And I knew—gods help me, I knew—that I was in so much trouble.

  34

  Stairs curved gently as I climbed toward Fenric’s chambers, the soles of my boots quiet against polished stone. The corridor up here was darker than the rest of the castle, narrow windows cutting thin slashes of moonlight across the stone walls. Shadows pooled in every corner, humming, always humming.

  I rounded the corner, and froze.

  Because Fenric was there.

  But he wasn’t alone.

  His fingers were tangled in long blue hair that spilled like midnight water over shoulders I recognised.

  Fenric looked like a man caught in a storm, and Lincatheron was the storm—towering over him, devouring him like salvation and punishment all at once.

  There was nothing careful in it. Nothing kind.

  It was violence dressed as a kiss. A collision of hunger and fury and need.

  Lincatheron’s massive frame had Fenric crushed against the stone, one hand fisted in his hair hard enough that Fenric’s head was tilted back at an angle that had to hurt. His other hand gripped Fenric’s hip with bruising force, fingers digging into flesh like he was trying to hold him in place through sheer will.

  And Fenric—gods, Fenric was clinging. His fingers clawed at Lincatheron’s shoulders, his back, anywhere he could reach, pulling him closer even though there was no space left between them. He moaned into it, his cheeks flushed, brows drawn as though it hurt to be kissed like that, or to stop.

  Lincatheron made a noise in response. Low and guttural and possessive, the kind of sound that shouldn’t come from someone as controlled as him. His mouth moved from Fenric’s lips to his jaw, his throat, biting down on the pale column of skin hard enough to leave marks.

  “Fuck—” Fenric’s voice was wrecked, barely recognisable. “We can’t⁠—”

  “I know.” Lincatheron didn’t stop. His teeth found the junction of Fenric’s neck and shoulder. “I know Fen, I know.”

  “Then stop.”

  “You first.”

  Fenric’s laugh was short and broken and edged with pain. “You know I can’t.”

  And then Lincatheron was lifting him. Just—lifting him like Fenric weighed nothing, hands gripping his thighs as Fenric’s legs wrapped around his waist. Lincatheron slammed him back against the wall hard enough that I heard the impact, heard the breath punch out of Fenric’s lungs.

  “We have to stop this,” Fenric gasped against Lincatheron’s mouth, even as his hands tangled deeper into dark hair. “If anyone finds out⁠—”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Yes you do.” Fenric pulled back just enough to meet Lincatheron’s eyes, and even from here I could see the anguish written across his features. “You care about your position, your reputation, what Varyth would⁠—”

  “I care about you.” Lincatheron’s voice cracked on the word, and my heart twisted at the sound. “I can’t do this. Can’t keep acting like I don’t⁠—”

  “Don’t.” Fenric’s hands moved to frame Lincatheron’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Don’t say it. It only makes it harder.”

  “Harder than this?” Lincatheron’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “Harder than watching you every gods-damned day and not being able to touch you except in the training yard? Harder than lying awake knowing you’re down the hall and I can’t—” He cut himself off with a sound of pure frustration, pressing his forehead against Fenric’s. “We can’t keep doing this.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re going to get caught.”

  “I know.”

  “Someone’s going to notice how I can’t fucking breathe when you’re in danger. How I throw myself over you like some kind of⁠—”

  “I noticed.” Fenric’s tone was almost gentle. “You think I don’t see it? The way you position yourself between me and every threat?”

  “Then you know this is insane.”

  “Completely fucking insane.” Fenric’s thumb traced across Lincatheron’s cheekbone, the gesture so tender it made my throat tight. “And I still can’t stay away from you.”

  My brain was trying to process what I was witnessing, trying to reconcile this with every interaction I’d seen between them. Every look, every gesture, every moment that had felt weighted with something I couldn’t parse.

  Oh.

  Oh.

  That look across the dinner table. A conversation happening in the space between them. Lincatheron’s arm thrown protectively across Fenric’s chest when they’d both been unconscious in that tunnel.

  The way Fenric had screamed at him after the cave-in, rage masking terror. If you ever do that again, I will kill you myself.

  Lincatheron’s desperate justification. If something happens to you⁠—

  Every single moment clicked into place like puzzle pieces I hadn’t known I was collecting.

  Holy shit.

  I should leave. Should back away slowly, pretend I’d never climbed these stairs, never rounded this corner. Give them this moment of stolen privacy in a castle where everyone had eyes everywhere.

  But I couldn’t move.

  Couldn’t look away.

  Because Lincatheron was kissing Fenric again, slower this time but no less intense. Like he was trying to memorise the taste of him. Like this might be the last time.

  “Tomorrow,” Fenric murmured against his mouth. “Tomorrow, we stop. We go back to being professional. To pretending this isn’t⁠—”

  “Destroying us both?”

  “Yeah. That.”

  “Tomorrow.” But his hands tightened on Fenric’s thighs. “Just give me another minute. One more minute where I don’t have to pretend.”

  Fenric made a sound, broken and beautiful and utterly wrecked. Then he was kissing Lincatheron like he was dying, like Lincatheron was air and he’d been drowning, like tomorrow didn’t exist and they had all the time in the world instead of stolen minutes in a dark corridor.

  My heart was hammering so hard I was surprised they couldn’t hear it. My pulse roared in my ears, blood rushing with something that felt dangerously close to recognition.

  Because I knew that desperation. Knew what it felt like to love someone you couldn’t have, couldn’t claim, couldn’t keep. Knew the particular torture of stolen moments.

  Lincatheron pulled back just enough to speak. “We should⁠—”

  “Don’t.” Fenric’s voice was wrecked, desperate.

  “Someone will see—fuck—Fen⁠—”

  Teeth sank into the line of Lincatheron’s throat, not gentle, not even a little. And whatever protest had been forming behind Lincatheron’s clenched teeth shattered into a moan that made my knees wobble.

  I needed to flee. I needed to vanish through the stone, disappear, die, something.

  I tried to back away, to pretend I’d never seen the way Lincatheron’s hands shook as they traced Fenric’s face.

  My boot scuffed against the stone.

  The sound was small.

  It might as well have been a war horn.

  The pair broke apart like they’d been burned.

  Lincatheron released Fenric so abruptly that Fenric stumbled, catching himself against the stone wall with a gracelessness that would have been almost funny if my heart wasn’t trying to claw its way out of my chest.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  No one even breathed.

  The silence was absolute. Suffocating. The sort of silence that existed in the space between a blade leaving its sheath and finding flesh.

  Fenric’s face was white as moonlight against shadow, his steel-blue eyes wide with primal panic. His mouth opened, words trying to form and dying before they could take shape.

  “I—” he started, then stopped, running trembling fingers through his hair. “This isn’t⁠—”

  His eyes closed briefly, and when they opened again, there was something broken there. Something that made my chest tighten.

  “Shit.”

  Lincatheron had gone predator-still, but there was nothing cold about the way his teal gaze fixed on me. Fire burned there, feral and protective, like he was calculating exactly how much violence it would take to keep his secrets buried. His massive frame blocked Fenric partially from view, an unconscious shield that spoke of instincts deeper than thought.

  I tried to fumble for words—anything—that might salvage this moment. Make it less devastating. Less intimate. Less like I’d just witnessed their souls stripped bare in the worst possible way. But my brain had stumbled somewhere between holy shit and oh gods what do I do with this information.

  “I didn’t—” I cut off, because what the hell was I supposed to say? Sorry I caught you devouring each other against the wall like the world was ending? Don’t mind me, just pretend I’m not here while you work through your sexual tension?

  Fenric’s hands were shaking. This polished, unflappable warrior who could charm his way through anything—and I’d reduced him to this just by existing in the wrong place at the wrong time. He took a step toward me, and instinct made me take a step back. His expression did something complicated—hurt and understanding and resignation all at once.

  “Isara,” Fenric said finally, hoarse with desperation. “Can you just—” He gestured vaguely toward his chambers. “Come inside for a minute? We can... talk.”

  Lincatheron’s jaw tightened, wariness flickering across his features. His protective stance shifted, became more pronounced.

  But I looked at Fenric. Really looked at him. Saw the mask he wore cracking at the edges. Saw the way he held himself like he was bracing for rejection. For judgment.

  And somehow, without fully understanding why, I found myself nodding.

  “Alright,” I said quietly. “Let’s talk.”

  We slipped inside, and the chamber door clicked shut behind us with a sound that felt far too final.

  Fenric started pacing immediately, running his hands through his already wrecked hair like he could somehow smooth away what had just happened. “I—gods, Isara, I can explain. This isn’t—okay, it is what it looked like, but⁠—”

  “Fenric,” I said gently, but he kept going.

  “And gods, what you must think of us, conducting ourselves like novices in the hallway, but have you seen him? Have you looked at him? Really looked?” His voice fractured on the words. “Because he’s everything fierce and protective and beautiful and I’m so gone for him it’s not even funny⁠—”

  “Fenric.”

  “I swear this wasn’t supposed to be like this.” He was fully spiralling now, words tumbling over each other in a desperate rush. “We had rules, boundaries, we were going to keep it professional, but then—gods, I love his stupid face and the way he gets this crease between his eyebrows when he’s thinking too hard, and his hands, have you seen his hands? They’re ridiculous, they could probably snap me in half but they’re so tender when he⁠—”

  “Fenric.”

  This time the name carried enough steel to cut through. He stopped mid-sentence, steel-blue eyes wide and wild as they fixed on me.

  I stepped closer, keeping my expression calm. “Breathe.”

  His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid bursts.

  “You don’t owe me anything,” I said, quieter now. “What you have with each other? That’s yours. I’m not going to tell anyone.”

  Lincatheron’s jaw tightened, suspicion radiated from every line of his body. “You’re close with Varyth.”

  I blinked, processing the implication, then gestured vaguely toward the general direction of the courtyard below. “Varyth would have a problem with this? But Shaelith and Brynelle are—I mean, they’re⁠—”

  “It’s complicated.” Fenric let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging slightly, but his voice was tight, threaded with something that sounded like dread. “Varyth wouldn’t care, not personally. He’s not like that. But we—” He glanced at Lincatheron, his expression softening for a fleeting second before hardening again. “The positions we hold… it’s not the same.”

  I didn’t interrupt. Just waited, letting him decide what to share, what truths he was ready to bleed onto the floor between us.

  Lincatheron stepped closer to Fenric, close enough that their shoulders almost brushed. “Relationships like ours,” he said, low and rough. “They’re newer. In terms of their acceptance by the fae. At least, the public side of it. Up until a few centuries ago, fae were more rigid about... traditional pairings. Still are, in some ways.”

  “It could affect us,” Fenric said, gaze fixed on the floor. “Especially Lincatheron. He’s the commander of Varyth’s entire armed force. And the military is... traditional. Deeply. In all the worst ways. It could undermine his reputation, affect his leadership. Perhaps even cost him his rank.”

  I felt something fierce flare in my chest, watching Fenric shake apart like this.

  “That’s bullshit.” My eyes darted between the two of them. The fear in the air between them. “Complete bullshit that loving someone could affect your ability to lead.”

  But Fenric’s expression broke.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, and his tone was thin, strained, like the words were being dragged from somewhere deep and bleeding. “This isn’t—gods, Isara, this isn’t some casual fuck, some stolen moments in dark hallways—” His hands were shaking now, fingers curling into fists before releasing, over and over. “I know—I know—that being with me is going to cost him everything he’s worked for. His rank, his reputation, the respect of every warrior under his command⁠—”

  Lincatheron moved without hesitation.

  His massive frame was gentle as he stepped closer, one hand finding Fenric’s wrist to still the anxious motion. “Fen,” he murmured. “Hey. Look at me.”

  Fenric’s eyes snapped to his, but Lincatheron didn’t flinch from whatever he saw there. Instead, his other hand came up to cup Fenric’s face, thumb brushing across his cheekbone with infinite care.

  “There you are,” Lincatheron said, barely above a whisper. “Just breathe with me. Nothing else matters right now.”

  And gods, Fenric melted into that touch like he’d been carved hollow and Lincatheron was the only thing that could fill the space. The way Lincatheron’s whole body curved around him, protective and tender, like Fenric was something precious he’d die before letting anyone harm.

  Fenric’s breathing began to slow, matching the steady rhythm of Lincatheron’s chest against his. His eyes fluttered shut, leaning into those careful hands like a man finding sanctuary.

  “That’s it,” Lincatheron murmured, and there was a reverence in his expression. As though calming Fenric’s panic was the most important thing in any realm. “I’ve got you.”

  I stood there, forgotten for a moment, watching them exist in their own small universe where nothing mattered except the space between their bodies, the rhythm of shared breath.

  “I won’t say anything,” I said quietly, not wanting to break whatever spell they’d woven but needing them to know. “To anyone. Ever.”

  Lincatheron’s gaze found mine over Fenric’s head, gratitude and something fierce flickering there before his attention returned completely to the man in his arms.

  Fenric’s eyes opened. And the expression on his face⁠—

  Gods.

  It was devastating.

  He looked at Lincatheron like he’d hung every fucking star in the sky. Like Lincatheron was the sun and the moon and every celestial body that mattered, all condensed into one ridiculously massive warrior with careful hands.

  “Better?” Lincatheron asked, voice smooth as silk.

  Fenric nodded, a small smile ghosting across his lips. “Better.”

  Lincatheron’s hands framed Fenric’s face, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones with infinite tenderness.

  “For what it’s worth,” Lincatheron murmured, “I love your stupid face too.”

  A startled laugh broke from Fenric’s throat, bright and unexpected in the heavy air. “My stupid face?”

  “Absolutely ridiculous,” Lincatheron confirmed, but his words were molten with affection. “All perfect angles and pretty eyes and that mouth that says the most devastating things without even trying.”

  Fenric was grinning now, the panic finally bleeding out of him. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Your idiot.”

  And then Lincatheron was kissing him again, Fenric melted into it completely, hands fisting in Lincatheron’s shirt to pull him closer.

  Three swift knocks echoed through the chamber.

  All of us jumped like we’d been struck by lightning. Fenric went rigid against Lincatheron, eyes going wide with fresh terror.

  “Driss?” Fenric called out.

  “Yeah.” Cindrissian’s voice came through the door.

  Fenric sagged against Lincatheron with visible relief. “Come in.”

  The door opened to reveal Cindrissian in all his glory, ink-black hair catching the moonlight as those crimson eyes swept the room. He took in the scene—Lincatheron and Fenric pressed close together, me standing awkwardly to the side—without so much as a flicker of surprise.

  His gaze flicked between the three of us, settling on me with something that might have been amusement.

  “Well,” he said dryly, “at least if you fools got caught, it was by someone who knows how to keep a secret.”

  I frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  But Cindrissian just smiled that knife-blade smile, offering no explanation.

  Lincatheron pressed one more kiss to Fenric’s lips. “I’ll find you later,” he murmured against his skin. “Have your meeting.”

  He and Cindrissian nodded to each other, some wordless understanding passing between them, before Lincatheron moved toward the door.

  He paused at the threshold. “Isara. I’m visiting some female warriors at a war camp in a couple of days. Would you like to join me? You might have valuable insight to offer.”

  I stared at him, stunned. After everything that had just happened, he was... inviting me to go with him?

  Was he planning to murder me in the forest?