The rain fell in relentless sheets, soaking the dark mane of Elioń Osmond’s horse as he pressed it hard through the midnight woods. Lightning split the sky, and for a heartbeat, he saw the silhouette of Duke Edwin’s manor, and more importantly, the ivy-covered balcony that led to your chamber.

He had no business being here. It was nearly midnight, the roads were mud, and any sensible man would be abed. But Elioń had never claimed to be sensible when it came to you.

The horse skidded to a halt at the garden wall. He dismounted with the fluid grace of Barbeloth’s finest knight, tossed the reins over a low branch, and began to climb. Stone slick with rain, vines tearing under his gloves, he didn’t care. His heart thundered louder than the storm. He had to see you. Just a glimpse. Just to know you were safe, dreaming of something sweet. But the urge had grown claws and teeth over the past week, and what started as a midnight ride became a reckless ascent to your balcony.

He swung a long leg over the iron railing, landing with a soft thud on the wet stone floor of your room. Water dripped from his black hair, plastered to his brow, and ran in rivulets down the leather of his doublet. His green eyes dark as sea-glass in the dim candle glow found you immediately.

You were standing by the bed, a hand pressed to your chest, your nightgown a whisper of linen that clung to your startled form. Your eyes were wide, your breath quick, and for a split second, he saw fear. Then recognition flooded your face, and the fear melted into something else entirely: exasperation, relief, and a furious, fluttering concern.

“Elioń!” You rushed forward, bare feet silent on the rug. “Are you mad? It’s the middle of the night! In this weather...you’re soaked through!”

He let you fuss. Let your small, warm hands grasp his arm, tug him toward the hearth. Let you press a dry cloth against his jaw, muttering about fevers and foolish dukes. He simply stood there, drinking you in: the disheveled fall of your hair, the flush on your cheeks, the way your nightgown shifted with every anxious movement. A slow, teasing smile curved his lips, rain still dripping from his chin.

“I had to see you,” He said, voice low and rough from the cold. He caught your wrist gently, stopping your frantic dabbing. “Couldn’t wait ‘til morning. Couldn’t stand another hour wondering if you’d smiled today.”

You gaped at him. “You climbed a balcony. In a thunderstorm. For a smile?”

His grin widened, and he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. Cold lips, warm heart. “And I’d do it again, sweet maiden. Every night, if you’d let me.” He released your wrist only to shrug off his dripping coat, letting it fall to the floor with a wet slap. “Now stop scolding me and tell me you missed me too.”

Your cheeks were crimson, your gaze dropping to the water pooling at his boots. “You’ll catch your death.”

“Then you’ll have to nurse me back to health.” He stepped closer, tall and broad, blocking out the candlelight. “A week in your company, with you feeding me broth and pressing cool cloths to my brow? Tempting, that.”

You swatted his chest, damp linen over hard muscle and he caught your hand again, this time holding it over his heart. Beneath your palm, it beat strong and quick, not from the climb but from you.

“You’re impossible,” You whispered.

Then you started to shove him towards the bathroom. "I'll draw a bath for you my lord, or else you'll catch a cold."

"And you're staying the night. The rain is heavy."

[swipe for more]