12. Chapter Twelve #3
With a final, shuddering breath, I let my eyes drift closed. Sleep came slowly, pulling me under like a reluctant tide, leaving me exposed on the surface of my own restless thoughts. For now, I could only surrender to the void.
A light tap pulled me from the familiar depths of my usual dream—the one where Mama dies.
My eyes flew open, and I lay still, my breath caught somewhere between the dream and waking.
I sat up slowly, the ache in my shoulder reminding me of everything that had happened.
The absence of any light filtering through my sole window told me it must be late at night.
The air felt different, heavier somehow.
Tap. Tap.
I blinked toward the door, heart still hammering from whatever half-formed nightmare had dragged me awake.
Another tap. Lighter this time, but insistent.
I slid from the bed, the night air licking over bare thighs as my nightgown swayed against them. My hand hovered over the handle, chest tight with hesitation. I already knew who it was.
I cracked the door.
Drake.
He filled the doorway—barefoot, tousled, and only half-dressed. His shirt clung to him like it had been pulled on in a hurry, the collar askew, sleeves pushed up. His trousers hung low, sitting loose against the sharp cut of his hips. A lock of damp hair clung to his temple.
“Hey,” he said, voice low. “I couldn’t sleep.” Neither could I. My mouth had gone dry.
“Um, come in.”
He stepped past me, all heat and smoke and leather, the door shutting behind him with a soft click that felt far too loud. My skin flushed beneath the thin silk of my gown. It clung in the wrong places. Or maybe the right ones.
We stood there, the quiet stretching, the space between us narrowing by the second. His gaze dragged over me—lower than it should have, slower than it should have—and when his eyes met mine again, they were darker.
“You look…” His voice caught. “Warm.”
I tilted my head. “Thank you?”
He didn’t smile. Not fully. His eyes were too busy devouring me.
I didn’t sit. Neither did he.
Our breath mingled in the short distance between us. My fingers twisted at my side, and his gaze flicked down again—trailing from my hands to the soft peaks of my breasts under the fabric, and then lower still. Heat flared in my core.
Then he stepped forward. I didn’t move. Another step. I held my breath. His hand came up—slow, deliberate—as though I were something fragile. He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear with the backs of his fingers.
“I wanted to see you,” he said.
“Here I am.” I giggled awkwardly.
“I didn’t mean your face.”
My throat tightened. The room was suddenly too warm, my skin too aware.
He moved closer, his hand finding the small of my back. His other hand hovered near my hip, not touching—yet. My breasts brushed his chest with every breath. His heat soaked into me.
“You’re making it really difficult to remain professional,” he murmured, his tone low and strained.
“You should go,” I whispered, though it lacked all conviction.
“I know.” His hand slid lower, over the curve of my ass, slow and sure. His grip was firm—possessive, like he had every right. “I’m not going to.”
I swayed into him, hands finding the hard lines of his shoulders. He was trembling faintly. Or maybe I was.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
He groaned, pressing his forehead to mine, breath ragged. His lips ghosted mine—once. Twice. Not kissing. Tasting.
Then, finally, finally ?—
His mouth found mine.
It was soft at first. Testing. A single breath’s worth of restraint before it deepened, open-mouthed and hungry.
His hands mapped the sides of my thighs, fingers pressing into soft skin, dragging the hem of my gown higher.
My breasts ached against his chest. His tongue teased the edge of my lips—seeking more. I gave it.
I melted into him. Into heat and hardness and fire. Into the sound he made when I bit gently at his bottom lip. Into the shudder that wracked him when I pulled him closer, hips tilting toward his.
And then?—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Eldrake froze, every muscle in his body going rigid. “Fuck,” he hissed, eyes wide, voice low and ragged.
He pulled back—just enough that the loss of his warmth made me shiver—and immediately started fussing, adjusting himself with one hand while running the other through his hair in a futile attempt at composure.
Then, without a word, he strode to the window and planted himself beside it like a man deeply invested in the mysteries of the moon.
Unfortunately, the tension in his shoulders and the unmistakable bulge in his trousers told a very different story.
Knock knock.
I scrambled, yanking the hem of my nightgown down with shaking hands, trying to smooth out both the fabric and the storm still rioting beneath my skin.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK. Sharper this time.
“What?!” Eldrake snapped, still facing the window, his voice a barely restrained growl as he tried—and failed—to tame the situation in his pants.
“It’s Felix,” came the muffled reply through the door.
Eldrake unleashed a string of curses involving “timing,” “that Godsdamned gnome,” and something about “needing five more minutes.”
I sat frozen on the edge of the bed, heart still hammering like a war drum, heat still coiled low and furious in my belly. I cleared my throat and called, “Come in,” forcing my voice into something resembling casual indifference.
The door creaked open.
Felix stepped inside—sharp-eyed and all business—until his gaze swept the room and hit the invisible wall of tension still humming like a struck chord. His eyes ping-ponged between me—flushed, sitting straight as a board—and Eldrake, still posed like a moody statue looking out the window.
“Well,” Felix said finally, golden brows arching. “Unless logistics now involves flushed cheeks and rumpled hair, I’d say someone owes me a better excuse.”
“Y-yes… like I said we were discussing… logistics,” Eldrake replied, tone clipped and entirely too formal for a man who had just had his hand on my ass. Still, he didn’t turn around.
Felix folded his arms, lips twitching. “Felix’s mouth twitched.
“Mm. Yes. The same logistics you mentioned ten minutes ago, no doubt. Fascinating topic. Thrilling. That must explain why you look like you’ve been mauled by a particularly enthusiastic barmaid.
” His gaze slid deliberately to Eldrake’s mussed hair, then down—pausing just long enough to make heat bloom all over my face.
“The stable boy’s gone,” Felix added, as though it were perfectly normal to be delivering this news while standing in a storm of lust. “If we’re going to leave without bloodshed, it’s now or never. ”
Eldrake let out a grunt—noncommittal and vaguely threatening.
Felix tilted his head, golden eyes glinting. “Everything… alright, darling?” he asked, but it wasn’t clear if he meant me or Eldrake. Probably both.
Finally, Eldrake turned to face him. Chin high. Hands on hips. The kind of stance that screamed I am innocent while his shirt clung in places it had no business clinging.
Felix blinked. Tilted his head. Sniffed the air, just once. His mouth twitched like he was holding back laughter.
“Tell me, Captain,” he drawled. “Are you wearing cologne? Or is that just the scent of shame?”
Eldrake’s nostrils flared. “No.”
“Mm.” Felix’s eyes narrowed, but the smile he fought back was wicked.
My face went up in flames.
“We ride in one hour,” he said smoothly, then added under his breath as he backed toward the door: “Try to keep your trousers on until then.” The door clicked shut.
I exhaled. Eldrake didn’t move.
“Logistics?” I muttered.
He sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I panicked.”
He lingered, still standing like a war general at the threshold—hands on hips, jaw tight, the room thick with the ghost of everything that hadn’t happened but very nearly had .
His gaze found mine, and something unspoken passed between us.
Something that sizzled. Then, without a word, he crossed the room.
I straightened, pulse skittering. I didn’t know what to expect—an order, maybe. A dramatic monologue. Possibly an apology and a running leap out the window. Instead, he reached up, fingers brushing a curl from my cheek. And then he kissed me.
Not like before. Not that desperate, molten thing that had nearly destroyed both of us. No, this kiss was soft. Gentle. Suspiciously wholesome.
It lasted only a moment—barely long enough for my brain to catch up—but it lingered. Warm. Careful. Sweet. Too sweet.
By the time I fully processed it, he was already pulling away. “Pack your bags,” he said, voice low and unreadable.
And then he turned and left. Just like that. Door closed. Gone. I sat there for a moment, blinking, lips parted slightly. Still holding my breath like he might come back and finish the damn job.
What was that?
Too tender to mean nothing. Too brief to be a promise. Just… baffling. Emotionally destabilizing. Possibly illegal in some kingdoms.
Eventually, I flopped backward onto the bed with a groan, palms smashing over my face. His heat still clung to my skin. My lips still tingled. My thighs were having an existential crisis.
“I’m going to die a virgin.”