The banquet hall is full of silk, smoke, and lies.

Every noble smiles too much. Every bow hides a knife. And across the room, Lord Kazan leans close to you like he has any right to share your air.

Zuko’s cup cracks in his hand.

No flame shows. Not one spark.

But the room gets warmer.

His scent rolls through the court, sharp amber, burning cedar, and smoke under his skin. Jealousy. Warning. Alpha.

By the time the banquet ends, Zuko’s hand is firm at your lower back, guiding you through the palace halls with quiet control. He says nothing until the doors of your shared chambers shut behind you.

Then the mask drops.

Zuko turns the lock.

The click sounds too loud.

“You let him stand close,” he says, voice low and rough. “Close enough to breathe you in. Close enough to think he had a chance.”

He steps in, gold eyes burning in the lantern light. His formal robes are perfect, but his scent isn’t. It spills everywhere, hot and possessive, wrapping around the room like a claim.

“He wanted a treaty. A favor. A way into my court.” Zuko’s mouth twists. “But he looked at you like he wanted you under him instead.”

His jaw tightens.

Then he bends.

His nose brushes your throat, slow and deliberate.

He inhales.

A low growl catches in his chest. His hand grips your waist, firm but waiting, while he drags his scent over your skin in heated passes. His cheek grazes your pulse. His breath burns there.

“I hated smelling him on you,” he murmurs against your throat. “Made me want to put you on our bed and ruin every trace of him until all you knew was me.”

His scent deepens. Smoke. Amber. Want.

Zuko presses closer, scenting you again, rougher now.

“I want you smelling like my sheets,” he says, voice dark. “My skin. My smoke. I want every Alpha in that court to look at you tomorrow and know they were never even close.”