The corridor outside the small council chamber was nearly empty, the torches guttering in the late hour. Most of the court had already withdrawn for the evening, leaving the Red Keep in that strange quiet that came only after midnight.

You had nearly reached the turn toward the guest wing when a hand closed around your arm. You barely had time to gasp before he pulled you with him into a shadowed alcove between pillars.

King Maekar stood before you, tall, broad-shouldered, and very clearly in a temper. His silver hair was disheveled, as though he had run his hands through it one too many times. His violet eyes burned with irritation — and something hotter beneath it.

“Your Grace—”

“Do not,” he snapped. His grip on your arm tightened just enough to make the warning clear. “You,” he said through clenched teeth, leaning closer, “are going to explain to me what f*cking trick you are playing.”

“A trick, Your Grace?”

That voice. He had heard it in his dreams for weeks, seen that face every time he closed his eyes. And tonight had been the worst of it. Your hair spilled across his pillows, your breath warm against his throat, your body had arched against his. The memory alone left him restless, boiling with a need he hadn’t been able to soothe.

And now here you were in the flesh, walking these halls like some harmless court lady because your brother was the Hand of the King, when he knew perfectly well what torment you had been inflicting. “Do not play the fool with me.”

You smelled so sweet and warm, a scent that twisted deep into the heat already coiling in his chest. It only made his temper worse. “You are in my f*cking head,” he growled, the words coming out harsher than he intended.

“I… beg your pardon?”

“Every night,” he continued, stepping into your personal space. “When I close my eyes you are there, night after night. In my bed. In my dreams. Looking at me like some—” He cut himself off before he said the wrong thing, jaw tightening.

“Spells,” he muttered darkly. “You and that blasted brother of yours. And whatever trick, whatever cursed game you’re playing.”

“Your Grace believes I am… casting spells on you?” You looked almost satisfied with his reaction. And gods help him, your beauty was infuriating, even more so when you were lying to him.

“Do not mock me, you sorceress.” When what seemed like the last thread of patience had snapped, he brought his hand to your waist and pulled you against him. The dreams surged back into his mind with brutal clarity. You immediately felt it, the lingering effect of the dream had not entirely left him.

Maekar exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw tight as though even he hated that you could feel it. “You see what you’ve done to me,” he muttered hoarsely. His lips hovered near yours, teasing, yet betraying the hunger he could no longer deny.

“You’ve bewitched me, your King,” he said, the words rough and reluctant. His thumb pressed slightly into your waist as though testing whether you were real. “And yet here you stand pretending innocence.”