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And that tension between us? It’s grown into a taut wire, vibrating with unspoken intensity.

A brush of hands during training, a too-long stare across a table, a split second when I catch him looking at me before he schools his features back into neutrality.

Some nights, I can’t sleep because my mind replays the brush of his wing against my shoulder—a fleeting touch that sets my pulse skittering.

But we keep our distance, physically and emotionally. He’s my superior, my trainer, my borderline captor. And I’m the operative whose success is vital to his plans. There’s no place for indulgence.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

Late Afternoon, Training Courtyard

It’s a crisp day, the sky overhead a pale blue tinted with the threat of oncoming dusk.

I’m in the courtyard, wearing a sleeveless tunic and light trousers—my arms bare except for wrappings over my forearms. I’ve just finished a grueling session with Helrath, and my lungs burn from the exertion of dodging real steel.

The clang of swords still echoes in my ears.

Helrath dismisses me with a grunt, and I slump against the courtyard’s stone wall, sweat cooling on my skin. A handful of House Draeven soldiers pass by, giving me curious glances before returning to their routines.

I close my eyes, taking a moment to steady my breath. My entire body aches. Every muscle feels like a coiled spring that’s been overextended. Still, I can’t deny I’m better now—faster, more precise. The memories of flailing helplessly in the courts fade a little more every day.

A faint noise, barely a breath—alerts me to Vaelorian’s approach. I open my eyes to see him rounding the corner, his black hair loose around his shoulders, wings tucked neatly behind him. He’s wearing fitted leathers, understated but clearly expensive.

“You look half-dead,” he says, but there’s a flicker of concern beneath his usual calm tone.

I push off the wall, wiping my brow. “I’ll survive.”

He cocks his head. “It’s nearly evening. You could rest.”

I glance at the practice swords racked nearby. My stubborn pride refuses to yield. “I want to run a few more drills. I need to refine my parry. I keep letting Helrath slip through my guard.”

Vaelorian steps closer, blocking my access to the rack. “There’s such a thing as pushing too far. Helrath said you nearly got cut today.”

I bristle, glaring up at him. “Better now than in the real mission, right?”

His lips thin. “It won’t help if you enter the mission already battered.”

A lump forms in my throat. The intensity in his eyes unsettles me, as if he’s waging an internal battle between caution and the drive to hone me into an unbreakable blade. My heart thuds. Is his concern purely strategic, or is there something else stirring beneath the surface?

I mutter, “I’m not made of glass.”

He exhales. “I know.”

Silence stretches. I notice the lines of his shoulders, the faint ripple of tension in his arms. Our proximity draws attention—one or two passing soldiers glance our way, but Vaelorian pays them no mind.

“Let me help,” he says finally, voice lowered.

I blink. “Help? With a few more drills?”

He nods. “Just you and me, no Helrath. We’ll go at a pace that won’t tear you apart. But I can correct your parry technique better than most.”

A swirl of surprise and an odd delight sweeps through me. “You’d do that?”

He huffs a soft laugh, barely more than a breath. “Are you forgetting I’m the one who orchestrated all this training?”

Heat warms my cheeks, and I step around him to retrieve a wooden practice sword. My muscles protest the motion, but I clench my teeth. He moves to the rack as well, selecting a sword for himself—a longer style with a slender blade.

We claim a rough circle in the courtyard, the late sun slanting across the flagstones. My heart pounds in anticipation, though part of me doubts I can endure another hour of sparring. But the promise of Vaelorian’s direct tutelage spurs me on.

He takes position opposite me, adjusting his grip. “Show me your stance,” he orders.

I comply, muscles humming with fatigue. He inspects me critically—angle of knees, tilt of shoulders, distribution of weight.

Then he steps behind me, carefully placing one hand on my waist and the other on my wrist to adjust my posture.

The contact sends a jolt through my system—awareness that has nothing to do with training.

My breath catches. He’s so close I can feel the faint brush of his wing against my back. I swallow hard, fighting the stir of longing I’ve tried to bury for weeks. This is a lesson, nothing more.

He murmurs, “Relax your arm. Stiffen only when you meet the blade.”

I nod, exhaling. He steps back around to face me, and something in his expression flickers—like he’s as aware of that physical closeness as I am.

“Ready?” he asks, voice slightly hoarser.

“Yes,” I manage.

He lunges with a smooth, controlled motion, the wooden sword angled toward my side. I move to parry, but my timing is off; our blades meet with a crack, and I stumble. Vaelorian doesn’t deliver a finishing blow. Instead, he waits, eyes intent.

“Too slow,” he critiques gently. “Again.”

We reset. He lunges, I parry. This time, I manage to deflect in time, though the force of his attack jars my arms. My stance wavers, and he steps forward, forcing me to retreat. My feet shuffle, the courtyard spinning around us.

“Good,” he says. “Keep your elbow in.”

I obey, adjusting. We trade slow blows, each carefully calculated. Despite the methodical pace, the practice brims with tension—both from the combat dynamic and the heightened awareness thrumming between us.

Half an hour passes in a blur of parries, thrusts, corrections. Sweat beads on my forehead, and my arms tremble from exertion. Vaelorian eventually halts, lowering his sword.

“Enough,” he says. “You’re done for today.”

I exhale, shoulders sagging. “Right. Yes.”

We stand there, breathing hard. The sun has dipped beyond the fortress walls, painting the sky in orange and pink. My pulse thrums, and I realize with startling clarity that I’m not just exhausted—I’m on edge with a different kind of energy.

Vaelorian’s gaze sweeps over me. He opens his mouth, closes it, as though reconsidering whatever he was about to say. The moment feels charged, the hush broken only by distant clamor from the fortress.

I break eye contact first, turning to place the wooden sword on a nearby bench. My heart pounds at my throat. Then, without warning, the tip of Vaelorian’s practice blade glances across my shoulder, so light it’s barely a touch.

I spin, confusion flaring. “What?—?”

He steps closer, eyes dark. “A final test. If an enemy circles behind you, can you respond?”

My instincts, sharpened by weeks of training, override my exhaustion. I lunge, intending to disarm him. But he reads me easily, deflecting. The movement throws me off-balance, and I stumble forward—straight into his chest.

He drops his sword, gripping my arms to steady me. Heat flares between us. I catch the faint scent of leather and something uniquely his—an undertone of crisp night air, if night had a scent.

My heart gallops. I look up, meeting those obsidian eyes that glimmer with some unspoken conflict. We stand pressed together, breathing hard in the dimming light. The impulse to pull away wars with the sudden, desperate urge to close the last fraction of space between us.

Weeks of tension coil in my chest. He’s so close I can see the faint lines around his eyes, the flicker of silver in their dark depths. My mind screams that this is dangerous, foolish. He’s my trainer, my prince, my... my something.

“Valeria,” he says, voice raw.

I can’t speak. Instead, I lift a trembling hand to his shoulder. For an instant, we both freeze. Then, as though compelled by the same force, our mouths crash together in a fierce, bruising kiss.

The courtyard, the fortress, the entire world falls away.

All that exists is the press of his lips against mine, the taste of salt and adrenaline, the electric jolt that shoots through my limbs.

I feel his hands tighten on my waist, pulling me closer, and my body arches into him with a hunger that surprises even me.

Time slows. Every breath merges, every brush of our lips or shift of our bodies intensifies the rushing in my ears. I’m drowning in sensation—his fangs graze my lower lip, a gentle reminder that he’s not human, that he could hurt me if he wanted. The knowledge only heightens the thrill.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a voice warns me: This is a mistake. You can’t risk this. But the heat consumes that thought as swiftly as kindling in a blaze. I melt into him, lost in the desperate need that’s built over weeks of careful restraint.

He angles his head, deepening the kiss, and I gasp. My hands slide up around his neck, tangling in the inky strands of his hair. His wings shift behind him, rustling, enveloping us in partial shadow as though to shield this moment from prying eyes.

We break apart only when we’re both out of breath, foreheads resting against each other in the twilight. My chest heaves, and I catch the rapid stutter of his breath, too. It’s as if we’ve shattered some invisible barrier, and everything is new, uncharted.

I can barely form words. “Vaelorian...”

His name sounds intimate on my lips, and it sends another wave of warmth coursing through me. He half-closes his eyes, expression torn between longing and alarm. “We shouldn’t,” he rasps, voice rough. “This?—”

But neither of us moves away. Instead, I grip his coat, pulling him back to me. The next kiss is slower, lingering, and it holds a dangerous tenderness that makes my heart twist. Gods, what are we doing?

He breaks the kiss again, resting his cheek against my temple. “We can’t stay here,” he murmurs.