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At a quarter till eight, she made her way downstairs. She sat on a chaise longue at the side of the room and wondered if they should also practice being comfortable away from a dining table. As images flooded her mind of Toven Hearst and the versatility of a chaise, she quickly dismissed the idea.

She was still waiting for him to arrive at eight oh five, glaring into her wineglass despite her self-assurance that she’d be less reactive this time.

At eight twelve, she finally heard footsteps scuffing across the stones.

When she turned to lift a brow at him, he looked very much like a child who had been dragged to a dinner party with adults, scowling with bored eyes, resigned to having a terrible time.

“Good evening,” she lilted.

He took his place at the table without a word.

Once he was seated, she stood, poured his wine, and sat determinedly in his lap, as if daring him to object.

His expression didn’t change as she tugged her plate of food closer, sipped her wine, and munched on the canapés that the kitchen had sent as their first course.

“I have another question,” she said primly, breaking the silence. He didn’t respond, ignoring her gaze boring into him as he drank deeply from his wine. “Where is your father?”

That earned her a scowl, and he plunked his glass back on the table. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“You were about to gamble that information away on Friday.”

“I knew I was going to win.”

“You tied. That was hardly winning.” She felt his ribs expand against hers with a deep breath. “You were only going to name the country,” she continued, in a gentler tone. “You can’t even give me that?”

The expression that flashed through his eyes momentarily stunned her. A softness that told her maybe she could ask anything of him. She blinked at him over her wineglass, and it was gone.

Perhaps she’d imagined it.

“Southern Camly.” His long fingers toyed with the white tablecloth. “That’s all I know.”

Juliana was the daughter of Southern Camly’s president. It was also where Finola had trained in strategy and espionage—where many of Finola’s contacts and acquaintances were.

“He’s gone indefinitely?” she asked.

Toven nodded. “He’s not to be disturbed unless strictly necessary.”

She frowned, knowing she had nothing but pure speculation.

Not wanting to push him too much after the previous evening, she refrained from asking more questions. She sat quietly in his lap as he finished his wine and ate his meal, her mind sorting through all she’d learned.

She was disappointed by how much he didn’t know—how much she still didn’t know—but at least it was a start.

She didn’t have the sense that he’d lied or withheld information from her.

More important, they seemed to be making progress on an interpersonal level.

Despite the evening’s rocky start, they hadn’t fought, which was a significant improvement.

The next night, she ate early and finished her wine quickly, giving her the courage she needed to push their boundaries a bit farther.

She spent the meal curled into his side, running her fingers through his hair as he poked at his vegetables.

She noticed that he held her eye longer than usual, and she tried her best to ignore the fluttering in her chest each time it happened.

“Will things get out of hand again at the private dinners, do you think?” she asked. “I know the atmosphere seemed calmer, but—”

“This is fine,” he cut in. “What we’re doing here”—his hand gestured between them—“will be fine for Friday.”

She lifted a brow but kept her reservations to herself. They’d cross that bridge later. For now, she didn’t want to upset their progress. It was still too fragile.

As the week progressed, Toven began to distract her thoughts even more than usual.

She woke in the mornings with the memory of what it felt like to be curled against his body.

The scent of it. She had to increase the amount of time she spent meditating in the morning so she could stay on task the rest of the day while she scoured the news and continued researching.

But at night, when it was just the two of them, she pulled his shelf forward, letting his volumes flutter open to vibrant colors and patterns.

It was dangerous, she knew, given her history of feelings for him, but she couldn’t see a way around the need to build trust. A solid connection with him, if not a friendship. She ignored the voice in her head that told her she didn’t want to find another way.

On Wednesday, she picked food off his plate while sitting against his chest. He fought her for the last of his potatoes, his fork jabbing at her fingers when she reached for them.

Her heartbeat thrummed as she smiled and tried to offer him the potato, pressing it to his lips.

He rolled his eyes and turned his face away.

That’s how Serena Hearst found the two of them—with Briony in her son’s lap, his arm wrapped around her waist, and her trying to feed him as he dramatically twisted his head from side to side.

“Oh,” Serena said.

Briony gasped, tumbling out of Toven’s lap. Toven jumped up, knocking over his wineglass.

“We weren’t—”

“This isn’t what it looks—”

“It’s only that—”

“Couldn’t you have knocked, Mother?”

“My,” Serena hummed, and Briony felt her face turn beet red at the barely concealed grin spreading across her features. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“You’re not interrupting anything,” Toven said quickly, almost shouting the words. He started to push his chair in, shoving it roughly after it skidded noisily on the floor.

“No, no.” Serena waved her hands. “Please finish your meal. I insist.”

Briony stared at her shoes, pulse pounding in her ears. Her skin itched with guilt and embarrassment in every place that had just been in contact with Toven’s body.

“Enjoy the rest of your dinner.” Serena glided out of the room, and Briony thought she could hear a light laugh echo in the corridor.

Briony dropped her head into her hands as soon as Serena turned the corner. “Oh waters ,” she groaned.

Toven shifted on his feet before excusing himself with an unintelligible mumble, leaving her alone in the dining room with only her burning skin and guilty conscience.