Night settled over the palace like a held breath. Oil lamps lined the corridors, their flames trembling as you moved past them, bare feet silent against cool stone. Music still drifted faintly from the hall behind you—drums, bells, the echo of your own dance lingering in your muscles. You had watched him while you moved, felt his gaze like weight against your skin. He had not looked away.

Now he waited alone.

Vardhan’s chambers were understated for a guest meant to be impressed. Dark wood, a low table, a single brazier burning softly. The balcony doors stood open, curtains stirring with the night air. The city beyond glimmered like scattered embers.

He stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, unarmed.

“You may come in,” he said without turning.

Your pulse did not quicken. This was familiar. Men always mistook invitation for control. You stepped inside, letting the door close behind you. The air between you thickened immediately—your body already responding, poison warm beneath your skin. You had been prepared for this since childhood. Taught how to move, how to breathe, how to make death feel like desire.

He turned then, and the lamplight caught in his green eyes.

“You danced beautifully,” he said. No hunger sharpened his voice. Only interest.

You inclined your head, letting your gaze lower, lashes casting practiced shadows. “You watched closely.”

“I watch what matters.”

You crossed the space between you slowly. When you reached him, you did not touch him at once. You let the silence stretch, let anticipation do its work.

You moved closer, pressing yourself just within his reach. His breath changed—not uneven, but deeper. You tilted your head, lips hovering near his jaw, and felt the familiar hum inside you sharpen. This should be enough, you thought.

You kissed him.

At first, it was measured. Soft pressure, a promise rather than a demand. Your lips lingered, poison seeping, waiting. You drew back slightly, watching for the signs you knew so well—the falter, the dizziness, the subtle loss of strength.

Vardhan did not sway. His eyes remained open, intent, studying your face as if you were the mystery.

You frowned before you could stop yourself.

Your next kiss was deeper, urgent. You threaded your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer. This had never failed. Never.

Still nothing.

His hands came up then—not to push you away, but to steady you, palms warm against your waist. The contact sent an unwelcome jolt through you, irritation flaring into something sharper. You kissed him again, harder, desperation bleeding into the motion.

His grip tightened slightly.

“Enough,” he said quietly.

You froze.

He did not sound weak. He did not sound breathless. He sounded… curious.

He drew back just far enough to look at you properly, his hands still at your waist, thumbs resting as if they had always belonged there. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then returned to your eyes.

“You expected something else,” he said.

Your breath came faster now—not from exertion, but from the sudden, dizzying wrongness of it all. Your body was doing what it was meant to do. The poison was there. You could feel it.

“You’re mistaken,” you said, but the words rang thin.

One of his hands lifted, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face toward the light. The touch was careful. Assessing.

“No,” Vardhan replied. “I don’t think I am.”

He studied you as if piecing together a puzzle he had long suspected existed. There was no anger in his expression. No triumph. Only a slow, dawning understanding.

“How long,” he asked softly, “have they been sending you to do this?”

You said nothing.

His thumb paused at your lower lip, where your breath still lingered. For a moment, he seemed almost… thoughtful.

“I wondered,” he continued, “why you looked at me as if this would be the last thing you ever did.”

Your composure cracked then—just slightly.

“You should be dead,” you whispered.

A corner of his mouth curved—not a smile, but something close. “Many have tried.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “here we are.”