My head dips. My mind is screaming at me to stop—move away, forget this ever happened. That I ever let myself get this close. But all the forces of nature couldn't stop me.
Not today.
My lips graze hers. She gasps—and the last thread of control snaps.
I take her mouth like a man possessed. My lips move against hers, softly at first, then with desperate certainty. To my shock, she responds—her fingers threading into my hair, pulling me closer. It undoes me.
I'm ruined.
Ruined for any other woman. Ruined for any other resolve. Ruined for anything that isn't her.
It's always been her.
When I finally pull away, my forehead rests against hers. Our breath comes ragged, uneven. Her lashes flutter open—and it's like a lightning strike to the chest.
Then she's gone.
Off the table. Away from me. I turn my back, one hand clamped over my mouth, bile and guilt churning in my gut. I hear her footsteps retreat, then the soft click of the door closing.
She didn't say a word.
What have I done?
How could I take her like that? Like a beast with no control over its hunger?
I'm still reeling when Harlin enters my chambers.
"Lord Commander," he says, his voice unusually grim.
"Yes, Harlin." I cough, running a hand through my hair, trying to compose myself. "What is it?"
"I'm afraid I bring dire news. We've found the girl. Emelia."
My stomach sinks.
"Why is that... dire news?" I ask, already knowing.
"We found an old cellar beneath a barn on the outskirts of the city," Harlin says. "Abandoned property. It belonged to a noble before the revolution. Inside, we found the girl."
Alive doesn't come. I brace myself.
"There were three sets of footprints that left the scene. We believe they fled toward the eastern lake. The trail ran cold there."
I swallow hard. "Any idea where they were headed?"
"Not yet. But I've dispatched scouts. If Prince Saelow has left the city's bounds, our agents will catch wind of it."
"Good." I nod, but the weight pressing on my chest is unbearable. "And Emelia?"
"She's been... placed in a casket. In the courtyard."
I close my eyes.
"Does the queen know?"
"No. Not yet."
"Bring her to the courtyard," I say quietly. "I'll be waiting."
_____
The casket lies beneath the old elm tree, its branches skeletal against the gray sky. I stand beside it, alone.
When Nyriane arrives, the moment stills.
She sees it immediately.
For a heartbeat, she stops walking. I watch the blood drain from her face. Her hands tremble at her sides. But she keeps moving, step after step, until she's beside me.
The attendant lifts the lid.
Her breath hitches.
She doesn't cry at first—just stares at Emelia's lifeless face. The girl looks peaceful. They've dressed her in a plain gown. Her hair is brushed back neatly. She could be sleeping, if not for the stillness. The blue tint to her lips. The finality.
Then Nyriane drops to her knees.
"No…" she whispers. "No, no, no—"
The sob rips out of her. Raw. Guttural.
It shakes something loose in me.
I move to kneel beside her, unsure whether to touch her. My hand hovers over her back then finally settles taking her into my embrace.
She's shaking. Wrapping her arms around herself like she's trying to hold her own body together. Her voice cracks. I find myself kissing her temple and rubbing her back to soothe her "I brought her here, insisted on having her with me."
She thinks this is her fault.
It isn't.
But I don't speak. I can't. Not now. Not when I'm the last person in the world she wants to hear from.
I glance down at Emelia's body—and fury rises like a flood. Not just at Saelow. At myself. For waiting. For letting this happen. For ever thinking Nyriane was something I could keep at arm's length.
I swore I wouldn't be weak. I swore I wouldn't need anyone.
But that life—Craven's life—isn't mine anymore.
I let the rage burn through me, and with it, the walls I've spent years building start to fall. I won't live by Craven's code. I won't pretend I don't care. I won't let her be torn apart by this war, used and discarded like everyone else.
No more pretending.
From now on, my path is hers.