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He’s so close that my fingertips find the bare skin of his chest, and it lights a fire in my belly. “Cory?” I try.

A low sound escapes his throat. “Lord, Tessa.” His hands lock on my waist, and his lips find mine.

His touch was so slow and tentative that I expect his kiss to be the same, but his mouth is sure and determined. When my lips part, his tongue teases at mine, drawing a gasp that he inhales. He tastes like cinnamon and sugar, and my hands stroke up the length of his chest to find his broad shoulders, his sloping neck, his muscled arms. I expect to feel hesitant, the way I did in the palace when he almost kissed me, but I don’t.

Because this is different. This is our space. He’s not Wes, because there is no Wes, not really. He’s Corrick. He’s always been Corrick. Everything we’ve done together is a part of who he is.

Without warning, his hands close on my waist tightly, and I’m lifted to settle on the table. My legs fall apart, and he steps into me, my skirts bunching around him, his mouth finding mine again. He’s closer now, his hands freer. I explore the warm stretch of his waist, the curved muscle of his back. His lips drift down my jaw, his teeth dragging at the sensitive skin below my ear, nibbling along my neck. Every nerve ending in my body is firing, and I want him closer. My hands slide along the waist of his trousers, the skin there softer than silk.

One of his hands finds my knee, his fingers drifting along the outside of my thigh. I suck in a breath and pull him closer, and he buries his face in my neck to make a sound that’s very much like a low growl. Our hips meet, and I cling to him, my fingers digging into his skin. His hand skims higher along my thigh, until I see stars and shiver. This time when he kisses me, he’s slow and sure, one arm holding me against him so tightly that I can feel his heart beat against mine.

“Tessa,” he whispers, and my name sounds like a plea. “Oh, Tessa.”

“Say it again,” I tease, and I feel his smile against my lips.

The alarm in the Royal Sector pierces the night, and I freeze. So does Corrick.

His breathing is shuddering. I have to close my eyes.

“They’ve caught someone,” I whisper.

Someone he’ll have to deal with. Someone he might have to execute. I pull my hands to my chest.

After a moment, Corrick’s gentle fingers settle on my wrists. His lips brush against my temple.

He sighs. I sigh.

“We need to finish our rounds,” he says. He finds his shirt and slips his arms through the sleeves. “We’ll head toward Artis and see what we can discover before daybreak.”

Andafter that, we’ll have to go back. He’ll need to be the King’s Justice.

I don’t need to say it. He knows it, too. The disarmed look is gone from his eye, and cool Prince Corrick looks down at me.

He scoops me off the table, setting me on my feet. He draws my hand to his mouth and kisses it. Then he grabs his mask and ties it in place. “Yours too,” he says.

I rebraid my hair, trying to ignore the tightening of my throat. My fingers are trembling and don’t want to work right.

Maybe he can tell, because Corrick takes the ends of my mask in his fingers and ties it gently.

“You were right,” he says. “I should have listened to you in the beginning. When it comes to revolution, we should be riding at the front.”

I widen my eyes as my head spins. “You mean as outlaws?”

“No. I mean as Prince Corrick and his brilliant apothecary. Weston Lark can’t step out of the shadows.” He pauses. “But the King’s Justice can.”

My heart skips.

“Don’t worry,” he says softly. “I’ll be better.” Then he drops one last kiss on my lips. “We’ll pick that up later,” he says in that rough-growl voice, and goose bumps spring up everywhere. I shiver as he reaches for the door to swing it wide.

On the other side, backed by eight men, stands Lochlan, his crossbow pointed right at Corrick.