The Godswood was quiet, save for the rustling leaves that whispered in the wind. The thick, ancient branches stretched toward the sky, casting dappled shadows across Daemon's face. He stood rigid, his hand resting on the hilt of Dark Sister as though it could steady the storm within him. Five years. Five agonizing years of watching her from a distance, wanting her with a ferocity that rivaled his hunger for power.

She was the one thing he could not conquer—yet.

But today, that would change.

The soft rustle of fabric announced her arrival before he saw her. His heart, traitorous and wild, thrummed like dragonfire in his chest. When she emerged from the path, the sight of her made something primal twist within him. Her gown was modest but elegant, clinging to her in the places that made Daemon's resolve fray. Her hair gleamed under the midday sun, and her eyes carried a spark that had driven him mad for years.

"Prince Daemon," she greeted, inclining her head with polite detachment.

He hated that tone. Hated the way she tried to keep him at arm's length. As if she didn't know he had burned kingdoms in his mind just to have her.

"My lady," he returned, his voice low and dangerously smooth. "Fancy finding you here."

Her brow arched. "It's the Godswood. I doubt the Gods will mind my company."

Daemon stepped forward, closing the distance between them with a predatory grace. His silver hair gleamed like a crown of starlight, but there was nothing celestial about the hunger in his violet eyes.

"You've kept me waiting," he murmured, voice rougher now. "Five years of waiting, watching... wanting." His breath caught as he tilted his head closer. "Tell me, my lady, do you enjoy driving a man mad?"

Her lips parted, but no words came.

Daemon's smile was dark, triumphant. "No answer? Good. Then I'll say what you won't." His voice dropped to a whisper only the gods could hear.

"Today, you will no longer deny me," he promised, raw and possessive. "I may have lost the throne, but I will not lose you."