed purple in the candlelight, and the wet sounds of their fucking filled the room like a filthy harmony. He was going to lose his mind. He was going to spend himself inside her and never come back from it.

“So beautiful,” he ground out, the words ripped from somewhere he didn’t recognize. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

His mouth dropped to her thigh, and he bit down.

The skin was impossibly soft—creamy, plush, the kind of flesh that dimpled under pressure—and he sank his teeth in just hard enough to make her gasp. Not the breast this time, not the throat or shoulder where he'd already left his marks, but the tender inside of her thigh, where the skin was pale and untouched and his.

"So beautiful," he groaned against her, the words muffled by her flesh. His tongue swept over the bite, soothing the sting, and then his mouth was moving again—higher, to the curve of her hip, the jut of bone that he kissed with something like reverence. "So fucking gorgeous."

He didn't recognize his own voice. It was wrecked, hoarse, scraped raw by the sounds she'd been dragging out of him for what felt like hours. But he couldn't stop the words any more than he could stop his cock from throbbing inside her, still hard, still buried deep, still moving in that slow, grinding rhythm that made her inner walls flutter around him.

Her leg. He lifted it, pressing his mouth to her calf, her ankle, the delicate arch of her foot. He kissed each toe—sucked one into his mouth and heard her whimper, felt her cunt clench around him in response. Her feet were small, like the rest of her, and he'd never thought about feet before, never understood why anyone would, but these were hers. Everything was hers. Every inch of her body was a revelation he wanted to spend the rest of his life studying.

"Kael—" His name was a broken thing on her lips, and he felt her toes curl against his tongue.

He released her foot and his mouth found her fingers next. Her small hand was trembling against his shoulder, and he caught her wrist, brought her fingertips to his lips, and kissed each one. The index finger she'd used to trace his scars. The thumb she'd pressed into his pulse. The middle finger that had hooked into his waistband and pulled him closer. He sucked her pinky into his mouth and watched her eyes go wide, her pupils blown so dark the hazel was nearly gone.

"You're perfect," he said, and the words came out like a confession. "Every fucking part of you. Perfect."

Her hand was shaking in his grip. He could feel the tremor running through her fingers, up into her wrist, and when he looked at her face, he saw that her mouth had fallen open. Her lips—those rosebud lips he'd been dreaming about since the moment he'd first seen her behind the bakery counter—were parted, wet, shaped around a sound that hadn't quite made it out yet. Her chest was heaving, the marks he'd left on her breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath.

And then her eyes rolled back.

The white showed first—just a sliver, just a flash—and then they were gone, her lashes fluttering closed as her head tipped back into the pillow. Her spine arched off the bed, her breasts thrust upward, and the moan that finally escaped her throat was the softest, sexiest sound he'd ever heard. It wasn't loud. It wasn't performative. It was a sound of pure, helpless surrender—a woman coming apart beneath him and not trying to hide it.

Her small hands curled into fists against his chest. Her toes curled against his calves. Her entire body went rigid for one breathless moment, suspended on the edge of something vast, and then she shattered.

He felt it. God, he felt it—the way her cunt clenched around his cock in rhythmic, desperate pulses, gripping him so tight he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think about anything except the wet heat of her body milking him. Her inner walls fluttered and squeezed in waves, and each pulse sent a spike of pleasure straight up his spine, coiling hot and urgent at the base of his cock.

He was mesmerized. Utterly fucking mesmerized.

His eyes were locked on her face—on the way her brow furrowed, on the way her lips parted around a silent cry, on the flush that spread from her cheeks down to her throat and lower, painting her chest pink. The ribbons in her hair had come loose at some point, and her chestnut waves were spread across his pillow like spilled honey. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracking down her temple and into her hair, and the sight of it—the beauty of her undone, the raw vulnerability of her coming apart on his cock—broke something open in his chest.

"Elara." Her name was a prayer, a plea, and then he was coming.

It hit him like a wave—hot and sudden and overwhelming—and he didn't pull out. Couldn't. The thought didn't even cross his mind. His balls drew tight, his cock throbbed, and then he was spilling inside her, pumping his release deep into her clenching cunt with a groan that sounded like it had been torn out of him. Pulse after pulse, he emptied himself into her, and the sensation of her body still fluttering around him, still milking him through her own climax, dragged every last drop from him until he was spent.

His arms caught him just before he collapsed. His palms hit the mattress on either side of her head, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding himself up, and he stared down at her face. Still transfixed. Still utterly captivated. His cock was still inside her, softening but not yet withdrawn, and he could feel the wet heat of their combined release soaking the sheets beneath them.

She was shaking. Not the fine tremors of arousal anymore, but full-body shudders that wracked her small frame from shoulders to knees. A sob caught in her throat—not pain, not exactly, but something too big for her body to contain—and then another tear slipped free, and another, tracking silver lines down her flushed cheeks.

"Shh." The sound came out of him before he could think, soft and instinctive. He lowered himself carefully, his weight settling beside her rather than on her, and pulled her against his chest. "I've got you. I've got you."

Her face pressed into the hollow of his throat, and he felt her tears hot against his skin. Her hands—still trembling, still curled into small fists—were trapped between their bodies, and he covered them with his own, his callused fingers gentle as they pried her grip open and laced their fingers together.

"So good," he murmured into her hair. His lips brushed her temple, her damp cheek, the corner of her mouth. He kissed each tear as it fell, tasting salt and something sweeter—something that was just her. "You were so good, Elara. So perfect. So beautiful."

The praise spilled out of him in a low, steady stream—words he didn't recognize, a tenderness he hadn't known he was capable of. He told her she was gorgeous, told her she'd done so well, told her he'd never felt anything like that in his life. His voice was wrecked, barely above a whisper, and he pressed each word into her skin like a kiss.

She sobbed again, and he felt her body shudder against him. Her thighs were still trembling where they pressed against his hips, and he could feel the slick mess of his release seeping from her cunt, cooling on her skin. He should move. He should pull out, clean her up, give her space. But the thought of separating from her—of losing the wet, warm clutch of her body—felt like a physical impossibility.

He didn't pull out. His pullout game was, apparently, non-existent.

The thought would have made him laugh if he'd had the breath for it. A year ago, two years ago, he'd been so careful—so disciplined, so controlled. His father's son in every way that mattered. And now here he was, buried inside a baker's daughter, his seed dripping down her thighs, and he couldn't bring himself to move an inch.

They lay there for a long moment, tangled together, breathing the same air. Her sobs quieted gradually, softening into hiccups, then whimpers, then just the wet, shaky sound of her breath against his collarbone. His hand found her hair—tangled, sweat-damp, still threaded with those loose ribbons—and he stroked it back from her face with a gentleness that surprised him.

"I'm here," he said against her ear. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here."

Eventually—reluctantly, achingly—he softened enough that staying inside her became untenable. The slide of his semi-hard cock pulling out of her was almost too much, the drag of her sensitive flesh making them both gasp. He felt the loss immediately—a hollow ache where the heat of her had been—and the wet sound of their bodies separating was obscene in the quiet of the room.

She whimpered at the emptiness, her fingers clutching at his shoulders, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I know," he murmured. "I know. Just a moment."

He moved slowly, carefully, treating her body like something precious and breakable. He eased off the bed and found a cloth—a soft linen square from the washstand—and dipped it in the basin of cool water before returning to her. When he knelt beside the bed, she was still shaking, her eyes glassy and unfocused, her lips parted around shallow breaths. Her thighs were smeared with the evidence of what they'd done—his release mixed with hers, glistening on her milky, plush skin.

"Let me," he said, and his voice was softer than he'd ever heard it. Gentle. "Let me take care of you."

He cleaned her with the same reverence he'd shown when he'd kissed her feet, her fingers, the delicate arch of her throat. The cloth swept over her inner thighs, wiping away the slick evidence of their joining, and he was careful—so careful—not to press too hard against the tender flesh. She was swollen here, he could see it, the pink folds of her cunt still flushed and glistening from the intensity of what they'd done. He cleaned her gently, meticulously, murmuring soft praise that she might not even hear.

"Beautiful," he breathed, wiping a smear of his own seed from the curve of her hip. "You're so beautiful, Elara. Every part of you."

Her body was a marvel. He'd known it from the first moment he'd seen her—known it in the abstract way a man knows a woman is attractive—but now, up close, with his hands and mouth and cock, he understood it differently. The plush fullness of her breasts, marked now with the purple blooms of his teeth. The soft curve of her belly, pale and unblemished. The generous swell of her hips and thighs and ass—the kind of body that would hold the memory of his touch for days, that would bruise beautifully, that would feel him every time she moved tomorrow.

She was still trembling. Her small frame seemed too fragile for what she'd just taken—for the thick, aching length of him that had stretched her open—and yet she'd taken it. She'd begged for more. She'd told him she wanted to break beneath him, and she had, and now she was lying limp on his bed, her chestnut hair spread across his pillow, her hazel eyes wet and huge as they tracked his every movement.

Those eyes. God, those eyes.

She was looking at him with such sweetness—such raw, unguarded tenderness—that he felt something crack behind his ribs. It wasn't the calculated look she'd worn in the bakery, the honeyed predator's gaze that had seen right through him from the start. This was different. This was honest. This was a woman who had given herself over completely and was looking at him like he was the only safe harbor in a storm.

He thought he might go crazy. Actually, genuinely lose his mind.

Because she was still here. Still in his bed. Still looking at him like that. And he didn't know what to do with the feeling swelling in his chest—too big, too tender, too terrifying to name. All he knew was that he wanted to wrap his arms around her and never let go. That he wanted to bury his face in her hair and breathe her in until he forgot what the world smelled like without her. That he wanted to protect her from everything—including himself, including the bruises he'd left on her skin—even though she'd made it very clear she didn't want protection.

She'd wanted to be ravaged. And he'd ravaged her. And now she was shaking and crying and looking at him with those sweet, wet eyes, and he had no idea what came next.

"Kael." Her voice was a thread, barely audible. She lifted one trembling hand and touched his jaw—just her fingertips, just the lightest brush against his stubble-rough skin—and he turned his face into her palm, pressing a kiss to the center of it.

"I'm here," he said again, because it was the only thing he knew how to say. "I'm right here."

He climbed back onto the bed beside her, pulling her against his chest, settling her head into the curve of his shoulder. She fit there like she'd been made for it—her small body curled against his side, her breath warm on his collarbone, her trembling slowly easing as his hand stroked up and down her spine. The marks on her breasts pressed against his ribs, and he could feel the heat of them, the tender swelling of bruised skin.

He should feel guilty. He should feel something other than this deep, quiet satisfaction. But he couldn't muster it. Not when she was here, warm and real and his—at least for now, at least for this moment—with his release still drying on her thighs and his name still echoing in the silence of the room.

Her breathing slowed. Her shudders softened into occasional tremors. Her small hand found his chest and rested there, palm flat over his heart, feeling the steady thump that beat only for her.

And he lay there, still transfixed, still utterly mesmerized, watching the candlelight play across her tear-streaked face and wondering if it was possible to fall this hard, this fast, without ever hitting the ground.

The candlelight flickered, and for a moment he lost himself in the way it caught the damp tracks on her cheeks—silver threads mapping the geography of her surrender. Her lashes were still wet, dark clumps of them sticking together, and her lips were parted, pink and swollen from his kisses, from her own bitten-back cries. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and she was here, in his bed, her small body still trembling against his side.

And then his eyes flickered to the window.

The sun was wrong. The angle of the light slanting through the leaded glass was too low, too golden—late afternoon bleeding into early evening, not the mid-morning glow it should have been. He craned his neck, squinting at the water clock on his nightstand. The bronze markers told a story that made his stomach drop.

An hour. They'd been here for over an hour.

The ball. The presentations. Her father would be looking for her. His father—his father would be looking for him, or would have sent someone, or would already know he'd missed the morning drills, and the thought of the chief knight's cold gray eyes finding him here, like this, with a baker's daughter naked and marked in his bed, sent ice through his veins even as his arms tightened around her.

"Kael?" Her voice was still barely a thread. She felt the change in his body, the sudden tension in his shoulders, and her fingers pressed against his chest. "What is it?"

He didn't answer right away. He couldn't. Because the answer was that he had to let her go—had to unwrap himself from her warmth, had to dress her and send her back out into the palace where anyone could see her, where she'd have to pretend nothing had happened, where the marks on her breasts would rub against her dress with every step and she'd feel him for hours—and the thought made him want to lock the door and never open it again.

But that wasn't an option. Not for either of them.

"We've been here too long," he said, and the words tasted like ash. He pressed a kiss to her forehead—lingering, reluctant—and then made himself pull back. "Your father will miss you. Mine will have noticed my absence."

Her eyes widened. The glassy softness in them vanished, replaced by something sharper—not fear, exactly, but calculation. Even wrecked and trembling and still leaking his seed, she was clever. She understood the danger as quickly as he did. "What time is it?"

"Late. Later than it should be." He was already moving, easing himself off the bed with a care that felt like grief. His body protested every inch of separation—his cock still slick with the evidence of her, his skin still humming with the memory of her touch—but he forced himself to stand, to find his footing on the cold stone floor. "We need to get you back."

She tried to sit up. The movement was a mistake. Her arms buckled immediately, her muscles too spent to hold her weight, and she collapsed back onto the pillows with a small, broken sound that went through him like a blade.

"I can't." Her voice cracked on the second word, and she pressed her palm flat against the mattress as if she could force her body to obey through sheer will. It didn't work. Her arm trembled, gave, and she slumped sideways with a frustrated little gasp that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with a body that had been pushed past its limits.

Kael caught her before she could slide off the bed entirely. His hands found her shoulders—gentle, steadying—and he eased her upright, holding her there like she was made of spun glass. "Don't try to move yet. Just breathe."

She looked up at him through those wet lashes, and something in his chest cracked open a little wider. Her lips were swollen from his kisses. Her hair was a disaster of tangles and escaped ribbons. The marks he'd left on her throat and breasts were already darkening to purple, and there was a smear of flour still caught in the hollow of her collarbone from the bakery, hours ago, a lifetime ago.

He couldn't stop looking at the flour. That faint white smear in the hollow of her collarbone—it undid him. Hours ago she'd been in the bakery, dusted and laughing, and now she was here, wrecked and trembling and still carrying the evidence of her ordinary life on her skin, and he was supposed to send her back out there like nothing had happened.

"I can't send you back like this," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he meant it to. "Your dress—it's—" He looked at the crumpled fabric on the floor, the torn seam where his hands had been too eager, and then back at her body, at the marks blooming dark across her throat and breasts. "Everyone will know."

He didn't wait for her to answer. He couldn't. Every moment they spent frozen here was a moment closer to discovery, and the terror of that—of losing her, of his father's cold gray eyes finding them like this—was enough to get his body moving even when his heart wanted nothing more than to stay still and hold her forever.

The chest at the foot of his bed was old, carved from oak that had belonged to his grandfather, and the hinges creaked when he lifted the lid. Inside, his spare clothes. Tunics folded with military precision, the way he'd been taught since childhood. Clean boxers, the linen soft from years of washing. He pulled out a pair and a tunic—the softest one he owned, an old gray thing that had been washed so many times it felt like silk against the skin—and turned back to her.

"Arms up," he said, and his voice cracked on the command. He was supposed to be composed. He was supposed to be the knight-in-training, the chief knight's son, the man who never lost his head. But she was looking at him with those wet hazel eyes, her body still trembling, and all his composure had been stripped away the moment she'd first touched him in the bakery. Maybe before that. Maybe the first time he'd seen her.

She tried to lift her arms. They shook, rose a few inches, and then dropped back to her sides as if they weighed more than she could bear. The sound she made—small and frustrated and so unlike the honeyed predator who'd cornered him in the bakery—made him want to tear something apart with his bare hands. Instead he knelt in front of her, brought the tunic to her hands, and guided them through the sleeves himself, one trembling arm at a time.

The fabric swallowed her. His tunic hung past her hips, the sleeves bunching at her wrists because she was so much smaller than him, so much more fragile than she'd ever let anyone see. But she was wearing his clothes now. His. And some primal part of him that he didn't know how to name felt a deep, possessive satisfaction at the sight of her wrapped in something that smelled like him.

"The boxers," he said, and this time his voice was steadier, because he had a purpose now. Getting her dressed. Getting her safe. Getting her back to her father before anyone noticed she was gone. He held them open at her ankles, and she stepped into them—her feet so small, her toes curling against the cold stone floor—and he pulled them up with the same reverence he'd shown when he'd cleaned her, when he'd kissed her, when he'd been inside her.

They fit her wrong. The waistband was too wide, sitting loose on her hips, and the legs bunched at the tops of her thighs. He didn't care. All he cared about was that she was covered now, that the evidence of their joining was hidden beneath layers of clean linen, that no one would see the marks he'd left on her unless they looked very, very closely.

Her dress was next. He found it on the floor, the fabric still warm from her body, the torn seam at the shoulder where he'd been too rough, too eager, too desperate to feel skin. He'd have to fix that later—or find someone who could—but for now he only needed it to stay on long enough to get her out of the knights' quarters and back to the main hall. He draped it over her head, settling the skirt over the boxers and the tunic, and then he reached behind her to fasten the buttons at the back.

His fingers worked the small buttons with a focus that bordered on desperation—one, two, three, each one a tiny anchor holding her together, holding this moment together, holding back the inevitable separation that was coming faster than he could bear. She swayed against him, her forehead pressing into his chest, and he could feel the way her breath still hitched in little aftershocks, the way her muscles trembled and gave every time she tried to hold herself steady.

"Almost done," he murmured against her hair. His voice was rough, scraped raw from the things he'd said to her, the things she'd said back, the sounds they'd made together in this room that still smelled of sex and sweat and the faint sweetness of whatever oil she'd worn in her hair. "Just a few more."

She didn't answer. Maybe she couldn't. Her small hands fisted in the fabric of his tunic—the one he'd thrown back on after cleaning her, the one that still smelled like her now, like flour and arousal and the particular warmth of her skin—and she held on like he was the only solid thing in a world gone liquid.

He finished the last button and let his hands drop to her hips. The boxers beneath her dress were a strange, intimate anchor—his clean linen against her skin, his clothes wrapped around her like a second layer of protection. The tunic was too big, the sleeves falling past her wrists, and he'd had to roll them up three times just so her hands could peek through. She looked ridiculous. She looked like she belonged to him.

"We need to go." The words came out of him without his permission, and he hated them. Hated the way her fingers tightened on his tunic. Hated the way she nodded against his chest without lifting her head. Hated that the world outside this room existed at all, that there were duties and fathers and consequences, that he couldn't just lock the door and keep her here forever, wrapped in his clothes and his scent, marked and claimed and his.

The walk to the door took forever.

Her legs wouldn't cooperate. Every step was a negotiation—her body remembering what it had done, what it had taken, and refusing to pretend otherwise. Her small feet trembled against the cold stone, the soles still tender from the long day of standing at the bakery before any of this had happened, before Kael had lifted her onto his bed and unmade her completely. She clutched his arm with both hands, her fingers white-knuckled on his forearm, and he matched his pace to hers with a patience that made her want to cry all over again.

"Slow," he murmured, his free hand hovering at the small of her back, not quite touching, ready to catch her. "There's no hurry now. We're already late."

A wet laugh escaped her—more sob than amusement. "That's not comforting."

"Wasn't meant to be." But his voice was impossibly gentle, the way he'd spoken when he'd kissed her feet, when he'd cleaned her thighs, when he'd looked at her like she was something holy and fragile and utterly beyond his comprehension. "Just true."

They made it to the door. Kael cracked it open, scanning the corridor with the quick, practiced efficiency of a soldier's son. The hallway was empty—no servants, no guards, no curious eyes to witness the chief knight's heir sneaking a baker's daughter out of his chambers with her hair undone and his clothes beneath her dress. He pulled the door wider and guided her through, one hand firm on her elbow, the other still hovering at her back like a shield he couldn't quite bring himself to lower.

The corridor smelled of beeswax and old stone and the faint, distant sweetness of whatever the kitchens were preparing for tonight's ball. Elara's legs wobbled with every step, and her thighs—god, her thighs ached, the muscles screaming protest with every shift of her weight. Between them, she was still swollen, still slick with the evidence of him despite the cloth he'd used, and the friction of his clean boxers against her tender flesh was a constant, throbbing reminder of what she'd done. What she'd begged for. What he'd given her.

She didn't regret it. Not a single moment of it.

But she was paying for it now, in the trembling of her knees and the burning in her calves and the way she had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering with every step. Kael noticed. Of course he noticed—he was watching her like she was the only thing in the world worth seeing, his gray eyes tracking every wince, every hitch in her breathing, every time her fingers tightened on his arm.

"Do you need to stop?"

She looked up at him, and for a moment the mask slipped—the pain raw and naked in her hazel eyes, the trembling in her jaw she couldn't quite hide. But then she took a breath. A deep one, pulling the stale corridor air into her lungs like it could shore up the cracks in her composure. And she smiled. It wasn't the honeyed smile she'd worn in the bakery, the one that promised wicked things and delivered them. This one was softer, braver, a little broken around the edges.

"No. Don't stop." Her voice came out steadier than she felt, every word a small triumph over the screaming ache in her thighs. The boxers he'd dressed her in were damp again, the clean linen already ruined by the slickness still seeping from her, and the friction of fabric against swollen flesh was a constant, throbbing reminder of what she'd taken inside her. What she'd begged for. "I can walk. Just—slow."

"Slow," he echoed, and the word was a promise. His hand on her elbow tightened fractionally, the calluses on his fingers rough against her skin, and he guided her forward with a patience that made her chest ache more than her body did. Each step was a negotiation—her small feet trembling against the cold marble, the arches burning from hours of standing at the bakery before any of this, before Kael had stripped her bare and buried himself inside her until she forgot her own name.

The corridor stretched ahead of them, lined with heavy velvet drapes the color of dried blood, the windows beyond them throwing pale afternoon light across the stone floor in long, slanted rectangles. Somewhere far off, a servant laughed. The sound echoed, bounced, died. Elara's legs wobbled on the fourth step, and Kael's free hand found her hip, steadying her with a touch that sent a fresh spike of need straight through the exhaustion. Even now, wrecked and trembling, her body wanted him again.

"You're pushing too hard," he murmured, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm against the flour still smeared in her hair. She could smell him—salt and cedar and the particular musk of sex that clung to both their skins like a second garment. "Let me carry you the rest of the way."

"No." She shook her head, and a ribbon came loose, drifting down to land on the marble behind them like a discarded secret. She didn't stop to pick it up. "If anyone sees you carrying me—like this—" She gestured vaguely at herself, at the dress that barely covered his clothes beneath, at the bruises blooming purple on her throat, at the hair that looked like it had been fisted and pulled and tangled in sheets. Which it had. "They'll know."

"They'll know anyway," he said, and there was something in his voice—a dark, possessive undercurrent—that made her stumble again. Or maybe it was the way he was looking at her. Like she was prey he'd already caught and was simply deciding when to devour again. "Your father will know. The moment he sees you."

"He won't." She forced another step. Her inner thighs rubbed together, and the wet sound was barely audible over the rustle of her dress, but she heard it. Felt it. The evidence of Kael's release, still leaking from her despite the cloth he'd used, despite the boxers she'd already soaked through. "He sees what he wants to see. A tired girl who played too hard."

She took a deep breath, and the air tasted like beeswax and the distant sweetness of pastries from the kitchens below. Her chest rose against the torn seam of her dress, against the soft gray of his tunic beneath, and for a moment she just stood there, letting the breath fill her lungs, letting it push back the ache that radiated from between her legs all the way up into her lower back. Then she looked up at him—really looked, her wet hazel eyes meeting his gray ones—and she smiled.

"I don't need to stop," she said, and her voice came out raw but steady, the honeyed tone stripped down to something more honest. "I need to not be found in your corridor wearing your clothes."

Kael's jaw tightened. She watched the muscle flex beneath his pale skin, watched the way his unruly dark hair fell across his forehead when he dipped his head in that reluctant nod of his—the one that meant he was agreeing with her against every instinct in his body. His hand on her elbow tightened briefly, a pulse of pressure that said more than words could, and then they were moving again.

The next step sent a spike of pain up through the ball of her foot and into her ankle, and Elara bit down on her lip so hard she tasted copper. The marble was unforgiving—cold and hard and polished to a gleam that reflected the afternoon light in long, pale streaks. Each step was a small death. Her arches burned. Her calves screamed. Between her thighs, the ache was a living thing, a pulse that kept time with her heartbeat, a reminder of where he'd been and what he'd done and how thoroughly he'd unmade her.

But she kept walking.

Kael's hand on her elbow was the only thing keeping her upright. His grip was firm but gentle, his calluses rough against her skin, and every few steps he would slow, would glance down at her with those gray eyes full of something that looked too much like guilt, and she would shake her head before he could ask the question again. She didn't need to stop. She needed to get out of this corridor. She needed to find her father. She needed to pretend that the last hour hadn't happened, that she was still the same baker's girl who'd walked into the palace this morning with ribbons in her hair and flour on her apron, not this wrecked and trembling creature wearing a knight's clothes beneath a torn dress.

They turned a corner. The main hall was close now—she could hear the distant murmur of voices, the clatter of dishes from the kitchens below, the low brass of some servant calling instructions about tonight's ball. The sound pulled her forward like a hook in her chest, dragging her toward the end of this, toward the moment she'd have to let go of his arm and walk away and pretend that nothing had changed.

Everything had changed.

Her feet, small and shaking, carried her another step. Another. The sole of her left foot came down on a seam in the marble—a thin crack she wouldn't have noticed an hour ago, before her body had been tuned to every texture, every pressure, every tiny variation in the world beneath her. She felt it now. Felt everything. The cool slide of his boxers against her swollen flesh. The damp spot on the linen where she was still leaking him, still wet and open and wanting despite the exhaustion. The way his tunic bunched at her wrists, the sleeves rolled three times but still too long, the fabric soft and worn and smelling so thoroughly of him that she wanted to bury her face in it and never come up for air.

"Almost there," Kael murmured. His voice was low, meant only for her, and it vibrated through her chest like the stroke of a bow across cello strings. "The hall is just past those doors."

She looked up. The double doors at the end of the corridor were oak, heavy and dark, banded with iron that had gone black with age. Beyond them, the main hall sprawled in all its vaulted grandeur—she knew the layout from the tour her father had given her this morning, before any of this, before Kael. The kitchens would be to the left, a warren of heat and flour and shouting bakers preparing the feast for tonight's ball. Her father would be there, his hands buried in dough, his sweet voice humming some old tune while he shaped loaves for the king's table.

She had to go back to him. She had to smile and lie and let him believe she'd spent the last hour chasing servants through the palace gardens.

The thought made her stomach clench.

"Elara." Kael stopped walking. His hand on her elbow tightened, and when she looked up at him, his jaw was working—that same muscle flexing beneath his pale skin, that same unruly dark hair falling across his forehead. His gray eyes were wild, almost desperate, and for a moment he looked less like the composed knight-in-training and more like a man who was about to do something very, very stupid. "Wait."

She stopped. Her body ached—every muscle, every joint, every inch of skin that remembered the press of his body against hers. His boxers clung to her thighs, damp and smelling of him, and between her legs she was still swollen, still open, still leaking the evidence of what they'd done. She looked back at him—his desperate gray eyes, the pulse jumping in his throat, the way his hand trembled against her elbow—and felt her resolve crumble.

One more. One more taste. She needed it like she needed air.

She grabbed his tunic, fisted the fabric at his chest, and pulled him down. Her mouth crashed into his. It was not the honeyed, teasing kiss from the bakery, the one she'd practiced in her head a hundred times before she'd ever touched him. This was desperate. Open-mouthed. She licked into him without preamble, tasting the salt of his skin, the lingering sweetness of the morning's pastries, swallowing the broken groan that rumbled up from his chest. His hands found her hips, pulling her flush against him, and she felt him harden through the layers of fabric between them—felt the thick press of his cock against her hip, felt her own body clench with want, with the memory of how he'd filled her.

She wanted nothing more than to let him drag her back to his chambers. To let him strip her bare again. To feel his mouth on her throat, his cock sliding into her, his voice in her ear telling her she was his.

But she couldn't.

She broke the kiss. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her lips wet and swollen, her chest heaving against his. Her forehead pressed against his for a single, aching moment. "I have to go."

Elara pulled back. Her hand slipped from his chest, fingers trailing down the rough fabric of his tunic like she was memorizing the texture of him one last time. She didn't look at him. Couldn't. If she looked at him, she'd stay.

She turned. The marble was cold beneath her feet, the ache between her thighs a pulse that kept time with every step. Her dress hung crooked—the torn seam at her shoulder gaping, the gray of his tunic visible beneath, the hem of his boxers brushing just above her knee. She didn't fix it. Didn't have the hands for it, not when they were still trembling, still clutching the ghost of his jaw, his neck, his shoulders.

One step. Two. Three. The main hall doors loomed ahead, oak and iron, and behind her she could feel him watching—could feel the weight of his gray eyes on her back like a hand she hadn't let go of. Her legs wobbled. She forced them straight. Her hand found the iron band of the door, cold and rough against her palm, and she pushed.

The main hall swallowed her. It was vast and vaulted, the afternoon light falling through tall windows in sheets of pale gold, catching dust motes that floated like slow snow. Voices echoed—servants calling to each other, the clatter of dishes from the kitchens, the distant sound of someone laughing. She walked through it like a ghost, her small feet silent on the stone, her hair a wild tangle of chestnut around her face, her dress a ruin that she couldn't fix and couldn't hide.

The kitchen doors were to the left. She pushed through them, and the heat hit her first—a wall of it, thick with steam and yeast and the sweet smell of baking bread. The kitchen was a chaos of movement: cooks shouting, assistants running, pans clattering, fires roaring in the great hearths. She stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking, letting the noise wash over her, letting it drown out the sound of Kael's voice still echoing in her skull.

And then she saw her father.

He was at the far end of the kitchen, his back to her, his hands buried in a mound of dough on a flour-dusted table. His apron was white with flour, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair a mess of gray-streaked brown that curled at the nape of his neck. He was humming—some old tune she'd grown up hearing, something about a miller's daughter and a handsome stranger—and the sound of it made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with Kael.

She crossed the kitchen. Her legs were shaking. Her thighs were burning. The wetness between them had soaked through his boxers now, and she could feel it chilling against her skin, could smell the faint musk of sex that clung to her despite the flour and heat and steam. She stopped a few feet behind him.

"Papa."

He turned. His face was round and warm, his eyes the same hazel as hers, crinkled at the corners from years of smiling at customers. He saw her, and his hands stilled in the dough, and his brow furrowed.

"Where were you—" He looked her up and down, his gaze catching on her torn dress, her tangled hair, the flush still burning in her cheeks. "You were gone for an hour, Elara. I sent a servant to find you, and she said you weren't in the gardens or the library or—" He stopped. His voice was soft, impossibly soft, the way it always was—the voice of a man who had never raised it in anger, who shaped bread and promises with the same tender hands. "What happened?"

She smiled. It was automatic, the same smile she'd worn over a thousand loaves of bread, the one that said everything was fine and nothing was wrong and she was just a sweet baker's girl who'd never done a thing wrong in her life. Her hair fell across her face in a messy cascade, and she didn't push it back. "Playing around." Her voice came out light, breathless, almost giddy. "I'm very... tired. The palace is big. I was playing with the servants." She laughed—a small, hollow sound—and gestured vaguely at her dress. "One of them spilled wine on me. Can you believe it?"

Her father's eyes lingered on her throat. On the bruises blooming there, purple and red, the shape of a mouth pressed too hard against her pulse. He looked at them for a long moment, and Elara felt her heart stop, felt the world narrow to the space between his gaze and hers.

And then he smiled. "Ah. Well, the palace is bigger than our bakery, isn't it?" He turned back to his dough, his hands resuming their rhythm, kneading and folding and pressing with the practiced ease of a man who'd done this every day for thirty years. "We'll be leaving soon. The king's steward said the pastries were perfect, and the bread for the ball is already cooling. Go find a servant to mend your dress. I don't want you walking through the city looking like a ragamuffin."

She laughed—real this time, surprised out of her by the word. "Ragamuffin?"

"Ragamuffin," he repeated, and the softness in his voice was a balm she didn't know she needed. "Now go. Before I find that servant and give them a piece of my mind."

She kissed his cheek. It was quick and light, a brush of her lips against his flour-dusted skin, and she felt the warmth of him, the solidness of him, the safety of him. "Thank you, Papa."

She found a servant—a young girl with braided hair and a shy smile—and asked for a sewing kit. She fixed the tear in her dress as best she could in a corner of the hallway, her fingers clumsy and slow, the ache in her thighs making every movement a negotiation. She smoothed her hair as well as she could, but the waves were too tangled, the curls too wild, and she gave up and let them fall where they would. When she walked back into the kitchen, her father was packing the remaining loaves into baskets, his movements unhurried, his humming a soft counterpoint to the chaos around him.

"Ready?" he asked, not looking up.

"Ready."

They left through a side door, one meant for servants and deliveries, and the cold air hit her like a slap. The palace fell away behind them—the towers, the banners, the scent of beeswax and old stone—and she was just a baker's girl again, walking through the cobbled streets of the city with her father, a basket of bread on her hip and a secret burning in her chest. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose, and the air smelled of smoke and cooking oil and the distant river.

She didn't look back. She didn't dare.

Kael watched her go.

He stood in the corridor long after the doors had swung shut behind her, his hand still raised in the air where she'd been, his fingers still curved around the shape of her waist, her shoulder, her face. The marble was cold beneath his boots. The air was still. Somewhere far off, a servant laughed, and it sounded like a mockery.

He sank to the ground.

His knees hit the stone first, hard enough to bruise, and then his hands, his palms flat against the cold floor, and then his forehead, pressing down until he could feel the seam of the marble cutting into his skin. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, and his chest felt like it was caving in, like she'd reached inside him and pulled out something vital and walked away with it tucked inside her torn dress.

He was in love.

He was utterly, hopelessly, catastrophically in love with a baker's daughter who had kissed him like she meant it and then walked away without looking back. He pressed his forehead harder against the stone, and the pain was a comfort, a grounding thing, a reminder that he was still in his body, still alive, still breathing air that tasted like her.

He was in love.

The realization didn't frighten him. It consumed him—a fire that had been smoldering since the moment she'd caught his wrist in the bakery, since she'd looked up at him with those hazel eyes and smiled, since she'd bitten his lip and he'd felt the world tilt off its axis. He buried his face in his hands, and he stayed there, kneeling on the cold marble floor, letting the truth of it wash over him like a wave.

He was in love. And she had left.

He stayed like that for a long time. Long enough for the light to shift, for the shadows to lengthen, for the distant sounds of the palace to fade into the hush of late afternoon. He stayed until his knees ached and his back burned and his mind had stopped spinning, and then he stayed a little longer.

Finally, he stood. His legs were unsteady, his head heavy, and he had to brace a hand against the wall to keep himself upright. He took a breath. Another. Then he turned and walked toward the food hall, his boots echoing against the stone, his heart still pounding the shape of her name.

The food hall for the knights was a long, low-ceilinged room off the main courtyard, filled with wooden tables scarred from years of use and the smell of roasted meat. Kael walked in just as the afternoon meal was being cleared, the servants carrying away empty platters and half-full cups. His friends were at their usual table: Mason with his red hair and redder face, James with his quiet eyes and steady hands, Aiden with his easy grin and the bruise on his jaw from this morning's training.

He was halfway to them when he saw his father.

Sir Aldric Voss stood near the entrance of the hall, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his gray eyes—the same gray eyes Kael had inherited, the same steel in them—fixed on his son with an expression that could have been carved from stone. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair cropped short, his tunic immaculate, his bearing the kind of rigid command that made lesser knights stammer and squirm.

Kael stopped. His father's gaze swept over him—his rumpled tunic, his flushed face, the flour still dusting his collar from the bakery this morning that he'd never quite managed to brush off.

"What were you doing." His father's voice was flat. Not a question. An accusation. "You did not attend breakfast."

Kael opened his mouth. Closed it. His throat was dry, his tongue thick, and his mind was still full of Elara—the sound of her moaning, the feel of her clenching around him, the taste of her sweat on his lips. "I was..." He cleared his throat. "Uhm. I was... in the armory. Sharpening my blade for tonight's—for the ball. The guard rotation."

His father's eyes narrowed. The lie hung in the air between them, thin and pathetic, and Kael felt heat rise to his cheeks, felt the flush spread down his neck and under his collar. Sir Aldric did not move. Did not blink. He simply stared at his son with that cold, assessing gaze, and Kael felt like a boy again, caught stealing sweets from the kitchen, unable to form a single convincing word.

"The armory." His father repeated the word like it tasted wrong.

"Yes. The armory." Kael's voice cracked on the last syllable, and he wanted to die. He wanted the marble floor to open up and swallow him whole. He wanted to be back in his chambers, with Elara's legs around his waist and her nails raking down his back, far away from this hall and this man and this moment where he was falling apart and everyone could see it.

Sir Aldric watched him for a long, terrible moment. Then he sighed—a sound so quiet Kael almost missed it, a sound that was less anger and more exhaustion, more disappointment, more of the same tired resignation Kael had been seeing in his father's eyes for years. He turned away. "Eat something. You have training in an hour."

And then he was gone, striding out of the hall with the measured, unhurried gait of a man who had nothing to prove and nothing to fear. Kael watched his retreating back, and the breath he'd been holding rushed out of him in a single, shuddering exhale.

He turned and walked the rest of the way to his friends' table, collapsing onto the bench with more force than grace. Mason looked up from his stew, his red brows raised. "What was that about?"

"Nothing." Kael stared at the empty table. His hands were shaking. He pressed them flat against the scarred wood, trying to steady them. "Armory," he added, because he could still hear his father's voice in his head, could still feel the weight of those gray eyes on his skin. "I told him I was in the armory."

James snorted. "And he believed you?"

"No." Kael's voice was hollow. "He never does."

Aiden slid a cup of water across the table. Kael took it, drank, and the cold liquid was a shock against his dry throat. He set the cup down and stared at it, at his reflection wavering on the surface, at the face of a man who had spent the morning buried inside a baker's daughter and was already desperate for more.

He was in love. And she had left.

But she'd be back. The ball was tonight, and her father was the king's baker, and she'd be here, in the palace, walking through these halls with her ribbons in her hair and that smile on her lips. He just had to wait. He just had to survive the next few hours, the training, the dinner, the ball, the long, aching stretch of evening until he could find her again.

He drained the rest of the water, and his hand was steady now. He looked at his friends—at Mason's knowing grin, at James's quiet concern, at Aiden's raised eyebrow—and he smiled. It was a small thing, fragile, but it was real.

"I need a bath," he said. "And a change of clothes. And then I need to figure out how to survive tonight without making a fool of myself."

"You look redder than my hair, mate." Mason said, pointing to his own head. His grin was wide, amused, the kind of grin that meant he was already planning how to use this later.

"You look redder than my hair, mate." Mason said, pointing to his own head. His grin was wide, amused, the kind of grin that meant he was already planning how to use this later.

"And you're shaking." Aiden did a double take, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "Did you fight someone?"

Kael buried his face in his hands. His palms were cold against his burning cheeks, and he could feel the heat radiating off his skin like he'd been standing too close to a forge. "I... ah... fuck me..."

The three of them exchanged a look—Mason's eyebrows climbing toward his red hair, Aiden's eyes going wide, and James's quiet mouth pressing into a thin line of realization. Then all three heads swiveled back to Kael, who was still hiding behind his hands like a child caught stealing tarts.

"What did you do?" James asked, his voice low and serious, the tone he used when someone was about to confess to something that would get them all in trouble.

Before Kael could answer—before he could even lift his head—a shadow fell across the table. A servant, one of the younger girls with auburn braids and a no-nonsense expression, set a plate of roasted meat and bread in front of Kael with a soft clink. She didn't say a word, but her eyes flicked to his rumpled tunic, to the flour still dusting his collar, to the flush that hadn't faded from his cheeks, and she walked away with the faintest curve of a smile.

Kael stared at the plate. The meat was still steaming, the bread warm, and his stomach lurched with sudden, desperate hunger. He grabbed a piece of bread, tore off a chunk, and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing mechanically, not tasting a thing. He didn't look at his friends. He didn't look at anything but the plate in front of him, his jaw working, his throat convulsing as he swallowed and reached for more.

Mason opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Mate, you're eating like you haven't seen food in a week."

Kael didn't answer. He tore another piece of bread, dipped it in the juices pooling around the meat, and shoved it into his mouth. The grease ran down his chin, and he wiped it with the back of his hand, still not meeting their eyes.

Aiden leaned forward, his spoon forgotten. "Did you actually *fight* someone? Is that why you were gone all morning?"

Kael shook his head, his mouth full. He chewed, swallowed, and took a long drink of water from the cup Aiden had given him earlier. The cold hit his stomach, and he set the cup down with a thud. "No fighting," he said, his voice rough.

Finally, Kael paused. He set down the half-eaten piece of bread and glanced at them, his gray eyes heavy and tired. He sighed, let his head drop, and rested his cheek on the scarred tabletop, looking up at them while he chewed the last mouthful. "I like a girl," he said, his voice muffled against the wood. "I spent the hours following her around. That's all."

His friends froze.

Mason's mouth fell open. Aiden's grin vanished into something like shock. James just stared, his spoon suspended halfway to his mouth.

Then they leaned in, all three of them, their heads close together, their voices dropping to exaggerated whispers that carried across the table anyway. "SERIOUSLY MATE!?" Mason hissed, his red hair almost brushing Kael's cheek. "WHEN WAS THIS—" Aiden cut in, his voice cracking on the last word. "OH LORD!" James finished, and he set his spoon down with a clatter.

Kael groaned and pressed his forehead against the table. "Don't."

"No, no, no," Mason said, reaching across the table to grab Kael's shoulder. "You can't just drop that and expect us to move on. You? *You* like a girl? The one who's never looked twice at any of the maids or the knight's daughters or the visiting noblewomen who practically throw themselves at you?"

"I've looked," Kael muttered into the wood. "I just didn't..." He trailed off.

"Didn't what?" Aiden asked, leaning closer.

"Didn't feel anything." Kael's voice was barely audible. "Until now."

The table went quiet. Even the distant clatter of the kitchens seemed to fade. Kael lifted his head just enough to see his friends' faces, and something in their expressions—the genuine surprise, the warmth, the curiosity—made his chest ache in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant.

"Do you gift her anything?" James asked, his voice careful, measured. "Girls like those."

Kael blinked. He looked down at his plate, at the remnants of his meal, at the grease cooling on the wood. "I... don't know... what to give her."

Mason perked up immediately. "Flowers. Girls love flowers. You pick the right ones, you tell her she's pretty, and she melts."

"Swords," Aiden countered. "Girl knights appreciate a good blade. Shows you respect her skill."

"She's not a girl knight," Kael said, and his voice came out softer than he'd intended. He cleared his throat. "She's not... she's not a knight at all."

The three of them exchanged glances. "A noblewoman's daughter, then?" James asked. "One of the court ladies?"

"A servants girl?" Aiden snorted, leaning back in his chair. His grin was wide, the kind that said he was already sharpening the joke. "Is that it, then? You've gone and fallen for one of the kitchen maids?"

Kael's jaw tightened. He didn't answer. He just stared at the scarred wood of the table, at the grease stain spreading near his elbow, at the way the light caught the grain and made it look like a river running through stone. His silence stretched, thin and fragile, and the grin slowly slipped off Aiden's face.

"Kael?" James's voice was careful, measured, the way he spoke when someone was about to say something important. "What is she?"

Kael's throat worked. He could feel their eyes on him, three pairs of them, heavy and curious, and he wanted to say something — anything — that would make this moment lighter. But the words stuck, caught behind his teeth like breadcrumbs, and he swallowed hard. "A merchant," he mumbled, the sound barely carrying across the table. "Ish."

The table went still.

Mason's eyebrows climbed toward his red hair, and he exchanged a glance with Aiden — a long, loaded look that said everything and nothing. Then all three of them turned back to Kael, their expressions shifting from amusement to something sharper, something hungry.

"A merchant?" James repeated, his voice low. "A *merchant's* daughter?"

"Ish," Kael said again, and he could feel the heat creeping up his neck, the flush spreading across his cheeks. He pressed his palms against the table, the wood cool and rough under his fingers, and he didn't look up. "Her father's a baker. But he supplies the palace, so that's... that's close enough, isn't it?"

Mason let out a low whistle, long and appreciative. "Kael Voss, the chief knight's perfect son, falling for a baker's girl. Strangely more than I expected."

"Shut up, Mason."

Aiden snorted, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. "A baker's girl, then." His tone was light, teasing, but his eyes were sharp—assessing. "There are plenty of baker's girls in the palace kitchens. Which one? The blonde with the freckles? The short one who always looks annoyed?"

Kael shook his head, his jaw tight. He could feel Mason's gaze boring into the side of his face, James's careful silence, Aiden's growing curiosity. The air around the table felt thick, charged, like the moment before a storm broke.

Kael's throat closed. He stared at the grain of the table, at the tiny grooves and scars carved into the wood by years of careless knives and nervous fingernails. His hand was still pressed flat against the surface, and he watched his own fingers curl slowly into a fist, the knuckles going white.

He didn't answer. He couldn't.

Kael's chest rose and fell with a long, slow breath. His eyes stayed fixed on the table, on his hand, on the white-knuckled fist he was making. "Her father's a merchant," he said, and the words came out rough, scraped. "Ish. He supplies the palace. Bread, pastries, the fancy cakes for the feasts." He paused, swallowed. "She helps him. Carries the trays. Smiles at the guards. Makes sure everything arrives warm."

He lifted his head. His gray eyes met theirs, and there was something raw in them, something unguarded that he usually kept locked behind composure and distance. "I saw her this morning. In the kitchens. She was arranging pastries on a silver tray, and her hair was falling out of her ribbon, and she was humming. Just... humming. Like she didn't know anyone was watching."

His voice cracked on the last word, and he looked away, his jaw working.

The three of them stared at him. Mason's mouth was open. Aiden's eyebrows had climbed so high they were nearly lost in his hair. James was very, very still.

"Kael," James said slowly, "you followed her. All morning."

"Yes."

"You watched her arrange pastries."

"Yes."

"For hours."

Kael's ears were burning. He could feel the heat radiating off his skin, and he pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead, covering his eyes. "Yes."

The table erupted.

"Sweet merciful—" Mason started.