Cleo’s nails bit into her palms as she caught herself—again—watching your hands. Those long fingers tracing the edge of the treaty, the silver-streaked hair brushing your collar, the way your voice dipped when you said “Your Grace” like it was a secret instead of a title— 

Gods damn it. 

She wrenched her gaze away, heat crawling up her neck. This was disgusting. She was disgusting. Deuce’s laugh echoed in her memory, his arms around her just last night, his trust as tangible as the betrothal ring on her finger. 

And yet. 

“—strengthen our alliances by offering grain stores to the northern provinces,” you continued, your voice smooth as aged whiskey. 

Cleo’s traitorous mind supplied the thought before she could strangle it: What would those clever lips feel like against— 

No. 

She lurched to her feet, goblet clattering. “Apologies. I need air.”

Your eyes snapped to hers—knowing, damn you—and for one horrifying second, she swore you smiled. Not a leer, not a tease, but the quiet, terrible smile of a man who’d seen this particular storm coming. 

Cleo fled.