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“Sire,” Tanwen breathed, her pulse a roaring beat as she gave a quick customary bow.

Zolya stopped a pace too close for what was appropriate.

It took everything in her to not take a step back. The scent of wind and bergamot wafted from his exposed skin, dizzying her senses. Tanwen became captivated by the three lines of his rain tattoo adorning his left pectoral. Considering her height reached only his chest, it was positioned directly in her line of sight.

If Tanwen blushed any further, she’d become a ripe tomato.

“Aren’t you meant to be headed toward the Recreational Lawn?” she questioned, eyeing the empty promenade.

Zolya didn’t reply right away; he appeared preoccupied with raking his gaze over her, as if searching for something beyond what could be discerned on the surface.

“Sire?” Tanwen questioned, her concern growing.

“Are you not a fan of pavol, Ms. Coster?” he asked.

Tanwen blinked once, twice. “Excuse me?”

“I notice that you are not headed with the others to the games,” he explained.

Tanwen opened her mouth before closing it, thoughts stumbling. “You left your entourage of soldiers to come find me, all so you could ask why I’m not participating in your fanfare?” she asked, incredulity clear in her tone.

The edges of Zolya’s lips twitched. “No,” he replied.

“No?” she repeated, confused.

“I forgot my charm of Udasha in my rooms,” he explained. “I never play without her luck beside me on the pitch. And, as I’m sure you are aware, this is the path back to my chambers.”

“Oh,” Tanwen stammered, embarrassed. “But ... surely a servant could fetch that for you?”

“Are you offering your services, Ms. Coster?”

Tanwen tripped over her response as visions of the last time she had been within his rooms rose like a heated mirage. Except this time, Zolya was bare chested as he lay atop her.

It was as if he sensed the direction of her thoughts, for he suddenly grew very still, his gaze searing.

No, Tanwen silently chastised, a desperate command. No. This is wrong. I cannot want him. And he certainly cannot want me.

She forced herself to think about her brother and father, guarded and trapped. Forced herself to think of Zolya’s involvement, which had brought them here. To yesterday’s execution and her agreement to a god to kill the king, Zolya’s father.

If he knew any of these truths, especially the latter, he would not be looking at her thus, as if he wished to slowly devour her with pleasure.

Instead, he’d have a knife to her throat before quickly slicing it open.

Tanwen’s resolve steadied. “If that is what you wish of me, sire,” she forced out amicably.

Zolya appeared to wrestle with his response. “My dear Ms. Coster,” he began, tone rough, “you do not want to know what I wish of you.”

There went her balance, her resolve.

His words were hot liquid down her skin.

Gods. This was too much. Too tempting.

And incredibly dangerous.

“Zolya,” she managed, though it came out breathier than she had intended. At the use of his name, Zolya’s attention clung to her, a precarious glint. “We can’t do this,” she explained, nerves on high alert as she once again eyed the long corridor. Save for the fingers of sunlight streaming between columns, they remained unaccompanied.

“Do what?” he challenged. “Am I not allowed to walk about my own palace?”

“You know what I’m referring to.” She gave him a measured look.

“I don’t think I do,” he replied, brows lifting in feigned ignorance. “I came this way to fetch my charm. I didn’t want to hold up the games by having staff get it for me when I can acquire it quicker. Plus, as you can see”—he waved to the empty hall—“there are none about to ask anyway. Everyone is nearing the Recreational Lawn. Well, all besides you, of course.”

“I was in search of some water.” Tanwen felt the need to explain. “My work in the greenhouse has left me rather parched.”

Zolya slid his gaze down her body, as though he wished to drink her.

It was bordering on cruel.

“Aren’t the kitchens the other way?” he asked.

Tanwen’s annoyance flared, his observation echoing Huw’s. Was her every move to be so scrutinized?

“I decided to go the long way round,” she managed. “The fresh air is good for health.”

“I see.” Zolya arched a brow, mouth fighting a grin. “Just as further exertion helps eradicate thirst.”

Tanwen blinked. He was teasing her.

And gods , it felt wonderful. Light and easy.

Everything her life currently was not.

Neither of their lives could be.

Not with each other, at least.

Tanwen needed to end this before she had no strength left.

“Yes, well, if that satisfies your curiosities, sire.” She gave him another quick bow, fingers tightening around her gardening basket. “I will leave you to retrieve your charm and wish you all of Udasha’s luck in your games.”

“Tanwen, wait.” Zolya grasped her arm, keeping her from backing away.

She stared at his grip, a fissure of heat erupting and cascading across her skin from where they touched.

“Sire?” She frowned, heartbeat thundering in her chest as she glanced up.

Zolya’s brows similarly knitted as he released her. “And now we are back to sire .”

“That is how servants are meant to address you,” she insisted. “I was out of line earlier.”

He raked a hand through his hair in frustration, causing his stomach muscles to ripple. “I can’t stand this.”

“This?”

“This charade.” He gestured between them. “This forced propriety.”

“Then perhaps you should take your plight up with your father,” Tanwen reasoned, tone harder than she had intended. “For it is his law, is it not, which enforces it. Or shall I remind you of yesterday’s execution?”

His features grew sharp as he took a predatory step closer. This time she did follow it with a step back, but her retreat was brief as she found herself pressed against the cold marble wall.

“It might be his law,” Zolya ground out, voice a rumble of ire, “but it would never be mine.”

Tanwen inhaled her gasp.

It was sedition of the highest degree.

And spoken by the king’s own son: his wish to break centuries-old law, his open opposition of it.

A heady hope filled Tanwen then.

What else might Zolya wish to change once king?

Mütra, a voice whispered. Would he free Mütra?

But she forced herself from wandering down that fruitless daydream.

“Do you mean that?” Tanwen asked softly, heart pounding beneath her ribs.

“I am not one to say things I do not mean,” Zolya answered. “To rule with fear is not a tactic I find as constructive as my father does.”

Tanwen understood she was receiving a rare gift, something not many had access to, a glimpse at the ruler the prince intended to be. “And what tactics do you find constructive?”

“Listening,” he replied easily as he slid closer. “Understanding motivations.” His attention fell to her lips. “Desires and, of course, the power of persuasion.” He leaned a hand on the wall beside her head.

Zolya was a gasp away, the heat from his exposed skin sliding across her front. His muscles flexed as his magnificent wings slowly spread and curled around them, shielding her from any eyes but his own.

The gesture was possessive, but she didn’t feel cornered or trapped. Tanwen felt safe, as though he were offering himself as her armor.

She wanted to fold herself around him, press naked flesh to naked flesh.

Gather his heat and drink his power.

She also wanted to scream.

Because this was utter and complete madness!

This uncontrollable pushing and pulling that seemed to always fate them to collide.

Despite the known risks and understood inappropriateness, here they were, again , breathing heavy and daring the other with their gazes. You first.

But she couldn’t.

Not again.

Not with everything she had on the line to ensure her family’s freedom.

Freedom that had been taken by the very man encircling her.

The man she would betray with a promise to a Low God.

“Tanwen,” Zolya whispered, begged.

“I know,” she replied, closing her eyes, her longing a palpable pain across her skin. “I know.”

“Please, look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

Tanwen pressed herself further into the wall, longing to be as solid as its surface. With a shaky breath she opened her eyes, finding Zolya’s gaze a crystal blue lake of yearning.

“You should go,” she croaked.

“I should,” he agreed, though he did not move. He remained, angling every part of himself around her, as if that might lessen the painful desire for them to touch.

If we are near, it is enough.

But, of course, it wasn’t.

Never would be.

It only made the suffering of what they couldn’t have even worse.

“If you will not go,” Tanwen managed, “you must allow me.”

Zolya worked his jaw, displeased. “Only when you allow leave of my thoughts,” he replied in a frustrated rumble. “Gods, Tanwen”—his muscles grew taut with his clear aggravation—“you have consumed me. Completely. I can’t stop wondering where you might be each day, what you might be doing, or what your brilliant mind might be thinking or solving. Every night I lie imagining you beside me in bed and atop of me.” His gaze darkened, a gathering of energy humming around them. “I thirst for the taste of you on my tongue, for the feel of you beneath my palms. In all my years, I have never been so bewitched. You are the brightest constellation in my sky, and I forever find myself searching for a way home, to you.”

Tanwen could not breathe.

She could not speak.

She was no longer tethered to the ground. She was only aching desire and stubborn resistance. Because even in the midst of her yearning after his confession, cursing herself for feeling the same, the sharp reminders of her responsibilities and burdens flashed before her. The truth of her and Zolya’s two worlds remained present, a cleaver to their union.

Zolya might have wished to be a different king, a ruler who allowed the coupling of two races, but it was still his father who sat upon the throne. Still his laws that threatened her existence. And still her layers of secrets she could never expose.

“Zolya,” Tanwen whispered, pleaded. “Please. You know ... this cannot happen.” The words tasted sour as they left her tongue.

“But it already has,” he declared. “ You have happened, Tanwen. To me.”

He lifted his free hand. Tanwen dared not move. His palm hovered beside her cheek.

Touch me, she wanted to beg.

Leave me, she prayed instead.

Zenca must have been listening, for fate intervened in that moment.

Approaching footsteps echoed down the hall.

Like the ripping of wax from skin, Zolya tore himself away, vanishing in a painful blink. His wings flared as he leaped between two columns, disappearing into the wide-open sky.

Tanwen was left behind, clutching both of their exposed hearts in her hands.