You had always possessed a taste for beautiful things.

It was almost ironic, really. Life had dragged you through places that might have made even the Lord of Hell avert his gaze—blood-soaked halls, ash-choked skies, nights where survival was a victory all its own. Yet whenever fortune granted you the smallest sliver of peace, you adorned yourself as though the world had never known suffering.

Silk instead of scars.

Gold instead of grief.

Whether it was for an opulent courtly ball or simply climbing into bed, you found quiet peace in elegance.

Tonight was no different.

Not even with a towering Fae warrior waiting in your chambers.

Rowan Whitethorne.

The name alone was enough to send your thoughts wandering where they had no business going.

For months, you'd watched him train until sweat gleamed across sculpted muscle, every strike precise, every movement carrying the lethal grace of an immortal predator. You remembered the way his emerald eyes sharpened with impossible focus, the flash of elongated canines whenever instinct overtook restraint...

And the forest.

The heat of his hand.

The sting of his teeth sinking into your neck.

The memory arrived with unsettling clarity.

Stop.

Focus.

You stood alone in the dressing room, smoothing trembling fingers over the shimmering fabric that clung to your body.

The golden nightgown suddenly felt...insufficient.

Or perhaps far too revealing.

Theoretically, Rowan had once remarked—half teasing, half impossible to read—that he'd like to see you wearing gold. You'd dismissed it as another of his rare attempts at humor.

Besides...

It was late.

The room was scarcely illuminated, bathed only in the soft glow of dying embers and pale moonlight spilling through the windows.

He couldn't truly see you.

...Could he?

Drawing a quiet breath, you eased open the door.

The chamber lay wrapped in shadows.

Rowan stood beside the bed with his back to you, one broad hand rolling his shoulder in slow circles. Training had been relentless these past days, and even someone as indomitable as he carried its weight in tight muscles and old scars.

"I've been thinking," Rowan began.

The words died the instant he turned.

He froze.

Completely.

His posture straightened as though struck by lightning, every thought vanishing from his mind before it could become speech.

Slowly—

Very slowly—

His gaze lifted toward you.

Not quite reaching your eyes.

It lingered lower.

On the liquid gold embracing your figure.

The silk molded itself to every graceful curve as though spun solely for your body, catching the firelight with every subtle breath. It concealed just enough to leave everything else to imagination.

Rowan swallowed.

The sound was almost painfully audible in the silence.

A faint smile tugged at your lips.

"If I recall correctly," you murmured, your voice rich with quiet amusement, "someone once told me to remind him to prove me wrong about my...hesitations."

You took another measured step into the room.

"I believe you gave yourself two options."

You tilted your head ever so slightly.

"Words..."

A heartbeat passed.

"...or tongue and teeth."

The silence snapped.

"Did I now," he said, his voice rough enough to scrape against the air.