Page 41 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

Trust Dagan to spread his poison before we even have a chance to speak. All we want is to propose a simple alliance: fruit-farming revenue in exchange for a handful of soldiers. But no, the council let that bastard get here first, and now we’re the afterthought.

We’ve walked straight into the wake of Dagan’s mess—if the king’s icy demeanour is anything to go by.

“Your Majesty,” Davin says, stepping forward with a bow at the waist. “It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and we sincerely apologise. We’re simply here to—”

King Halven lifts a hand, silencing him without a word, his eyes halting Davin where he stands.

“I will not be discussing any matter of business until the ball tomorrow evening,” he says, his voice smooth as glass.

“And what of our companion?” I ask, unable to help myself from stepping forward despite the weight of every gaze shifting my way. I need to know if Junie is okay.

His eyes scan me slowly, from the wet soles of my boots, soaked through by melting snow, to my tangled hair, a mess from the hood I’ve been wearing all day. This is not how the council said it would go. Not the introduction I’d practised and perfected.

“She will remain where she is until the festivities have ended.” Halven slides his hands into his trouser pockets, his cloak flicking back with the motion to purposefully reveal a pair of daggers strapped to his hips.

Sam edges closer to me at the king’s silent threat. Stone and Gio step forward in unison, the shift of their weight enough to draw a mirrored reaction from the Imperial soldiers, their boots cracking sharply across marble.

Halven raises a hand again, a lazy wave, and the soldiers still.

“You will be escorted to your rooms,” he says, voice now colder. “You are not permitted to leave until you are collected for the ball. You will bathe, you will eat, and I will provide attire. And only then, if I am pleased, will you be granted an audience.”

He stares from me to Sam, to Stone, and finally to Gio before a small smile curves his lips. And then, without waiting for a response, he turns and walks away, his silver cloak trailing behind him like frost in his wake.

“Well, that went well,” Deacon mutters.

“Can you not be sarcastic for one moment of your life?” Sam snaps under his breath, rubbing his eyebrows between his forefinger and thumb, the skin creasing in between.

“Sure I can. I’m not sarcastic when I’m sleeping.” Deacon throws him a wink.

No one replies after that. We simply follow the soldiers deeper into the castle, our footsteps muffled by thick, pale blue carpets that stretch the length of the grand hall like rivers of ice.

I can feel Stone at my back, closer than before, like he’s guarding me.

Above us, chandeliers of crystal and glass drip from the ceilings like frozen waterfalls. Paintings in silver-gilded frames line the walls— ancient, austere faces watching us pass. Frost blooms in delicate patterns outside the tall windows.

One by one, we’re separated and led to individual suites, each guarded by two silent soldiers. Mine lies at the end of a corridor veined with silver. The heavy door swings open without a sound.

And when I step inside, the room takes my breath.

Soft light filters through sheer white drapes that hang in sweeping layers from tall windows, pooling on the marble floor like mist. A fire crackles in a hearth of carved stone, its flames casting flickering shadows across a high, domed ceiling.

The bed is massive, canopied, dressed in thick fur throws and satin sheets in cool shades of silver and blue.

A glass vanity glitters in the corner, lined with crystal vials. I pick one up and bring it to my nose—snowdrops and wintermint, sharp and cold. Several outfits hang beside the wardrobe, already chosen.

Looks like the king’s been planning our stay whilst watching our approach.

By the fire, a tray of hot tea waits beside sugared fruit, cheeses, and delicate pastries. I gather the cup, sink onto the edge of the bed, and wrap my hands around the warmth. It’s only when I raise it to my lips that I hear it. A soft knock.

Not from the door I came through.

I glance around and notice a second door. Setting the cup down, I rise and cross the room, easing it open.

And there he is.

Eyes the colour of the ocean I ache for. Dark hair, now soft and unruly, grown out of its usual shorn style. A jawline I want to trace with my tongue.

Stone stands in the middle of my bathroom.

“How in the Gods did you get in there?” I ask, peering behind him.

Another door. Open. A room that mirrors mine beyond it .

“It’s a conjoined bathroom,” he says with a smirk. “Looks like you’re lucky enough to be sharing with me, Red.”

Gods help me and my libido.

“Fantastic,” I mutter. “I’ll remember to keep my door locked at all times.” I spin on my heel, ready to slam the door shut behind me, when Stone slips through with maddening ease.

“Well, we both know that’s not really what you want.”

He strolls across the room like he owns it, tosses off his boots, and launches himself onto my bed. He lands against the mound of pillows, perfectly at ease, his cloak gone and black shirt half-unbuttoned, tucked neatly into his combat trousers.

“Now,” he says, stretching, “is this how you picture me when you go to sleep every night? Or am I wearing too many clothes?”

“I don’t picture you anywhere, Stone,” I reply dryly.

He ignores me, grinning like the bastard he is. “What was that? Too many clothes? Yeah, I thought so.”

He begins to unbutton his shirt further, revealing the top of his cut abs.

Holy shit.

“Don’t worry, Red. I can rectify that real quick.”

Despite the way my pulse thunders and heat coils in my gut at the sight of him undressing in the middle of my bed, I force indifference. I walk straight past him and open the bathroom door again.

“Get out.”

He laughs, a warm, deep sound that makes my chest ache.

Gods, that laugh.

“Okay, okay,” he says, finally rising from the bed. “I need a shower anyway.” He pauses in the doorway and throws me a coy smile. “Feel free to join me.”

Then he closes the door behind him, and it’s only when I trip on my way to return to bed that I notice he left his boots behind .

A groan from the old pipes starts up soon after, and my stomach twists with something far more dangerous than hunger.

Need coils hot and sharp, furious in its insistence.

I can’t help picturing him beneath the spray.

Water and soap sliding over every inch of him, over every place I want my fingertips to roam.

I clench my thighs together, hoping to quell the ache blooming between them, but it’s useless. The friction doesn’t come close. Not when the thing I’m craving—the pressure, the rhythm, the weight—is shaped exactly like Stone Carlisle.

His shower seems to take forever. By the time the tap squeaks off, I’m too hot, too wound up, strung tight with want. I tell myself a shower will help. A cold one. Something to snap me out of this madness.

Because I will not be another girl. Another notch. Another name he forgets in the morning.

Not when I already feel too much. Not when it would wreck me to have those feelings returned for only a night, or worse, not returned at all.

I wait five more minutes to be sure the coast is clear. Then I creep to the bathroom door, knock lightly, and press my ear to it. Nothing. The wood’s too thick, and sound vanishes inside it.

Screw it. I need that shower. Now.

I open the door, slip inside, close it behind me, then turn.

And freeze.

Stone stands with his back to me, towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water still clinging to the hard lines of his body. His scars catch the light, silver and glinting against his skin.

His hair is damp, darkened to near-black, curling slightly at the ends.

He runs a hand through it absently as he turns, revealing every carved plane of his torso—the defined cut of his abs, the powerful breadth of his chest, the glistening trail of water sliding slowly down his ribcage, dipping toward the towel’s edge.

I freeze, lips parting around a breath I don’t take. My gaze drops to the tattoo curling up his side, inked black against the golden tan of his skin, the towel riding below that incredible arrow-shaped muscle that points down to an area I desperately want to discover.

He jolts when he catches me staring, but then raises one corner of his delectable mouth.

“Enjoying the view, Red?”

I swallow. Hard.

I should leave. I should say something cutting or clever, or pretend this doesn’t affect me.

But my body is too busy betraying me—heat flaring in my cheeks, my chest, curling low in my stomach. He takes a step closer, water still trickling down his neck, and I have the maddening thought that I want to lick it off him.

“I knocked,” I manage, my voice too soft. Too breathy.

“Must’ve missed it.” His grin deepens, slow and wicked. “But don’t let me stop you. Stay as long as you like.”

And for the first time in my life—

I run.

I slam the door shut behind me, press my spine to the wood, and pant like I’ve sprinted a mile.

My shower will have to wait.