Chapter 16
The attendant shows us to an upper floor, their voice smooth but impersonal as they explain our quarters. Zillah and Selene are to share a chamber just across the hall. Lowan and I are given separate doors, side by side.
“Bathing chambers are prepared,” the attendant says, bowing neatly. Attire has been set out. You will be summoned when the King returns, likely within a few hours.
Then, with a graceful sweep, they are gone. The four of us glance at one another. Selene’s lips pinch tight, and Zillah’s brows draw together—neither of them looks thrilled. But after a beat, we each retreat into our rooms.
Lowan pauses at his threshold. His voice is low, meant for me alone.
“I’m just next door. If you need me.”
I manage a nod, pretending his words don’t settle warmly inside my chest. “Right.”
My chamber is exquisite. Too exquisite. A plush white rug spreads softly underfoot, fur-like and thick.
A great bed dominates the center, draped in linens the color of cream.
Pale curtains frame expansive windows that overlook the front courtyard; below, the stones are the very ones we crossed earlier. We can’t be more than a floor above.
The space is warm, with a fire snapping in the grate. Welcoming. So unlike the Queen’s chamber downstairs, I feel briefly disoriented.
On the bed lies a gown. Emerald silk, light as breath, sheer enough to ripple but not indecent like what the Queen and her ladies wore. Relief rushes through me—I’d prefer not to bare myself like that to strangers.
My gaze drifts, and there it is: the door. Plain. Innocent. But a faint sound on the other side betrays it. An adjoining room. Lowan’s.
My stomach flips. I back away and distract myself with the small platter on the table. Fruit and cheeses, little bites of luxury. A sparkling drink that reminds me of champagne—though the moment it touches my tongue, I realize it carries far more weight. Warmth spreads quickly through my chest.
I draw a long breath. I need a bath. I need to be ready.
The bathing chamber is fit for royalty. A pool set into the stone floor, vast enough for four. Steam curls as I pour in hot water, and when I sink in, the tension of travel slips from my bones. I scrub days of dirt away, sinking deeper, deeper.
The hot springs already feel like a dream. My head fogs—drink, heat, exhaustion. A knock jolts me upright. My heart lurches. How long have I been in here? Is it time already?
I scramble out, water trailing down my skin, yanking a robe over damp shoulders. My curls cling wet to my neck as I hurry through.
The knock again—deeper, closer. Not at the hall door. At the other one. The adjoining door.
I hesitate only a second before pulling it open. And there he is. Lowan. Freshly bathed, hair damp, boots already on. His dark trousers fit as if they were made for him, and his white tunic hangs open at the throat, sleeves rolled casually to the elbow.
He looks as though he were seconds away from kicking down the door, his silver eyes lit with emotion he can’t contain. Lowan doesn’t speak. He inclines his head only once, and I step aside to let him in.
He crosses the room with long, measured strides, heading straight for the windows. He stands there for a moment, silent, his broad shoulders rising and falling as though weighed down by something heavy.
I wait. The fire pops behind me. The room is still. At last, he exhales sharply and moves to the chair near the windows. He sinks, forearms braced on his knees, gaze fixed to the floor.
“I don’t know what will happen after this reception,” he says quietly. “The Queen was nothing as I expected, and I assume the King will not need my presence any longer. I’ll be sent home.”
Home. The word lands like a stone in my chest. His jaw works.
“I don’t want to leave so much unsaid between us.
I need you to know that I’m sorry. I never meant to betray you.
I’ve never intended to betray anyone with my secret.
If we had more time…” His voice catches.
“If we had more time, I think I could explain it all. I think you would understand me. And the choices I’ve made. If anyone could, it would be you.”
My throat tightens—more time. The thought slices through me. There may not be more time. I might never see him again after this night.
“I forgive you, Lowan.” My voice is steady, though my heart beats hard. “I might not know all your reasons, but I know you. And I trust you did what you thought would protect everyone around you, including me.”
His head lifts. His eyes meet mine, and I see it—the raw, unguarded relief. Like he’s been holding his breath for days, maybe years, waiting for those words.
The champagne-sharp warmth still hums in my blood, but my mind is clear. My body knows exactly what it wants.
I take a single step closer. Then another. Slowly, deliberately, I loosen my grip on the robe at my waist. The fabric whispers as it slips from my shoulders and pools at my feet.
Lowan’s gaze follows the motion, tracking downward. His eyes sweep my body from toes to crown, unhurried, devouring. Hunger glints there, sharp and dangerous. Predatory.
When his eyes lock on mine again, I feel branded—claimed—not by touch, but by a look that sears hotter than flame.
His eyes darken. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches me, like I’m something dangerous.
Reckless. The word thunders in my head. Reckless and raw and unstoppable. I don’t look away. I can’t. Neither does he. He swallows hard. His voice, when it comes, is a whisper, like it costs him to let it out.
“What are you doing?”
My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my throat. I whisper back, “I have no idea.”
He stands slowly. One step toward me, not even enough to close the distance, but my breath catches. I’ve misread everything, I think wildly. He’s going to cover me, turn away, leave me in shreds—
But his eyes roam over me again, slow and deliberate, searing every inch of skin. And then he looks back at me. Something sharp breaks in his expression, and the corner of his mouth tilts into a dangerous curve.
“Well then,” he murmurs, “by all means. Please keep doing it.” Before I can breathe, before I can think, his mouth is on mine.
It’s wild. Desperate. All the longing I’ve swallowed for days—weeks—poured into this one kiss.
His hands are in my hair, strong fingers threading through the damp strands, tugging, holding me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
I clutch at his neck, pulling him closer, my bare skin flush against the hard lines of his body. Heat sparks everywhere we touch.
He growls into my mouth without breaking the kiss. A deep, feral sound that sends a shiver right through me. His tongue claims me with every sweep, every stroke, and I can’t breathe, can’t think—only feel. There’s a Thread between us wound so tight it thrums with need.
He backs us toward the chair, never letting go, never giving me space to doubt.
My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
And then—he breaks the kiss, turning me gently, sliding his hands down my sides, over my waist, caressing like he’s memorizing me.
His sun-bronzed skin is striking against my golden-brown complexion.
The sight of it—the feel of it—makes my breath catch, like we’re two halves of something that was always meant to fit together.
He sits and guides me down onto his lap. I feel him. Gods, I feel him—all the hard inches of his arousal pressed tight against me through his pants, against my bare skin. I gasp. My whole body lights up.
“I want—” I start, voice ragged. But he cuts me off.
“Shhh. I know exactly what you want. Because I want it too, but let me touch you first. It’s all I’ve thought about since the moment I saw you. Then Feyrnacht. Since it was snatched from us after the caves.”
My head falls against his shoulder, helpless, as his hands come around to seize my breasts. My back arches into his palms. I clutch at the armrests, desperate, greedy for sensation.
His lips trail hot against my neck. “Fuck,” he growls, voice breaking. “Your scent. It drives me fucking insane.”
His hands slide lower, down my stomach, pushing my thighs apart. I don’t resist. I can’t. Instead, I hook my legs over the armrests, offering myself wide open. My arms lift over my head, fingers tangling in his dark hair, marveling at the softness.
He drags his hands along the insides of my thighs, light, teasing strokes that leave fire in their wake. I’m going to combust. I need him—here, now, more. My body betrays me, grinding into him, seeking friction.
He groans in approval; the sound vibrating against my skin. His lips brush my ear. “I will stay here all night and worship every inch of you if you want it.”
A whimper escapes me. Gods help me.
“I need to hear it, Metra. Say you want this. Say you want me to finally feel you.”
“I do,” I gasp.
“You do what?” His tone sharpens, teasing. He’s enjoying this—dragging me higher, pulling me apart.
I want to scream. “I want you to touch me. Touch me, Lowan. Fucking touch me.”
A wicked sound rumbles from his chest. “My, what a filthy mouth you have…”
And then his fingers find me. I cry out—sharp, helpless. I’m drenched, aching, and his lithe fingers stroke me perfectly, like he already knows every inch of me.
“Mmmm,” he groans. “You are so wet for me.”
Then, he slides one finger inside, and my breath catches hard.
“Gods damn it,” he rasps. “You feel so fucking good. Just like I knew you would.”
Another finger joins, stretching me, filling me. His pace is steady, sure, devastating. I move with him, riding his hand, gasping, moaning, undone. The air chills my damp skin, my nipples stiff and aching, but his touch is fire everywhere.
My grip tightens in his hair—he’s my anchor as I lose myself. I’m slipping, falling, breaking open. His fingers never falter, and then his thumb brushes me in slow, sinful circles.
“I want to watch you come undone,” he murmurs against my throat. “Just like this. Then I’ll do it again with my tongue. And then, if you’ll let me, I’ll fuck you so thoroughly, you’ll forget every name but mine.”
My back bows, my whole body trembling. I can’t hold back. His name tears from my lips as I shatter around him—pulsing, drowning in pleasure. It goes on and on, wave after wave, until I collapse against him, gasping, spent.
He kisses me again—deep, slow, claiming. I cling to him, drunk on bliss. And then—a knock next door. Sharp. A voice in the hall: “The King summons Lowan Veynar for an audience.”
Lowan curses, pulling his fingers from me, cupping my face with his other hand, forcing me to meet his eyes—those silver eyes, wild and ravenous.
“I will be back to finish this,” he vows.
And in the next breath, he’s gone.