Chapter 9 Keira
KEIRA
Daryn is already waiting when I bring Amisra in the garden, and she immediately climbs onto the stone bench next to him beneath the flowering vines.
Amisra chatters about a thalivern she saw earlier while Daryn listens with that soft expression fathers get when they're trying to memorize every detail of their child.
"Look, Keira!" Amisra bounces, remembering I'm here. I should have walked away, but I haven't. "Papa says we can have honey cakes for tea!"
"Does he now?" I ruffle her silver hair, watching Daryn's fond smile. "That's very generous of him."
"I'm feeling indulgent today." He shifts Amisra more comfortably against his side, but I catch the wince he tries to hide. "Besides, someone told me life's too short not to eat dessert first."
"Someone wise, clearly." I have to fight a grin as I watch them.
"Uncle Val says that!" Amisra announces. "He says rules are for people without imagination."
"Does he?" I can't help smiling at that. Can perfectly imagine Valas declaring such things with complete sincerity while doing something utterly improper. "And where is Uncle Val? I thought he'd be out here with you."
"Haven't seen him in hours." Daryn strokes Amisra's hair absently. "He locked himself in his room this morning with fresh parchment and that look he gets when he thinks he's close to something. Stubborn fool probably hasn't eaten since breakfast."
The worry that flickers through me feels automatic now, natural. Like caring about Valas has become woven into my daily routine without me noticing the exact moment it happened.
"Should someone check on him?" I try to sound casual.
"Would you?" Daryn's smile is too knowing. "I'd go myself, but I'm rather occupied at the moment." He gestures at Amisra, who's now examining an insect crawling across the bench.
"I can go." The words come out faster than intended. "I was thinking of making tea anyway."
"How thoughtful." His eyes gleam with amusement. "Do take your time. Make sure he actually eats something. Maybe sits somewhere other than hunched over a desk."
"Papa, it has spots!" Amisra interrupts before I can respond, which is probably for the best since I have no idea what to say to Daryn's transparent matchmaking.
I escape to the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it to boil while pulling together a small tray—tea, bread, cheese, those candied nuts Valas likes though he pretends not to. The kind of food someone can eat quickly without thinking about it.
The fact that I know what Valas likes should probably concern me. So should how my pulse quickens at the thought of seeing him, of being alone with him in his room.
But I'm done pretending I don't want this. Whatever this is.
The guest room he's claimed sits at the end of the eastern corridor, door firmly closed. I balance the tray on one hip, knocking lightly. I try not to be nervous or feel ridiculous despite the fact that I'm wearing a dress today.
That I got dressed thinking of him.
But there's no answer.
"Valas?" I try again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
Worry spikes sharp and sudden. I push the door open carefully, stepping into dim space—curtains drawn, single lamp burning low on the desk in the sitting room of his suite.
And there he is.
Slumped over scattered parchment, head pillowed on his forearms, obsidian hair spilling across detailed diagrams and notes written in his precise hand. Asleep. Or passed out from exhaustion—hard to tell which.
My heart does something complicated in my chest. Something tender and aching.
He looks younger like this. Vulnerable. The sharp intelligence and careful control he usually wears like armor stripped away, leaving just a man pushed too far, trying too hard, refusing to admit defeat.
I set the tray down quietly, moving closer.
Parchment covers every surface—theories about magical decay, experimental remedy formulas, desperate attempts to find what every other healer has missed.
Some pages are neat, methodical. Others show frustrated scrawls, words crossed out, margins filled with increasingly illegible notes.
He's been at this for hours. Days. Weeks.
Trying to save someone who can't be saved.
"Valas." I touch his shoulder gently, feeling solid muscle beneath soft fabric. "Wake up."
He stirs, making a sound that's half-groan, half-protest. Doesn't lift his head.
"Come on." I squeeze his shoulder. "You can't sleep like this. Your neck will hate you tomorrow."
"S'fine." The words slur together, muffled against his arms. "Just... few more minutes."
"It's evening. You've been in here since morning." I keep my voice soft but firm. "Daryn sent me to make sure you haven't died at your desk."
That gets through. He lifts his head slowly, wincing immediately as stiff muscles protest the movement. His moon-violet eyes are hazy with sleep, confusion flickering across his face like he's not quite sure where he is.
Then he focuses on me and something warm slides through his expression.
"Keira." My name comes out rough, sleep-graveled. "What're you doing here?"
"Apparently preventing you from permanent spine damage." I gesture at his hunched position. "How long have you been asleep?"
"I wasn't sleeping. Just resting my eyes." He tries to sit up straighter, wincing again as his neck protests. "Fuck."
"Elegant." I can't quite hide my smile. "Very scholarly."
"My scholarly demeanor is taking a brief holiday." He rubs at his neck with one hand, grimacing. "Along with my ability to hold my head upright, apparently."
"Let me help." The offer escapes before I can think it through.
He stills, hand falling away from his neck. "Help how?"
"You're in pain. I can..." I trail off, suddenly aware of what I'm suggesting. Of the intimacy inherent in touching him, in putting my hands on his skin. "I could try to work out some of the tension. If you want."
His eyes search my face, looking for something. "You don't have to do that."
"I know." And I do know. Know I could walk away right now, leave the tea and go. That he'd let me without complaint or expectation. "But I want to. If you'll let me."
Silence stretches between us, weighted with awareness. With the acknowledgment of what this means—this crossing of another invisible line we've been dancing around for days.
"Yes." His voice drops lower. "Please."
I move behind him, nerves sparking alive under my skin. I've done this before—helped my mother with tense shoulders after long days, worked knots from other servants' necks. But this feels different. Charged.
"Tell me if I hurt you." I rest my hands lightly on his shoulders, feeling warmth through his shirt.
"You won't." Certainty threads his words.
I press my thumbs into the muscles bracketing his spine, finding tension coiled tight as wire. He's wound so tightly I'm surprised he hasn't snapped. I work slowly, carefully, mapping the landscape of strain and stress.
He exhales shakily, head dropping forward as I dig into a particularly stubborn knot.
"That's..." He trails off.
"Too hard?" I ease up slightly.
"Perfect." The word comes out strained. "Don't stop."
Heat floods through me at the rough command in his voice. At the way his breathing shifts, deepens. I force myself to focus, working methodically along his shoulders, down the column of his neck, finding each point of tension and coaxing it loose.
His skin is warm beneath my fingers. Solid. Real.
I slide my hands higher, into the base of his skull, and he makes a sound—quiet, involuntary. Almost a groan.
The noise shoots straight through me. Pools low in my belly, makes my breath catch.
"Gods," he breathes. "That feels—"
He doesn't finish but I understand anyway. Can feel it in how he's gone pliant under my hands, surrendering to touch with a trust that makes my chest ache.
I work my thumbs along the rigid muscles of his neck, feeling them gradually soften. Release. He's stopped talking, just breathing in that deep, measured way that suggests he's fighting for control.
My own control frays with every passing moment. Every quiet sound he makes. Every shift of muscle beneath my palms.
I want this to be about healing, about helping. But my body doesn't care about noble intentions. It only knows how good he feels under my hands, how much I want to lean closer, to press my mouth to the nape of his neck where silver skin meets dark hair.
To taste him.
The thought scalds through me and I pull back abruptly, hands falling away like I've been burned.
He turns immediately, catching the movement. "Keira?"
"I—" My voice comes out unsteady. "Better?"
His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and I know he felt it too. That shift from comfort to something far more dangerous. "Yes. Much better. Thank you."
We're staring at each other now. Too close. Close enough that I can see the fine silver threading through his black hair, the way his pulse beats visibly at his throat.
Close enough that I could lean forward and kiss him if I was brave enough.
"The tea's getting cold." I stand quickly, needing distance. Space to think. "You should eat something."
"Keira." He stands too, following me toward the desk where I set the tray. "Wait."
"What?" I don't turn around. Can't look at him right now because I'm shaking and I don't want him to see it, to know how badly I want something I shouldn't.
"Look at me. Please."
The request is gentle but I hear the steel beneath it. The quiet demand of someone used to being obeyed.
I turn slowly, hugging my arms around myself like I can contain this wild wanting.
His expression is unreadable. Careful. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No." The answer comes quickly. Truthfully. "You didn't do anything."
"Then why—" He gestures between us. "Why did you pull away like I'd hurt you?"
"Because." I force myself to meet his eyes, to be honest even though it terrifies me. "Because I wanted to keep touching you. And not just to help with your neck."
The air thickens, charged suddenly. His expression shifts—surprise bleeding into something heated, hungry.
"Keira." My name sounds different in his mouth now. Rougher. "What are you saying?"
"I don't know." Frustration edges my voice. At myself, at this situation, at how badly I want something that should be impossible. "I'm saying I pulled away because if I kept touching you I was going to do something stupid."
"Stupid how?" He takes a step closer. Then another. Slow, deliberate. Giving me time to retreat.
I don't retreat.
"I was going to kiss you." The confession escapes in a rush, leaving me breathless and exposed. "Or ask you to kiss me. I'm not sure which."
He goes very still. "And that would be stupid because...?"
"Because you're—" I gesture helplessly at him. "You're you. Dark elf. Warrior caste. You could buy my contract with pocket change. You could take anything you wanted from me and there's nothing I could do to stop you."
"I would never—"
"I know." I cut him off because that's the worst part. "I know you wouldn't. That you're nothing like the elves I was taught to fear. But that doesn't change what you could do. The power you have over me."
"Then give me different power." He closes the remaining distance between us, reaching out slowly.
Giving me every chance to refuse. His fingers brush my jaw, tilt my face up until I'm looking directly at him.
"Not power over you. Power to make you feel good.
To give you pleasure. To worship you the way you deserve. "
My breath stutters. "Valas—"
"I want you." Simple. Direct. His thumb traces my lower lip and I nearly whimper. "I've wanted you since that first night outside. I've wanted you since the second I saw you. And it's killing me to stand this close and not touch you properly."
"You are touching me." But I know what he means. This careful, restrained contact is torture for both of us.
"Not enough." His other hand settles at my waist, warm through layers of fabric. "Never enough. But I won't take more than you offer freely. Won't push for something you're not ready to give."
"What if I don't know what I'm ready for?" My hands find his chest without conscious decision, feeling his heart beat fast and hard beneath my palms. "What if I'm terrified and furious at myself for wanting this and wanting it anyway?"
"Then we figure it out together." His forehead touches mine, breath mingling. "As slowly as you need. As carefully as you require. But Keira, please don't run from this because you think you should. Don't deny what's between us out of principle when your body's telling you something different."
"My body doesn't know what's good for me." But I'm not pulling away. Not putting space between us.
"Doesn't it?" His lips brush my temple, feather-light. Not quite a kiss. "Because mine is screaming that this—" His hand flexes at my waist. "—is the best thing I've felt in months. Possibly years."
I should step back. Should be sensible and careful and protect myself from inevitable heartbreak.
Instead, I slide my hands up his chest, around his neck, into his hair.
He groans—that same quiet sound from before but needier now. Desperate.
"Keira." My name is a prayer, a plea. "Tell me what you want."
"I want—" The words stick in my throat, caught between fear and desire.
"Tell me." His hands frame my face now, cradling me like something precious. "Whatever it is. I'll give you anything."
"I want your hands on me." The admission tears free, raw and honest. "Properly. Not careful or restrained. I want to feel like you mean it."
His eyes darken, pupils swallowing violet. "You're sure?"
"No." I grip his hair tighter. "But I want it anyway."