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Tanwen squeezed her eyes shut, angling her face away from the cool wind and into the warmth of soft cloth and solid muscle.

She didn’t remember how she came to be flying within Prince Zolya’s arms. She knew only that she now was, for the second time that week.

But unlike the first flight, he now held her as though a babe to his chest, fiercely protective.

His hands gripped her firmly, hers woven equally tight around his neck. Her fingers dug into his coat as his wings pumped an even but quick rhythm.

Tanwen had no idea where he was taking her, but she was eternally grateful that it was away.

Away from those men.

Away from the growing crowd of soldiers that had gathered with the prince’s appearance.

Away from the memories of rough hands and foul breath.

The events following the prince’s arrival came in dark flashes. A confusing mixture of gruff orders and movement. A clearing of bodies and a mouse hiding. Then Tanwen had stood alone. With him. Stunned when his rumble of rage had turned soft, gentle as he approached. There had been a question, an offering of assistance, which Tanwen must have agreed to, for she was no longer in the kidets’ barracks but in the sky.

As the prince angled them to the left, Tanwen tensed, coiling further around him, but soon the wind stilled as they came to land on a veranda.

She began to untangle herself, but Prince Zolya kept her in place within his arms as he strode past billowing drapes and into a low-lit room.

Only then did he release her. Gently, as if she were glass that could break.

They stood at the threshold of a bedroom. An enormous one at that, with hints of multiple other connected rooms.

Tanwen’s nerves skittered down her spine as she clutched a hand to her torn bodice, eyeing the large bed in the center. Pristine white sheets and plush pillows with the royal emblem sewn into their centers.

Her heart stilled. She was in Prince Zolya’s chambers.

“Wait here a moment,” he advised as he disappeared into an adjacent room. Low murmurs of orders were given before the soft clicks of far-off doors shutting. He was clearing away his staff.

Tanwen’s pulse jumped as Prince Zolya reentered the bedroom, determined in his movements as he flung closed the tall curtains to the veranda. The light of the twin moons was snuffed out, throwing the space into a honey warmth made by the flickering candelabras. “Do not be alarmed,” he said as he approached her, clearly noting her apprehension. “This was the most direct place I could bring you where you could regroup undisturbed. You are safe here.”

Tanwen didn’t quite believe that as she watched the prince run his gaze down her body, a pinch to his brow.

She clutched harder at the broken strap of her dress.

His frown deepened. “There is a warm bath through there.” He gestured to a door in the far corner. “My staff always keeps one at the ready for me in the evenings. I offer it to you. I’m sure you wish to have a moment alone where you can also change.”

Tanwen eyed him, unsure.

A bath certainly sounded incredible, but perhaps not in the prince’s chambers.

Especially not when he appeared so ... fierce.

She hadn’t fully comprehended him in the barracks, her mind and body still thoroughly elsewhere.

But now, in the stillness of his bedchambers, she was able to take him in.

If Tanwen hadn’t known better, she would have assumed he had just flown back from a battle.

Prince Zolya appeared wind torn; his white hair sat wild around his shoulders, there was a red flush to his brown skin, and a hint of bruising was beneath his eyes. She wondered where he had come from before he found her within the barracks.

Nowhere pleasant, she imagined.

Though despite his disheveled appearance, his gaze was steady, measured, as he awaited her reply.

“While I thank you for your offer, sire,” she began, “I have nothing to change into.”

He glanced at the state of her peplos again. “Leave that to me, Ms. Coster,” he explained. “There is an anteroom you can dispose of your dress in before entering the washroom. A change of clothes will be waiting for you when you are finished. I understand this is all rather ...”

“Illicit,” Tanwen suggested, brows raised.

“I was going to say unconventional , but yes, I suppose illicit also stands,” he replied. “But unless you wish to return to your quarters in your current state and explain to Madam Arini what has happened and perhaps why you were in the kidet barracks alone—”

“So your men attacking me is my fault?” Tanwen cut in, her rage spiking.

“Of course not,” the prince quickly assured, brows pinching. “What those kidets attempted will be dealt with, slowly ,” he promised, his voice a dark rumble. “I am merely offering you my help, Ms. Coster.”

“Why?”

The prince blinked, clearly taken aback. “Are you always this distrusting?” he asked.

“Considering what happened to me tonight, sire,” she pointed out, “do you fault me?”

At the reminder, the prince’s gaze flashed something deadly for a beat before his features softened. “I apologize,” he said. “I can’t begin to imagine how you are feeling. You can leave if you wish. Of course you can. My intentions are merely to assist where you may need it. It’s the least I can do, given what you have done for my sister-cousin.”

Tanwen’s fight left her in a whoosh, the mention of the princess quickly diluting her anger. It felt unfair to bring her into this, especially because the prince and princess’s relationship always awoke compassion within Tanwen and confusion toward the man standing in front of her. How the prince could show such adoration, gentleness, and love toward his sister while also being so coldhearted as to steal away her father and brother left Tanwen disoriented.

She was supposed to hate him, and yet she had been eternally relieved by his presence tonight.

These dualities left her frowning, not knowing how to be under these circumstances, especially when he acted so ... kind to her. Dare she say, even generous.

Volari, let alone royals, were not meant to apologize to servants. Least of all offer up their warm bath that had specifically been drawn for them.

Suddenly, the vast gap between Tanwen’s and the prince’s stations pressed down on her again. Even more so, what she was—or, more aptly, what she was not supposed to be.

Mütra.

And here the prince stood, wanting to help.

If he only knew who he was offering to help, thought Tanwen, holding in a chill of terror.

“Please, Ms. Coster,” urged the prince. “Will you allow me to assist you as you have assisted me?”

There was something desperate in his tone, a need that went beyond merely Tanwen and her current state. She couldn’t quite place what it was, but she grasped that his intentions were pure.

“Very well,” she said, tucking a spill of her hair behind her ear. “A bath does sound healing. Thank—”

Tanwen’s elbow was snagged, her words cut off as the prince tugged her close.

“Did they do this?” he asked, his voice a gathering cloud of thunder.

Tanwen sucked in a breath, now finding herself practically draped against his hard torso as he glared down at her left wrist. There was an angry red welt ringing her pale skin, remnants of the freeze burn inflicted upon her by one of the kidets.

“Answer me,” he demanded. Gone was the gentle prince, and in his stead stood the warrior.

His wings were half-spread at his back, his blue gaze a winter storm.

Tanwen was both terrified and mesmerized. “They did,” she whispered.

The prince’s lips were set in a hard line as he nodded, as though agreeing to a silent command within himself.

“Please,” she said. “Your grip, sire, it’s—”

“Forgive me.” He sprang back, remorse flooding his features. “I should never have ... especially not after ...”

“No harm was done,” she said, echoing words he had once spoken to her, though her body still vibrated from his touch, a traitorous yearning.

“What do you need to heal this?” he asked, expression still stern as he gestured to her injury.

“Aloe and a bandage,” she answered. “But, sire, you don’t—”

He didn’t wait for her to finish as he brushed past her. Part of his wing grazed her arm, sending a warm shiver down to her core.

When Tanwen glanced over her shoulder, he was already gone. A ripple in the curtain was the only hint of him ever being in the room before he had slipped out to his veranda and back into the night.

The bath had been decadent. Unlike anything Tanwen had ever experienced. The tub was also less of a tub and more like a small pond, constructed to fit a form much larger than hers and with ample space for wings. The water had been scented with bergamot, the mild spice clearing her mind while the warmth worked out the stiffness in her joints.

The memory of the kidets’ hands along her body had slowly slid from her skin, her nerves settling. She had been eternally grateful for the opportunity to collect herself, dilute some of her panic from her attack into the suds. She also felt reassured that Eli was safe, somewhere tucked away and recovering in the palace. Tanwen could have stayed in the healing waters until morning if she hadn’t been painfully aware of where she bathed.

The opulence of the marble washroom was too grand.

Too breathtaking was the mural of Nocémi’s night sky, which spun a sparkling dark blanket across the ceiling, within it a depiction of the glowing Kaiwi River, the celestial home of the High Gods.

This space was not meant for the likes of her.

A reality that became only more pronounced with the clothing she now gazed upon.

Wrapped in a thick towel, Tanwen stood, in utter horror, eyeing the simple white tunic that had been laid out.

“He must be mad,” she muttered.

A jar of aloe and bandages had also been provided, but she ignored them as she bent to lift the shirt. It was massive, soft, and unequivocally made for the prince.

“He is mad.” Tanwen glanced to the other piece of clothing.

As if his shirt wasn’t enough, there were also trousers.

His trousers.

A bubble of laughter worked up her throat, the feeling and sound foreign to Tanwen.

She couldn’t recall the last time she had laughed.

Especially not like this, from a mix of exhaustion and grief and the utter absurdity of such a moment.

Perhaps she was mad as well.

Because in the end, after seeing to her wrist, the burn already going down, she slipped on his tunic.

It was either that or remain wearing a wet towel.

Her back was half-exposed from the large openings for his wings, but she buttoned up what she could reach.

“Sire,” began Tanwen as she reentered his low-lit bedchamber. She had prepared a nuanced explanation for why she required different clothes, but her words were stolen by the current scene. “Are you ... sewing ?”

The prince looked up from where he occupied a wide plush bench within the center of his room. Draped across his lap was her white peplos uniform, within his large hands the delicate wink of a needle and thread. He appeared entirely ridiculous and unequivocally adorable all at once, such a large form as he carefully mended her dress.

Tanwen’s question got further lost as she met his gaze. There was a darkening within his blue irises as they traveled over her. A muscle along his jaw flared, a hard swallow to his throat as his attention met her bare legs and feet.

Tanwen was nothing but flames, burning from his scrutiny.

Despite her swimming within his soft tunic and being far more covered up than she had been in her peplos, she was painfully aware of how intimate it was to be wearing his clothes, hair wet down her back. A detail she could tell the prince had not thought of until now.

Fool, she wanted to chastise.

“Where are your trousers, Ms. Coster?” The prince’s words snapped her back to the room. He was no longer staring but glaring. That forever pinch between his brows.

“You mean your trousers, sire?” Tanwen countered, single eyebrow raised. “While I’m sure your intentions were ... honorable in the lending of your clothes, you appear to have forgotten an important detail when it comes to you and me.”

His frown deepened. “And what’s that?”

Tanwen couldn’t contain her snort of disbelief. “We are very different , sire.” She gestured emphatically to herself. “Particularly in size.”

His gaze traveled over her once more and, by the Eternal River, if she didn’t feel as if he saw straight through her tunic. To every curve and swell of her nakedness beneath.

Tanwen resisted dashing back into the washroom to hide, her skin growing much too warm.

“Yes, well ...” The prince cleared his throat. “I had nothing else that would suit,” he explained before returning his attention to his task. “Your dress will be mended shortly. Though I can’t do much about the stains. That is a task for the laundresses.”

She watched his strong hands work the small needle in and out of the material.

“Where did you learn to sew?” she asked, approaching.

“It’s a skill every soldier needs to master.” He furtively glanced to where she now hovered over him. “Though I certainly prefer mending clothes over flesh,” he explained.

“Easier to poke through,” she offered.

“That, and it doesn’t nearly whine as much as a kidet,” he added.

“An ideal client.”

He looked up at her then, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. “Precisely.”

They remained connected for a breath, the room falling away as they shared a grin.

But then the prince blinked, seeming to recollect himself.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, gaze dropping to her bandaged wrist, which peeked from beneath his rolled-up sleeve.

“Better,” she admitted.

The prince nodded. “I’m glad. In case you need anything to further settle your nerves, I poured you a glass.” He leaned over to a side table, picking up one of the two drinks prepared. “It might help ease whatever else the bath did not.”

“Thank you.” She took the cup, painfully aware of when their fingers grazed, of every shift and breath the prince produced. He had changed since her bath. Or, rather, removed his heavy royal adornments and jacket. Tanwen noted how he seemed more relaxed in his simple gray tunic, no longer shouldering the garb of his responsibilities. His muscular form was also evident beneath the thin material of his shirt.

Why am I looking at his muscles? she silently chastised, sensing her cheeks flushing pink.

He was the definition of a distraction. And the Low Gods knew Tanwen couldn’t afford distractions. She had more than enough to plan and prepare since locating her brother and father.

The last thing she should be doing was sharing a drink with the prince.

The very man who had split apart her family.

By the king’s orders, another voice added in her mind.

Tanwen ignored it, allowing her animosity toward Prince Zolya to rise like a necessary shield, despite how battered it was becoming.

“I can do that, sire.” She leaned forward to grab her dress.

“I’m sure you can.” He elbowed her hand away. “But you won’t.”

“It’s absurd for you to be sewing my dress, sire.” She pressed a fist to her hip.

“It’s also absurd for you to have bathed in my washroom and to be wearing my clothes.”

Tanwen’s face flamed hot, a sense of betrayal. “ Yes , sire, it is, which was what—”

He cut her off, brows stern. “But tonight, propriety can go hang. You were attacked, Ms. Coster, by my men, who assuredly were trained better than that. All I care about is that you are well and healing. Society is not in this room. The palace may sit around us, but it is not currently with us. For a few turns of the stars, let us do away with all that. I want you to feel as if you can be yourself here. At least for tonight.”

“That is a difficult order, sire.”

“Zolya,” he muttered.

She blinked. “What?”

“Please, call me Zolya. I’m blasted tired of the title of sire this evening.”

“Sire, I cannot,” countered Tanwen.

“Of course you can. Think of it as a request from a ... friend.”

Friend.

The word slid through the room, awkward and ridiculous.

Certainly illegal.

“You and I cannot be friends, sire.”

“And why not?” he asked, a petulant child. “We have both helped one another. We share similar skills like ... sewing.” He lifted her dress as though it were an exhibit of proof in front of a council. “Are those not characteristics of a friend?”

Tanwen would have laughed if she wasn’t so exasperated. “May I remind you that you are a Volari prince?”

“A wasted reminder,” he countered.

“And I’m . . .”

The words got caught in her throat.

An abomination.

The prince was watching her closely, that insufferable inquisitive stare that told her he was noting some truth she wished for him not to see. “What are you, Tanwen?”

Tanwen.

Her name spoken like it already belonged to him.

Tanwen’s pulse tripped into a sprint.

“I’m ... me,” she managed weakly.

The prince’s gaze raked over her, sending a dusting of gooseflesh across her skin. She dared not breathe as his eyes lifted to meet hers once more, a center of a flame. “Yes,” he said, a husky agreement. “You certainly are.”

Tanwen’s attention remained locked to the prince as she desperately attempted to ignore the pull she felt in her belly.

Ignore her torturous desire to know what his delicate strong hands could mend as they ran over her body.

He remained sitting, below her, as he had that one day when she found him kneeling at her feet. Similar wicked imaginings flooded her mind, but this time they took place in the bed mere paces away.

Tanwen spun on her heels, a burst of desperate clarity roaring through her chest.

What am I doing? she silently scolded before taking a full swig of her drink. The spirit burned down her throat, and she coughed.

“Are you all right?” Prince Zolya asked.

She dared a glance back at him, to where he remained on his bench.

“Yes,” she assured. “The strength of the drink caught me off guard, is all.”

She decided space was the safest next course of action.

He was too large, not only in body but in presence.

Yet despite the distance she put between them, despite the blocking of tables and chairs and pillars, Tanwen felt the prince’s gaze following, a shadow she was unable to detach from her form.

Tanwen swallowed past the heat rushing through her body, her attention focusing on the various tomes and trinkets laid about the room. And tomes and trinkets the prince had aplenty. Books overflowed every surface. Stacked three or four high on side tables and benches and lounge beds. But what surprised Tanwen the most was the collection of toys, particularly children’s. She stopped to study the various air gliders, rock spinners, and web catchers.

“Be careful with that one,” said the prince as she picked up a miniature paper kite shaped like a hawk. “It was a gift from my mother,” he explained.

“I wouldn’t take you to be nostalgic, sire”—she took care placing the kite back on its shelf—“by still harboring childhood toys.”

“To me they are less toys than interesting inventions,” he admitted. “Did you know that rock spinner over there is what helped engineer wagon wheels and the making of flour? It’s older than even my father and has outlasted generations yet still brings entertainment. To create something that could be loved for so long, that could inspire other ingenuity—well, I frankly find it astonishing.”

Tanwen stood transfixed, his words echoing so much of her own passion for invention. Another added similarity between them that left her unsteady.

Which was why she focused, instead, on what else his admission revealed. “That was spoken like a well-studied future king,” she said.

His brows slammed down. “What do you mean?”

“To become eternally loved.” Tanwen repeated his words. “To inspire others. Are those not traits to admire in a great ruler?”

Zolya shifted with his discomfort, a nerve clearly struck.

“It is not something to be ashamed of, sire,” Tanwen reasoned. “On the contrary, I admire your inclination to—”

“I am not ashamed,” he interrupted, his features remaining brooding. “My fascination with invention has nothing to do with my future role as king.”

Tanwen regarded him, confused as to why he would be upset if it did, but it was not her place to pry. “Of course not, sire,” she eventually managed, moving away from the rock spinner. “You might find this ... amusing,” she began, finding she was suddenly desperate to recapture some of the casualness they had begun to share. “I also have an interest in the art of invention.”

“Why would I find that amusing?” Prince Zolya countered with a pinch to his brows.

“Because I am a woman and a servant,” she reasoned matter-of-factly.

“I fail to see how either defines what you might find interesting. I’m a royal, born for an idle life, and yet prefer to train with my men and work with my hands.”

At the mention of his hands, Tanwen glanced to where they delicately held her dress in his lap. A warmth blossomed across her skin, especially as she realized he was so much more than she had originally believed, filled with contradictions and nuances that went against the definition of his title or race.

Like me being Mütra.

Tanwen stilled, the thought shocking her.

“What exactly is it about the art of invention that interests you?” Prince Zolya asked, snapping her back to the room.

“I ... well.” She momentarily faltered, no one in her life ever having asked her such a thing. “I am fascinated by the possibility that we can make something from nothing,” she began. “Or something good, better. I mean, take this room.” She gestured to their grandiose surroundings. “People made this. What started as a simple need to live within walls and a roof, to have shelter, eventually was transformed into artistry and design. Right angles were able to become curved archways. Flat ceilings, domed. And it all appears so effortless. As if the required meticulous mathematics and constructed precision were mere magic rather than centuries of a dedicated pursuit by mortals.”

The room stretched quiet, Tanwen realizing with growing unease that she might have spoken too freely, and certainly too much.

“Well,” said the prince, a delighted glimmer in his gaze. “You certainly know your history of engineering.”

Tanwen shifted her weight with discomfort. “Not really.” She shrugged, attempting to deflect. “The practice of being a meddyg shares similarities,” she reasoned.

“How so?” he asked.

“The constant advancing of medicine and instruments, for one,” she replied. “While also utilizing effective methods that have been practiced for centuries.”

“Indeed,” the prince agreed, eyes alight with growing curiosity. “Azla mentioned you come from a lineage of meddygs, so I assume your mother ...”

“Is also a meddyg,” Tanwen finished for him. “She is one of the most skilled in my clan, actually,” she added proudly.

“Is it she or your father who hail from Garw?” questioned Prince Zolya.

Unease worked through Tanwen. “Why do you ask?”

“Your horns,” he explained. “You come from the western clan in Zomyad, yet your horns are of eastern heritage.”

Tanwen hesitated as she turned to study an arrangement of flowers. This line of questioning was getting too close to her father for comfort.

“I apologize,” the prince began, obviously noting her change in temperament. “I did not mean to overstep.”

“It is fine,” she said before taking a sip of her drink. “You wish for us to be friends, do you not? A friend would wonder such a thing.”

But it was also a friend’s prerogative if they wished to divulge an answer. Tanwen certainly did not.

“You say the queen gave you some of these toys?” She worked to change the subject, continuing her stroll about his room.

“If not exclusively,” he admitted. “My mother has always nourished my curiosities. Most of the books are from her as well.”

Tanwen could note the admiration in the prince’s voice, the love.

“You must be close,” she observed. “You and the queen.”

Prince Zolya’s lips pressed together as he continued pulling and pushing with the needle. “We are as close as I suppose we are allowed,” he eventually answered. “Despite her living outside of the palace, her isle has become ... a safe place for me to visit.”

Something warm and unwanted unfurled inside Tanwen, hearing the prince discuss his place of safety. She knew too well the desire for a sanctuary.

And the prince had shared his with her, of all people.

“Do you see her often?” she couldn’t help asking.

“As much as I can, though I’m sure she would say it’s not nearly enough,” he admitted with a slight smile.

“Will you ...” Tanwen hesitated with her next question.

“Will I what?” he urged, looking up.

“Will you tell her about the princess?”

Prince Zolya’s brows furrowed, a darkness overshadowing his relaxed features. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Oh goodness!” Tanwen gasped, hand covering her mouth.

“What? What has happened?” Prince Zolya was nearly on his feet, searching Tanwen to find the cause of her sudden distress.

“No, sire, I apologize. I’m fine.” Tanwen raised her palm, attempting to assuage his worry. “I merely forgot to tell you that she woke up this morning. The princess. I had gone looking for you, but your usher said you were not on palace grounds and then ... well, my duties and—”

“All is well,” he placated, settling back in his seat. “I was away from the palace since yesterday afternoon, so it is no fault of yours.”

Tanwen wondered if where he had gone was why he appeared so ruffled.

“How is she?” asked the prince, pausing in his work.

“Despondent,” Tanwen admitted. “And mad,” she added.

“I’m sure her anger is exclusively saved for me,” said Prince Zolya, his brows furrowing.

“I thought we agreed it was not you who arranged her marriage,” said Tanwen.

“Still,” replied Prince Zolya, gaze growing out of focus.

“Still what?” pushed Tanwen.

A muscle along his jaw ticked before he met her question with one of his own. “Do you want to know the ficklest part about being the next in line for the throne?” His gaze held hers, a steel blade of ire. “You must act in line.”

Tanwen remained silent, not knowing how to reply. For a flash she could see the prince as a young boy, his childhood stolen because of who he had been born. By no choice of his own, responsibilities and expectations had been saddled onto his shoulders, gilded weighted epaulets. An anchor to his wings.

How strange for Tanwen to understand him so viscerally in this moment—perhaps not the royal part, but certainly remaining in line. The necessary comprehension from a young age that one’s life was not like others and there would be dire consequences if rules were not followed, obeyed.

Prince Zolya’s discomfort around his future role as king grew clear. Perhaps he had not wanted this life, just as Tanwen hadn’t wished for hers. Maybe his destined role was not a blessing from the High Gods but a curse for him to unwillingly follow in the footsteps of his father.

I’m blasted tired of the title of sire this evening.

His words from earlier now rang as an exhausted plea.

A pressure bore down on Tanwen’s chest, an uncomfortable compassion filling her heart.

Compassion for the man who helped the king capture her father and brother.

“I went to see my father yesterday,” said the prince, as though he had the power to know the subject of her thoughts. “After you saved the princess.”

“ We saved, sire,” Tanwen corrected yet again.

“Yes, well, we , you , it’s all for naught.” Prince Zolya glowered at her dress in his lap. “No amount of pleading could alter his decree regarding the princess’s fate. I may command an army, have blood blessed more powerfully than all other Volari, yet still I can do nothing to save Azla.”

The room vibrated in the following gloomy silence.

Tanwen had a sudden mad urge to go to him, smooth his frown, hold him in her arms, and tell him all would be well.

Despite both knowing it would not be.

“I’m sorry,” she managed instead, her gut clenching in anguish for what this meant for the princess, for knowing what it was to feel useless and lost in wishing to save someone you loved. “I can understand that is a maddening position to be in, but you mustn’t discredit your attempt in fighting for her. Though I have not met the king, I imagine it takes courage to openly oppose one of his decisions.”

“Or idiocy,” murmured the prince.

“Yes,” mused Tanwen. “I do suppose they are often synonymous.”

The prince gave her a wry, amused look, and a strange sense of accomplishment filled Tanwen’s chest.

She could tell he was not a man who smiled often, least of all at staff.

“The way I see it,” she added, now unable to stop herself, her drink indeed making her foolishly brave. “You could have done nothing at all, sire. A greater offense in my opinion than offending a king. Though it might feel impossible, I would not yet give up on your campaign. Nothing of importance ever manifests without work. Surely you know this from all your tomes on the history of invention.” She gestured to the scattering of books. “Greater miracles have transpired in our world than His Eminence changing his mind.”

Prince Zolya’s stare was unyielding, a flash of wonder in his blue depths as he drank her in. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose greater miracles have.”

Tanwen’s cheeks grew flushed, her skin uncomfortably heated. “Precisely,” she managed, tearing her gaze from his to once again study a nearby flower arrangement. She had set out to lift his mood, but in her attempts the air had turned thick with a new tension, one that had nothing to do with her family, his sister-cousin, or the king.

For Tanwen’s own preservation, she needed to get them back on course.

“In the meantime,” she said, playing with the lip of her glass, “the princess will have Lady Esme as company. She asked for her before I left,” she explained. “If anyone can cheer her, it’s her lady-in-waiting.”

“Indeed,” said the prince, features turning pensive. “Though I suspect Azla will tell Lady Esme what was attempted.”

“Yes,” agreed Tanwen. “I’m sure she will.”

“I will visit the princess tomorrow,” he said with a nod, “before discussing the importance of discretion with Lady Esme.”

“A sound plan,” replied Tanwen before sipping her drink.

Prince Zolya continued looking at her, and Tanwen really wished he’d stop doing that.

It was becoming much too enjoyable.

“Thank you,” he said.

It was Tanwen’s turn to frown. “For what?”

“For listening to the ranting of a prince.” He shook his head, as though embarrassed. “I appreciate your counsel.”

Tanwen was knocked unsteady by his words.

I appreciate your counsel.

The counsel of an atenté in matters of the royal household.

Greater miracles, indeed, thought Tanwen.

“Of course, sire. I am here to serve.”

The prince watched her a moment longer, an inquisitive stare, as if trying to solve a complicated puzzle, before he blinked, seeming to catch himself. “I believe your dress is done,” he said, lifting her peplos.

Tanwen came to sit beside him, leaving her glass on a nearby table.

She leaned over, studying his work.

“Well, sire,” she breathed. “You might have another profession waiting for you if being a prince doesn’t work out.” Tanwen slid the dress from his hands, pulling gently at the strap that had been twisted and tucked and sewn back around the gold holder. One would never know it had been ripped off, so exactly did it match the other.

When the prince did not reply, she chanced a glance up.

A mistake.

He was intimately close.

Or perhaps she was.

Tanwen hadn’t noticed how near she had shifted to admire his work.

Her fingers gripped the forgotten material in her lap, her breath hitching as her pulse hurried. Their thighs were touching, pressed together as his scent of bergamot and night curled around her. It mixed with the heat of his body, a delicious pulling as she glimpsed a swath of smooth brown skin peeking from beneath his shirt, the collar loose around his neck.

Tanwen should move, push up and away.

She didn’t.

Because she was trapped.

By him.

His gaze was a tightly wound rope holding her still.

Hungry.

Pained.

Resolved.

A cacophony of emotions swirled within his blue depths as he remained looking at her.

“I fear you may have been right,” he rumbled.

“About what?” she dared to ask.

His attention dropped to her mouth, his features darkening. “About us not being friends.”

Tanwen’s skin was on fire, melting in rivulets to the floor.

“Sire—”

“Zolya,” he corrected.

She remained quiet. Terrified. Burning to move closer. Desperate to push away.

But again, she did neither, for in that moment the prince slowly lifted his hand to her cheek. A soft, aching caress down to her neck, a river of lava following his touch. He paused at her clavicle, where the collar of her shirt, his shirt, covered the rest of her. It was as if he was branding her, a scorched imprint.

Her quick breaths had his hand rising and falling, rising and falling against her chest.

He watched the connection for a torturously long moment, let the rhythm of them sync before he met her gaze once more. “Who are you, Tanwen Coster,” he breathed, “to make me this way.”

Tanwen Coslett, she wished to correct, was desperate for him to know.

“And what way is that, sire?” she asked on a shaky exhale.

“To wish I wasn’t ... me.”

Pain was a tight lacing to her heart.

“But you are you,” Tanwen reminded.

“And you are you,” he echoed.

“I am,” she said, a cold despair clinging to her words.

The prince’s brows pinched, pained and angry. A deep inhale lifted his shoulders. “Despite who we are, I need to know, do you want this?” he asked. Tanwen’s heartbeat stuttered as he gathered her hand and placed it on his solid chest. They now mirrored one another. “Do you want me ?” he clarified.

This.

Him.

What shouldn’t be possible, what was forbidden.

Like Tanwen’s existence.

But in both instances remained real and breathing, alive and wanting.

Do you want me?

Did she?

Could she?

Her desire for him was treasonous, the inexplicable pull in her heart blasphemous.

He was her enemy, was he not? He was born to rule. She was born to hide.

And yet . . .

There was a ringing in Tanwen’s ears as chaos swirled within her veins, a swarm of pushing and pulling, of emphatic yeses and weak noes. He was so very warm and solid and there , beneath her fingers. So many differences made up the weaving of their blood, yet the marrow within their bones felt the same, a meeting of reflective souls. They were shared contradictions.

“Do you?” Tanwen redirected, unable to be the first to admit to such a shattering truth.

“More than I know I should.”

His reply was a blow, but gods if she didn’t understand, didn’t feel the same.

“Then we share more than a knack for sewing and a passion for invention, sire.” She managed a small smile.

Lucidness began to rear its ugly head as she attempted to pull back her hand.

The prince held it firmly in place.

“Zolya,” he reminded, urged, his quickening heartbeat felt beneath her palm. “Please,” he whispered. “Will you say my name, Tanwen?”

She hesitated as the ache in her chest intensified, but in the end, she gave in. More from her own need than because of any request of his. “Zolya,” she sighed.

His grip on her tightened. His breath was coming out ragged, his desire clear in every stern angle of his beautiful face. “I will move away,” he promised, his voice a low rumble. “I will let you go. You only need to say the words, Tanwen. You only need to command me—”

Tanwen cut Zolya off as she tugged him down to her lips.