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He was everywhere.

A stretching of endless sky that blanketed Tanwen.

And it felt devastatingly right.

Perfect.

Inevitable.

His lips were soft, encouraging, skilled as they worked against hers.

He tasted sweet, like his drink, his tongue brushing hers as he groaned into her mouth.

Tanwen loosened a surprised breath as Zolya gathered her into his lap. Her atenté dress slipped, forgotten, to the floor as she straddled his strong thighs. His hands ran down her back, gripped her waist through her shirt as he all but feasted on her.

“You are my devastation, Tanwen,” he growled, pressing her closer against his chest.

And you are mine, she thought as she fought her rising guilt, ignored how it judged each kiss and touch and groan.

She could feel Zolya’s need beneath her—powerful, hard—and knowing that she was the one stirring his desire only inflamed her own.

His attention slid from her mouth to the curve of her neck and exposed shoulder.

Tanwen was no longer tethered to this existence but blown into a million particles.

To consume every shred of pleasure Zolya poured over her was her sole purpose.

And pleasure he gave in abundance.

Gently, he cupped one of her breasts, sucking at her nipple through the material of her shirt.

A spike of euphoria flooded her core, and she angled further into him.

He groaned his approval.

His fingers slid dangerously low to cup her backside, lingered where her tunic flared open, bare skin revealing where no undergarments separated what yearned the most for his touch.

Tanwen, rubbing against him, moaned for him to keep going.

“By the Eternal River,” he cursed, meeting her with a thrust of his own.

Tanwen cried her bliss, Zolya grazing exactly where she needed him.

His wings had curled around them, a white wall of safety as he slowed their kiss.

He drew back, forcing her to meet his liquid topaz gaze.

She squirmed in his lap, desperate for more, and he rumbled a low, pleased laugh.

“I want to ease your aches, Tanwen,” he said, running a hand up her neck to cup her cheek. “May I taste you?”

His question slid like fire down her spine. Tanwen let out a ragged breath as she found herself on another precarious ledge. She had already fallen far with their kiss. Could she crawl her way out if she fell any further?

“If your answer is no, I will go no further,” he assured, no doubt noting her hesitation. “We can stop.”

Stop.

The action felt impossible.

Tanwen certainly didn’t want any of this to end, though she understood it would. Must. The consequences of tonight inevitably loomed, but by the Low Gods, she was desperate to fight that reality for as long as she could. Her need for a reprieve from her responsibilities, a slice of her own euphoria after doling out so much to others, raged through her veins. Zolya had said she was safe here, that society remained outside these walls. Let them test that theory.

If only for tonight.

“Taste me,” she ordered.

Zolya’s grip tightened, his eyes pooling with untamed desire. “As you wish,” he replied.

Tanwen’s stomach dropped, a dizzying of movement as Zolya lifted them into the air.

With her next breath she was lowered onto his bed. The sheets were silken clouds, puffs of perfection beneath her body.

Zolya was above her, leaning one elbow onto his bedding as his weight deliciously sank against her. His wings were a wide, magnificent snowy canopy. He angled her chin, claiming her mouth once more.

If their first kiss had been a storm, this one was a languid summer’s eve, a slow dip of sunset over warm grass.

Tanwen slid her hands around his taut shoulders, grazed where his wings met skin.

She paused.

“You may touch them,” he whispered, studying her as she tentatively stroked his plumage. His feathers were soft but strong, magnificent.

She felt Zolya shiver under her ministrations. His eyes fluttered closed for a breath, and Tanwen became transfixed by the peace that slipped across his features, the letting go.

A rare occurrence, surely.

“You are beautiful,” she said.

A clear blue sky blinked open, Zolya looking down at where she lay beneath him.

A frown briefly marred his brow, but then he was sliding down her body, pressing kisses to her breasts through her shirt, across her belly.

Her nerves spun with anticipation as he raked sure fingers along her bare legs, slowly, achingly spreading them wide.

Tanwen had experience with kissing. Despite growing to become a pariah in Zomyad, she had been kissed before, stolen ones, sweet ones by village boys or girls.

She also knew how to pleasure herself, but never had her touch felt anything like that of the man who now grazed his teeth along the inside of her thigh.

Her breathing was quick, her pulse racing as his warm breath lingered on her skin as he settled between her legs.

It was a strange and heady sight, the prince in all his strength and size and grace bowing by her opening.

Tanwen felt her cheeks grow pink as he ran his gaze over where she rested, aching and wet. A small groan purred from him before his eyes rose to meet hers, a consuming hunger shimmering in their depths. “You are beautiful,” he said, echoed, before he pressed his mouth to her and licked.

Tanwen arched, a cry escaping at the delicious sensation, her ache finally touched.

But it wasn’t enough, and Zolya understood this, for he was excruciatingly thorough in tasting her, finding where she needed him most and generously lingering.

Gently, she felt the pressure of his finger, a teasing graze before he pushed in. There was an exquisite building as he worked in and out, in and out.

Her groans lifted from her as she tangled her fingers into his hair, keeping him connected.

There was a rustling of clothes, which drew Tanwen’s attention to Zolya loosening his trousers, freeing himself. Tanwen sucked in a breath at his magnificence, mouth growing dry when he took his hard shaft in hand and began to pump long strokes.

As he pleasured Tanwen, he pleasured himself.

The view of him commanding them both was too much. Tanwen felt herself building, tipping over the crest of euphoria. And then she was falling, diving, before floating blissfully down into softness.

A guttural moan had her fluttering her eyes open to find Zolya, now kneeling by her feet, sliding his hand in a quicker rhythm over his hard length. His gaze was a swirling of untamed lust, completely pinned to where she lay, spread wide and wet and satiated.

Tanwen had never witnessed anything so glorious.

With another grunt, Zolya bent forward, spending himself on the sheets between her legs.

And then he was curling himself around her, fitting her back to his chest, a cradle of warmth and protection. It was too easy then for Tanwen to close her eyes and drift to sleep.

When she awoke, the soft yellow glow of sunrise was pressing against the closed curtains.

A heavy arm was draped over her waist, a comforting press of heat at her back.

Tanwen’s eyes widened.

Oh gods, she thought. The prince and I—

“Don’t,” mumbled Zolya from behind her.

Tanwen froze in her task of sliding from his hold. “I must go, sire,” she said.

She squeaked as she was pulled back, Zolya suddenly above her, pinning her wrists beside her head. “So I am sire again?” he challenged. There was a glint in his eyes, an amused but dangerous spark.

Tanwen took in a stuttering breath. The weight of his body against hers stroked alive yearnings she no longer could entertain.

“I fear today you must be,” she said.

It was as if she had poured cold water over them both.

Zolya slowly released her, sitting back on his heels. His hair was gloriously tousled from sleep, his clothes needing a good pressing, but he remained no less impressive, ethereal in his beauty.

The sight of him was more painful than it ever had been.

Because no longer was she free to touch such perfection, to feel him touch her.

That was last night: a strange stopping of reality as they each gave in to their desires.

Now it was morning, like the beginning of all other mornings in Galia, where the chasm of their rankings, their births, her forbidden existence, and his sin against her family ripped across the space between them.

Tanwen slid from the bed, chest aching as she retrieved her peplos from the floor.

With her back to him, she pulled off her tunic. Her moment of nakedness elicited a hiss from behind before a gale of wind.

Zolya was at her back, not touching her, but there.

Tanwen closed her eyes, an agonizing tug in her belly as his heat caressed along her exposed skin. His scent a delicious inhale.

“Please,” he implored, a husky whisper as he took her dress from her hands. “May I help?”

No, she thought.

“Yes,” she said.

It was torture, his gentle touch to her arms as he raised them, his delicately slow easing of her dress down her body. Tanwen held her breath as Zolya brushed her hair to the side, fixing the straps of her peplos before tightening the wrap along her waist.

“This is clever,” he said, noting Eli’s pouch. “Is it for your herbs?”

Tanwen stiffened. “Yes, it is to help in my daily tasks,” she explained.

As she spoke, the true reality of where she stood came crashing down. Whom she stood with.

And Eli. Gods , Eli. She needed to find him. Make sure he was properly all right.

A knife of guilt slid between her ribs.

Because despite what transpired in the kidet barracks, who remained hostage within the palace, Tanwen had still enjoyed herself last night.

Which was the problem.

She enjoyed him.

The prince.

Entirely too much.

The son of the man who had torn the wings from her father, who had been among those who hunted her mother. The one who had threatened her brother’s life, broken apart her family. Who would turn his back on her as soon as they stepped beyond this room.

He came to your rescue last night, said that incessant contrary voice within her mind.

Tanwen ignored it, knowing such a truth did not change, or help, her current situation.

“I must go,” she said, stepping away from Zolya.

“Tanwen,” he began.

“How would you suggest I leave?” She cut off his next words, glancing around. “I fear it’s too bright to fly from your veranda unnoticed, and striding from your quarters is, of course, out of the question.”

“Tanwen,” he tried again. “We should discuss last night.”

“Why?” she challenged, finally meeting his gaze. “What is there to discuss that would change who we are today? Who you are, sire.”

Zolya grew still, stiff, at the use of her formality.

Good, she thought. He needs to remember himself. It was certainly impossible for Tanwen to forget.

“You indulged yourself last night,” she found herself explaining. “Which is perfectly understandable. I have been told that to bed a servant can feel exciting. Enough Volari at court do it to prove such a theory. And I’m not delusional to think I’m the first you’ve entertained within your rooms. I willingly engaged and enjoyed myself. Let us leave it at that, sire.”

Zolya’s wings drew taut at his back, his gaze growing dark as a cold energy collected in the room. The brewing of a storm. “Leave it at that?” he rumbled.

Tanwen swallowed, a slip of fear entering her veins.

“Leave it at that?” he repeated, taking a step toward her.

Tanwen met it with a step back.

“You think I am accustomed to taking servants to my quarters?” he posed, his tone a blade’s tip. “To offer them my bath and clothes as I sew their garments and share with them my innermost thoughts? That I would wish to taste them as I tasted you? You are to believe that last night was a ploy to obtain a dalliance of forbidden entertainment for an evening? I am the prince of Galia.” His shoulders drew back, chin lifting. “If I wished for taboo pleasure, Tanwen, I merely need to snap my fingers.”

His words were thrown knives, and she was useless in blocking their slicing pain.

“Then pray tell, Your Royal Highness ,” Tanwen challenged. “What was last night to you? What else can I be but my station and you yours?”

He opened his mouth before closing it, a fury painting his features.

Tanwen’s heart broke: he was now, finally, grasping the truth of today. Of every day that would follow last night.

As he had said, he was the prince of Galia.

And she was too low, too horned, to even entertain the title of the prince’s mistress .

“I need to leave,” she said, pleaded. “Please, Zolya, I need to leave.”

Tears were threatening to spill free as her desperation echoed through the room, touched the forgotten drinks from last night, pressed against the rumpled sheets of his bed.

Tanwen had to get far from the scene of their crime. And fast.

Zolya studied her an excruciatingly long moment, his shoulders tense, gaze blazing, but in the end, he said, “Follow me.”

Tanwen held in her wince from his cold command as she shadowed his steps into his washroom.

Zolya stopped at a marble wall in the far corner. As he pressed a nearby carved tile, a panel slid open, revealing a dark tunnel. A musty breeze flowed out.

“Not even the staff know of these passages,” he explained. “Each royal has one in their rooms, in case we ever need to escape unseen.”

Escape.

His choice of word was not lost on her.

“But you have wings,” she reasoned.

“The sky is not always safe,” he explained, avoiding her gaze. “This will have you exit just below the western wall of the palace.”

Tanwen glanced into the darkness, her nerves skipping down her spine.

“Take this.” Zolya pulled free a candle from a nearby holder.

“Thank you,” she said, making sure they didn’t touch as she took the flame.

Zolya seemed to notice, for his brows drew in, annoyed.

“And thank you for your help ... in the barracks,” she added. “I truly am grateful that you found me.”

Eternally so, she finished to herself.

Zolya only nodded, his expression severe.

Tanwen hesitated for a moment, not knowing what else to say.

If anything further should be said.

“Good day, Ms. Coster,” said Zolya, his clipped dismissal like a tight fist around her throat, suffocating. But she knew it was what was right. What was needed.

“Good day, Your Royal Highness,” she replied, meeting his icy stare.

And then she was fleeing into the lightless tunnel, running from the pain blooming in her chest.

But as Tanwen stepped into the dark, it wasn’t lost on her that the prince guiding her toward this exit was also him providing her a pathway back in.