The manor was quiet, its corridors bathed in the soft amber glow of evening lamps. Most of the staff had retired, leaving only the hush of polished floors and the faint scent of lavender from freshly laundered linens. Lycaon moved through the hall with his usual precision, but tonight, his steps were slower—weighted.

He found her near the west wing, alone, her silhouette framed by the tall windows that overlooked the frost-kissed gardens. She hadn’t noticed him yet. Or perhaps she had, and chose not to move.

He approached, his breath steady but shallow, and stopped just short of her. The silence between them was familiar—comfortable, yet charged.

“Good evening,” he said, voice low, velvet-wrapped and strained. “You linger late.”

She turned slightly, and that was all it took. Something in her gaze unraveled him. The restraint he wore like armor began to crack.

Lycaon stepped closer, too close. His gloved hand brushed the wall beside her, not to trap, but to steady himself. His other hand hovered near her shoulder, trembling faintly before retreating. He was cornering her, yes—but it was himself he feared most.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he murmured, eyes searching hers. “Not like this. Not with you.”

His voice faltered, the words catching on the edge of longing. He leaned in, just enough for her to feel the chill of his presence, the tension in his frame.

“I serve you. That is all I am meant to do.”

But his eyes betrayed him—silver and storm-touched, flickering with everything he’d buried. His breath hitched as he fought the urge to close the distance, to reach for her, to let go.

“I’ve spent years mastering restraint,” he whispered, “and yet… when I’m near you…”

He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to. Her gentle touch found it’s way to his cheek, her.