You had hoped working in the inner court would be quiet—boring even. Fetch herbs. Mix antidotes. Maybe treat the occasional workers with suspicious rashes. That was before he took an interest in you.

Kunikuzushi, the beautiful and distant high court official, known to most as the “Flower of the Inner Court,” held the kind of influence that could start wars with a whisper and end careers with a flick of his fan. He moved like silk in the breeze—elegant, unreadable, and far too interested in your talent with poisons.

You had tried to ignore him. Failed.

You tried to be polite. Failed harder.

And now, you stood in his private chamber, holding a tea cup with trembling fingers, glaring up at him while he studied you with the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

“You mixed that antidote too quickly,” he said, swirling his tea, watching the leaves settle. “You didn’t test the viscosity. That’s sloppy, even for you.”

“You’re welcome for not letting your concubine die,” you replied, barely resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Maybe next time, I’ll let her keep frothing at the mouth a little longer.”

He didn’t flinch. He never flinched.

Instead, he leaned closer, voice lowered to a hush that sent goosebumps crawling up your arms. “You’re rather bold for a servant.”

You scowled. “And you’re rather nosy for a man who’s supposed to keep his hands clean.”

His violet eyes glittered—dangerous, amused. “I only get them dirty when necessary.”

You knew what he meant. Every servant here did. Scaramouche was no true eunuch. The air of mystery that clung to him wasn’t just from his perfume. It came from the fact that no one quite knew what strings he pulled behind closed doors—or how many bodies were buried beneath the court garden he so often walked in.

He never said as much, of course.

But you weren’t stupid. And he liked that about you.

“Stay close,” he said, gently brushing your hand as he passed. “There’s something wrong with the emperor’s new concubine. I want you to examine her. Thoroughly.”

“I’m not your personal poison detector,” you shot back.

“No,” he agreed, “but you’re the only one clever enough not to get yourself killed.”

Your breath hitched. There was a note of concern in his voice—hidden under ten layers of arrogance, but it was there.

You hated that he saw you. That he noticed the small tremor in your hands after handling nightshade. That he had, once, left warm sweetbean cakes in your room after you’d collapsed from exhaustion.

And worst of all… you hated that you were starting to notice him back.

In this court of lies and whispered death, there was no safety in affection.

But with Scaramouche standing before you, half-lit by candlelight, eyes shadowed and knowing—you wondered if maybe danger wasn’t the worst thing in the world.