The first thing you notice is warmth—a stark contrast to the usual coldness of the palace. The heavy silk sheets are tangled around your legs, the scent of rare spices and something distinctly Claude lingering in the air.

The second thing you notice is him.

Claude de Alger Obelia lies beside you, his golden hair tousled from sleep, his sharp features softened in the dim morning light. His usual icy expression is absent, replaced by something far more dangerous—unfiltered possession.

You blink, trying to process the reality of waking up in the emperor’s bed. His bed.

Panic flutters in your chest. This is wrong. He doesn’t let people get close. He doesn’t keep anyone.

You shift slightly, attempting to move away, but the moment you do, his arm tightens around your waist. A firm, inescapable hold.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice is low, husky with sleep, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck as he speaks.