Two simple words—yet they carried a command that could not be refused.

  Caelith felt as though her feet had taken root in the ground.

  “Must I say it again?” Rhaegar’s tone remained unchanged, but the light in his eyes cooled significantly.

  Caelith’s fingertips dug into her palm. The sting of pain finally forced her to move.

  Step by step—slowly, almost painfully slowly—she walked forward until she stood three steps before him. At that distance, she could see every detail: the dark sweep of his lashes, and within his eyes the pale reflection of herself, fragile and unmistakably uneasy.

  Rhaegar seemed somewhat satisfied.

  He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows upon his knees. The posture removed some of the lofty dominance of the seat of honor, yet lent him an even sharper, more focused intensity.

  “Are you afraid of me?” he asked.

  “…I am not.”

  The answer came almost stubbornly.

  “Lies.” Rhaegar gave a soft laugh that held no warmth. “Your whole body is trembling.”

  Caelith bit her lower lip. It was true—her fingers trembled, and so did her knees.

  “Why are you afraid?” he continued, almost thoughtfully now. His gaze locked onto hers, searching her expression as though unwilling to miss the slightest flicker of emotion. “Are you afraid I will treat you as I did that night? Or are you afraid… your husband will learn the truth?”

  “Lord Thorne!”

  At last, Caelith could bear no more. Her voice rose, trembling with suppressed anger and humiliation.

  “What do you want from me?” she demanded. “That night— that night was a mistake! We had both drunk too much! Can you not simply pretend nothing ever happened? You are Dorian’s sworn brother! By doing this, do you not betray him?”

  The words burst from her all at once. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her eyes reddening.

  For days, she had carried fear, grievance, and anger within her heart. Now they poured out at last—even though the man before her was far more dangerous than the silence she had endured.

  Rhaegar watched her outburst without interruption.

  His face remained unreadable.

  Only when she finished did he speak again. “A mistake? Again?”

  He rose slowly from his seat.

  In an instant, his tall frame overshadowed her entirely.

  Step by step, he advanced. Instinctively, Caelith retreated—until the back of her heel struck the small table behind her.

  There was nowhere left to retreat.

  Rhaegar halted before her.

  He raised a hand, and the tips of his fingers brushed lightly against her cheek—cool to the touch, yet carrying a dangerous weight.

  “Caelith Emberlyn,” he said, speaking her name slowly, each syllable pressed from between his teeth, “who told you it was a mistake?”

  He bent closer, until their faces were scarcely a breath apart, the tips of their noses nearly touching.

  “Did I drag you away from your bridal chamber?” he asked quietly. “Did I force you?”

  His voice dropped lower still, edged with a cold anger.

  “Look at me. Answer.”

  Caelith faltered beneath the darkness stirring in his eyes. Her lips parted, yet no words emerged.

  That night… it had been she who nodded first. She who had been shattered by Dorian’s cruel words. She who had been drawn in by Rhaegar’s temptation.

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  She who had not truly resisted.

  “Nothing to say?” Rhaegar let out a soft, scornful laugh. His fingers slid downward, gripping her chin firmly. “Because you know it’s not true. That night, you wanted it as much as I did.”

  “That is not the same!” Caelith cried, wrenching free from his grasp. Tears spilled down her cheeks at last.

  “I had lost my senses in anger! It was a moment of madness!” Her voice trembled. “You could have pushed me away. You could have—”

  “I could have done what?”

  Rhaegar cut her off coldly. His gaze turned razor-sharp.

  “I should have watched you continue living as a substitute in that ridiculous marriage?” he said mercilessly. “Watched Dorian Valehart warm your cousin’s bed while enjoying your devotion?”

  “Watched you weep until there were no tears left—until every last bit of your worth was drained from you and you were cast aside like a rag?”

  His words struck like a poisoned whip, lashing the rawest wound in Caelith’s heart.

  All color drained from her face.

  She swayed where she stood.

  “Caelith,” he said at last, his voice lowering, taking on a strange gentleness—one almost cruel in its softness. “Stop deceiving yourself.

  That night was not a mistake.”

  “It was salvation.”

  “I was the one who pulled you out of that mire.”

  His hand rose again. His thumb wiped roughly across her cheek, brushing away the tears that had fallen. The gesture was almost harsh—yet beneath it lingered an unmistakable sense of possession.

  “Dorian Valehart does not deserve you,” he said quietly. “You deserve better.”

  Through her blurred, tear-filled gaze, Caelith stared directly at him.

  His face remained strikingly handsome, sharp as carved steel. Yet in his eyes churned emotions she could scarcely comprehend—fierce resolve, anger, and something deeper still… an intensity so profound it made her heart tremble.

  “You…” Her voice broke softly. “Who are you really? Why are you doing this?”

  Was it truly only revenge against Dorian?

  Or humiliation?

  Or… could it truly be, as he claimed—for her sake?

  Rhaegar did not answer.

  He only looked at her—long and steadily.

  Then, without warning, he lowered his head and kissed her trembling lips, still damp with tears.

  This kiss was unlike the ones before.

  It held none of the violence or ruthless conquest of the earlier moments. Instead, it was gentle, slow—almost tentative, as though testing fragile ground.

  His lips brushed softly against hers. The tip of his tongue traced away the faint taste of tears upon her mouth before he deepened the kiss with quiet care.

  Caelith froze completely.

  All the anger she had carried, the grievance and wounded questions that had burned within her heart, suddenly lost their footing beneath this utterly different kiss. They crumbled like sand beneath the tide. In their place rose a strange, disorienting tremor—one that spread from the warmth of his lips and rippled through her entire being, shattering the defenses she had clung to.

  She forgot to resist.

  Forgot where she was.

  Forgot everything.

  All she could do was remain there, helplessly receiving this kiss—so gentle, so unlike the man she knew as Rhaegar Thorne. Her body softened against her will, and her hand instinctively tightened upon the front of his tunic, clutching the fabric at his chest.

  Sensing her yielding, Rhaegar deepened the kiss.

  It grew slower, more lingering, yet more consuming. One arm tightened around her waist, drawing her firmly against him, while his other hand slipped into the dark strands at the back of her head, steadying her so that he could claim her mouth more fully.

  Their breaths mingled.

  Their lips and tongues entwined.

  The cool fragrance of pine incense blended with the distinct scent that belonged only to him, enveloping her completely. For a moment, the world seemed to fall away, leaving nothing but the rhythm of their shared breath and the thunder of their hearts.

  Only when Caelith was nearly breathless did Rhaegar finally withdraw.

  Their lips parted slowly, flushed and swollen, a fragile silver thread lingering between them before breaking.

  He studied her—her tear-bright eyes clouded with confusion, her cheeks flushed with color. His thumb brushed lightly across the damp corner of her lips.

  “Remember this feeling,” he said, his voice roughened, low with lingering heat. “This is how it should be between a man and a woman.”

  “Not the hollow courtesy Dorian offers you… nor the quiet devotion with which you place yourself beneath him.”

  He leaned forward slightly until his forehead rested against hers, his breath warm against her face.

  “Stay with me, Caelith.”

  This time it was not a command.

  It was a declaration of affection—low, persuasive, edged with temptation.

  “I can give you everything. Dignity. Joy.” His voice dropped further. “And one thing Dorian Valehart will never give you—a man’s love… and his desire.”

  Caelith’s heart hammered wildly in her chest, as though it might burst free.

  His words were like poppy blossoms—beautiful, intoxicating, and terrifyingly deadly.

  Stay by his side? As his hidden mistress? Or… something else?

  “I…” Her lips parted. Her mind screamed of danger, yet her body still lingered in the soft haze left by his kiss, weak and unsteady.

  Rhaegar did not allow her time to refuse.

  He straightened slowly, his composure returning like armor settling over him. Only deep within his eyes did a faint trace of lingering heat remain like a raging fire.