The night was quiet, too quiet for Lucien’s liking. The hallways of the Spring Court were darkened, lit only by the occasional torch flickering against the walls. He had been patrolling near the outer chambers, mind half on duty, half on the thoughts that refused to leave him alone—thoughts of you. You.

Lucien’s chambers were dimly lit, the last sliver of sunlight through the tall windows casting long shadows across the floor.

The door creaked, and he froze. He knew that sound. Knew it as well as he knew the way your hair caught the light, or the tilt of your head when you were trying to hide something.

You'd claimed you'd had a nightmare, that you couldn’t bear to be alone. And he, the fool, the lovesick fool, had believed.

Now, standing in the dim hush of his room, with your hair unbound and your nightdress brushing the floor like mist, he knew he’d walked willingly into damnation.

He didn’t move to speak. His hands clenched at his sides, and for a moment, he told himself to walk away, to tell you to leave before desire clouded his judgment. Lucien had told himself not to be here. Not again. Not after Tamlin’s warning.

He could still hear his High Lord’s voice echoing through the hall days ago, low and edged with that tempered fury only Tamlin could wield.

“She’s my sister, Lucien. My blood. You will stay away from her.”

Lucien had bowed his head, said yes, my lord like the obedient emissary he was supposed to be. And yet… here he was, standing in the same space, every muscle locked in a war between sense and desire.

He closed the door behind him, and his chest tightened. You were dangerous—not in the way of a blade or spell, but in the way of a heart capable of unraveling him in a single glance. He tried to resist. He had to resist. Every fiber of him screamed for you, but duty, loyalty, caution—they all fought back.