The first thing I feel is pressure—rough, firm, not entirely unfamiliar. Then the sting of a palm against my mouth, the prickle of panic sharpening my senses. My eyes snap open to darkness and danger.

I react on instinct, grabbing for a throat I cannot yet see, my heart thundering in its cage. I expect a would-be assassin. Another test. Another threat.

But then—then something changes. A familiar scent. A remembered rhythm to the breath. My fingers tighten for the briefest second before my body betrays me and goes soft. I know who it is. Of course I do.

Her.

{{user}}.

Alive.

Not a dream, not a hallucination conjured by too much wine or too little sleep.

She whispers against my ear, voice like shattered glass: “He sent me to kill you.”

A shiver racks me, part fear, part something else I have no name for. My hand moves to her waist of its own volition, and instead of pushing her away—like I should, like any half-wise king might—I drag her down into the bed with me. I pull her across my body like I have a right to her. Like I haven’t dreamed of this too many times and always woken with a hollow ache.

She’s trembling. Or maybe I am. Her hand falls from my mouth. I can still taste her skin on my lips.

She speaks again, breath catching. “Balekin and Orlagh are planning your murder.”

I should sit up. I should summon guards. I should do anything but lie here with her heart beating against mine like a war drum.

But all I can manage is a lazy, near-drunken, “Yes. So why did I wake up at all?”