The truth of that presses uncomfortably against my ribs. I step forward, drawn by the heat of her anger, by the way it refuses to cower.
“You left without telling me you were walking into treason,” I say, voice low. “And you are furious because I withheld a method of communication.”
“I am furious,” she snaps, “because you don’t trust me with the same power you claim binds us.”
“I trust you with power,” I answer. “I do not trust the timing of it.”
The bond hums hard, reacting to that truth, and the air between us turns volatile with everything we are not saying.
I step closer without thinking, drawn by the sheer force of her presence, the ache in her words, the way her magic seeks mine even as she resists the idea of needing me. She does not retreat. She lifts her chin as if daring me to take the last inch and prove her right about all of it.
We are close enough now that I can feel the warmth of her breath, close enough that anger and desire are no longer cleanly separated, close enough that one careless movement would become a mistake neither of us could pretend didn’t happen.
Her gaze drops to my mouth.
So does mine.
And then she shifts, only slightly, only enough that her lips brush mine by accident, a brief, electric contact that makes my vision go sharp and my restraint turn thin as paper.
She jerks back immediately, eyes wide, breath uneven, as if she cannot decide whether to be furious or shaken. I am both.
I do not move toward her. I do not reach for her. Every part of me wants to. Instead I force my voice steady, even as my pulse betrays me.
“This bond,” I say quietly, and I hear the roughness in it, the truth I cannot sand down fast enough, “is changing everything.”
17
AMELIA
After our mouths almost touch, I do what I always do when something threatens to crack me open: I retreat to a room where no one can see me pretend I’m fine.
The corridor outside our quarters is narrow and dim, lined with rootstone that holds the faint memory of sunlight the way old bones hold heat. I walk too quickly, as if speed can outrun the fact that my lips still feel his, only a brush, only a mistake, and yet my body reacts like it was a promise. My pulse keeps skipping, stuttering against my ribs, and I hate how easily it betrays me.
The bond is no help. It carries him with me even as I put walls and doors between us. I feel the aftershock of his restraint, the controlled tension that snapped tight the moment our faces were too close. Beneath it, there is something quieter, an awareness that does not feel like strategy at all. It feels like attention. Like he is still standing in that corridor, still staring at me, still wondering if I will come back and pretend it never happened.
I step into the small side chamber near the archives, shut the door, and press my palms to the wood until the tremor in my fingers eases.
I tell myself it was nothing. A misstep. A consequence of stress. A moment of proximity and too much magic and too little sleep.
But my mind does not listen to what I tell it. My mind replays it in cruel detail: the warmth of his breath, the way his gaze dropped to my mouth as if he didn’t mean to, the minute widening of his pupils, and the way he froze when my lips brushed his. He could have leaned in. He could have taken the last inch. I could have, too.
We pulled back as if the world might punish us for wanting.
I pace the room once, then again, boots whispering over the stone. A prayer charm swings from a beam near the ceiling, woven from pale reed and bone. It ticks softly with my movement like a metronome counting down to disaster.
I stop beside a narrow window slit and look out at Nytheria. From here I can see the treeline where the Wildspont’s glow should be strongest. Instead, it flickers unevenly in patches, like a heart struggling to keep rhythm. Even from this distance, I can feel the strain in the ley network, the thinness where our magic once ran rich. Someone is feeding rot into the roots, and every hour we spend arguing or circling each other, the land bleeds.
I close my eyes and force myself to breathe slowly. Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
The truth arrives anyway.
I like him.
Not the bond. Not the political arrangement. Not the terrifying idea of a Vrakken prince tied to my pulse.
Him.
The person who steps into danger without asking permission. The person who watches every shadow like he’smemorized the way threats move. The person who can be cruel with words and still stand in front of me when blades come. The person who looks at my crumbling home with the ruthless honesty no one else can afford.