Page 47 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

W hen I wake for a second time, it’s to the soft click of my door closing and the scrape of the chair being dragged across the floor again.

Sam’s here this time, and he makes no attempt to hide his fury. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen his usually stoic face this angry.

I push myself upright under his glare, feeling the need to sit a little taller as he stares at me. I feel stronger now. The pain in my side has faded to a dull ache. One benefit of living on the castle grounds is access to the best medicines and tinctures.

“How are you feeling?” Sam asks. His words are clipped, sharp as daggers. But true to his nature, he checks on me before letting his anger loose.

“Better,” I say honestly, already bracing for what’s coming.

He lets out a short huff through his nose, but there’s no humour in it.

“You could’ve died.” His voice is low. Too calm, too quiet.

“But I—”

“No fucking buts, Elina!” he snaps, and I flinch.

Sam has never raised his voice at me.

I’ve made him frustrated before, sure. Playfully annoyed, often. But never this. Never angry.

I bite down on my bottom lip .

“You could’ve fucking died at the bottom of a supply cart,” he says again, softer this time. “I don’t think you quite understand the absolute devastation that would cause.”

Gods.

It’s the disappointment in his voice that undoes me. Not the anger. Not the words. Just that.

And before I can stop it, a single tear slips free.

I swipe the tear away quickly, but he catches the motion. His shoulders drop, and he exhales, the tension in him easing just a little.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I just… You can’t keep putting yourself at risk like this. You’re the future Queen of Aladria. My future queen.”

“My people are being slaughtered,” I say softly, letting the pain leak into my voice. “They’re being decimated on their doorsteps, eviscerated in the streets. I can’t just sit back when I’ve been trained to help. To kill.”

“I’m not asking you to sit back,” he says firmly. “Gods, Elina, I would never ask that. But you need to start defending your kingdom in a better way, a more effective way.”

He shifts his body closer, eyes fierce but no longer angry.

“You have to start thinking like a royal now, not just an assassin. You’ve got to plan bigger. Use your mind, your voice, your reach. Not just your body.”

I let his words settle. As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right. I do have resources at my fingertips—I’ve just been too stubborn to use them. Too used to relying on myself alone.

I nod a quiet acknowledgement. I understand where he’s coming from.

Maybe it’s time to start trusting in others.

Maybe it’s time for me to cage the Fox.

“Who else knows about this?” I ask, nodding toward my bandaged side.

“Only me and Stone,” he says, and relief washes over me.

“You’re lucky he found me before he found Carter,” Sam adds. “Otherwise, this conversation would be going very differently.”

I shudder at the thought. If Carter had found out I was this badly injured and while doing something he’s strictly forbidden, I dread to think of the wrath I would be facing. Wrath that would compete with Odio himself.

“I managed to get some salve and medicine from Louisa without her asking too many questions,” he continues. “You’ll be sore for a few days, but no lasting damage. Just one more scar to add to the collection.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I hope he hears the depth of my gratitude in those two simple words.

“You should be thanking Stone,” he replies. “If he hadn’t found you…” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

He gets up to leave, then pauses in the doorway.

“Oh, and Elina?” he says, voice low, gaze sharp. “If you even think of putting yourself in danger like that again, Carter will be the least of your worries.”

And with that final threat, he’s gone.

I let my head flop back into the pillows and groan.

* * *

I finish my shower that evening feeling steadier, stronger.

The slice along my ribs has faded to a narrow white line edged in pink.

It’s healing well, if still tender. I wrap a towel tightly around my body and step into the bedroom, steam curling behind me in soft ribbons—and crash straight into a wall of muscle.

Stone Carlisle .

I stumble back with a sharp gasp, my hand flying to my forehead, where it slammed into his collarbone.

“Shit—sorry,” he says, voice low and rough. His hands shoot out to catch me, fingers wrapping around my bare shoulders, hot and grounding against my damp skin.

My eyes lift slowly and meet his.

Gods.

His skin glows with leftover heat from his own shower, flushed a deeper bronze, water droplets trailing down the curve of his neck toward a collarbone half-shadowed by his open shirt. His hair is still wet, dark curls clinging to his forehead in loose waves.

Stormy blue eyes hold mine, unblinking before they fall. Slowly. Deliberately. Down to the bare curve of my shoulder. The towel cinched between my breasts. The length of my legs.

I’m still clutching the fabric tight against me, but it doesn’t matter. His gaze slides over every inch of visible skin like a touch I can feel.

And suddenly, I feel completely exposed. Not just from the lack of clothing, but from the look in his eyes. The weight of it. The unspoken ache I thought had cooled during our days apart.

But it’s here now, alive and roaring between us.

The air crackles, it’s charged and heavy, thick with things we haven’t said.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move.

And neither do I.

My breath falters, my chest rising sharply. His eyes follow the motion, fixed on the towel like he’s fighting the urge to reach out and tear it away.

He swallows. Once. A muscle in his jaw twitches.

I glance at his lips, I can’t help it. They part slightly, like he felt it. Like he’s waiting.

Waiting for permission .

Waiting for something to snap.

And then—

“Fuck it,” he mutters.

His lips crash into mine.

It’s not gentle. It’s heat and hunger and something volatile, like a live wire cracking down my spine. His hand slides up, twisting into the base of my bun, fisting my hair tight. Tight enough to sting.

And I fucking love it.

I rise onto the very tips of my bare toes, desperate to close every inch between us. My free hand finds the thick column of his neck, fingers curling, pulling him down further to meet the tilt of my mouth.

His tongue grazes my bottom lip, a silent request I answer without hesitation. Our mouths collide again, deeper this time, tongues tasting, devouring.

The kiss is wild. Uncontrolled. Everything I’ve ever imagined and more. Every fantasy about this man crashing into reality with punishing force.

A low growl rumbles from his chest as I drag my nails down the nape of his neck, and the sound sets my blood on fire.

But it’s not enough.

I unclench the hand that’s been gripping my towel—

And let it fall.

It drops around my feet, and I don’t even feel the cool air against my skin. I’m on fire.

Both of my arms are around him now, pulling him in, pressing every inch of me to him, needing him to feel it. Feel me .

“Gods, Elina.”

His voice is wrecked, hoarse with want, as he breaks just far enough from the kiss to look at me. Really look .

His eyes rake over my exposed body, and when his gaze drops to where my breasts press against his chest, something in him snaps .

He lets out a breath that sounds like a curse, then grabs me, hands clamping hard around my ass, and lifts me in one swift motion. My back hits the wall with a thud, and a gasp escapes me just before his mouth crashes onto mine again.

All thought disappears.

There is only this.

His body, his hands, his mouth.

The heat between us is overwhelming, blinding. Nothing else matters. Nothing else exists .

Only him .

His head dips, lips brushing the curve of my jaw, then trailing lower, hot, open-mouthed kisses and sharp little nips down my neck. He reaches my collarbone and sucks hard, drawing a gasp from deep in my throat.

He’s branding me.

And Gods, I want his brand. I want the whole damned world to see it and know .

That I’m his.

That he’s mine.

His hips roll forward, and the thick line of his cock, still trapped behind fabric, rubs between my legs. The friction is maddening, absolutely delicious, and I grind against it, head thrown back as pleasure arcs through me like lightning.

One of his hands shifts, gliding up from my ass, fingers skimming along my waist, my ribs, and heading toward the heavy ache in my breast.

But then—he hesitates.

His fingertips graze the edge of my healing wound. The tender skin still raw beneath the surface.

He goes still.

“Red,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice suddenly thick with something that’s not lust. “You’re still hurt.” His voice is low, strained.

Concerned.

His hand shifts at my side, thumb brushing just beneath the edge of my scar. Then his forehead rests against mine, his chest rising and falling hard against my own like he’s forcing himself to breathe through the flames.

My lips part, protest catching in my throat. But then his eyes meet mine, they’re stormy, intense, brimming with heat, yes, but also something softer. Protective.

Even though I can see his intentions written across his face, I can’t help but feel hurt for a second, and not from the wound in my side.

“I want this,” he says quickly, like he can see the sting of rejection in my expression. “Gods, I want you. But not while you’re still healing.”

His hands don’t leave me. One still cups the back of my thigh, holding me pinned against the wall, the other splayed across my ribs, hovering.

He hasn’t pulled away. Not really.

The wildfire between us banks to embers, but it’s still burning.

“I’m fine, Sam gave…” I begin, voice low, desperate not to break this moment, this heat, this version of us .