Ariana woke to the sensation of heat — not from the fire crackling in the hearth, but from the weight of Damian's arm draped across her bare waist.
His grip was possessive, even in sleep.
His breath warm at the nape of her neck.
His body molded to hers like he had no intention of letting go.
She lay there, staring at the carved ceiling of the royal chamber, wondering how one night of surrender could feel more terrifying than a lifetime of running.
I gave him everything, she thought.
And I don't even know what that makes me now.
Slowly, she slipped from beneath the sheets, wincing at the soreness between her thighs, at the bruises his mouth had left trailing down her ribs.
Bruises that made her tremble with shame.
And hunger.
She dressed quietly, wrapping herself in a robe of deep red silk — the same color as the flames dancing on Damian's banner.
A color that now felt like it belonged to her.
She didn't get far before his voice stopped her.
"Running again, little flame?"
Ariana froze in the doorway. She turned slowly, meeting his gaze. He was awake now — fully, dangerously awake — propped against the pillows with nothing but dark sheets tangled around his hips.
His chest was bare. His eyes unreadable.
"I wasn't running," she said softly. "I just… needed air."
"Liar."
He stood, walking toward her with a calm that made her pulse spike. He stopped just short of touching her, his fingers ghosting over the knot of her robe.
"You think one night changed the rules?" he asked. "You think I'd let you walk away now?"
"It was a mistake," she whispered, though her voice cracked halfway through.
His hand caught her chin. Not rough — but not gentle either.
He tilted her face up, making her see him.
"Don't you dare call it that," he growled. "You gave yourself to me. And I took you because you asked me to."
"I didn't know what I was asking for."
"You did," he said, voice low, head dipping toward her throat. "You knew exactly what it meant to belong to me."
He pressed her against the wall before she could reply, lips brushing her pulse, hands sliding beneath the robe.
Ariana gasped.
"Damian—"
"I should chain you to my bed," he hissed, voice trembling with restraint. "Because you drive me mad. You make me forget I'm a prince. You make me want to ruin you, over and over, until there's nothing left but fire."
His hand slid lower, and her knees nearly buckled.
But even as her breath quickened, even as her fingers gripped his shoulders like lifelines… she spoke.
"You don't get to keep me," she whispered. "Not if you won't face what you're hiding."
That stopped him.
He stared at her — the ice returning to his gaze — and stepped back.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"Then tell me," she snapped. "Tell me why Selene watches me like a vulture. Tell me why you flinch every time someone mentions the southern borders. Tell me what you're running from, Damian."
Silence.
Then he turned away.
"Some fires," he said quietly, "burn too deep to speak of."
Outside the door, a raven fluttered to the balcony.
Tied to its leg… a scroll bearing the royal sea
l of the House of Veyl — Damian's enemies, and Selene's allies.
The past had arrived.
And with it, the end of peace.