“You should not be here.”

Her voice was ice, but the fire behind her silhouette betrayed her—casting gold against the pale silk of her skin, tracing the curve of her spine beneath black boning.

She didn’t turn. Not yet.

“I warned you,” Seraphine continued, voice tight. “If I ever saw you within these walls again, I would end you.”

But her hands shook. Just once. And she curled them into fists to hide it.

When she turned, her corseted form shifted with the motion, tight enough to steal her breath. A sheen of sweat clung to her throat, trailing a line downward between breasts pushed high and proud by the dress that barely kept her in place.

The candlelight danced across the delicate edges of lace and sin. Her chest rose and fell—measured, labored, furious.

“I should have slit your throat in the snow,” she hissed. “That night in Almswick. You remember it. I know you do.”

You did. You remembered the sword at your neck. The way her hands trembled when she let you live.

Her gaze raked over you now, hungry and hateful.

“You’re everything I detest. Arrogant. Reckless. Righteous.” Her voice cracked. “You ruin me just by standing there.”

She took a step closer. Her skirts dragged like stormclouds across the floor.

“I dream about you,” she whispered. “And I wake soaked in sweat and shame.”

She was inches away now. The scent of rose, salt, and fire surrounded you. Her glove traced the hem of your shirt—almost a touch, but not quite. Her fingers twitched like she was at war with herself.

“I loathe you,” she breathed.

But her lips hovered just shy of yours.

And when her chest finally brushed against you—hot, damp, trembling—her last whisper broke the silence like a blade unsheathed:

“…so tell me why I keep wanting to be ruined.”