The nights were the worst.
Seraphina would lie awake long after the lamps were snuffed, listening to the hush of the house, her body weary but her mind unwilling to rest. The images came unbidden: Lucian's pleading eyes, Isolde's guilty face, Kaelen's steady gaze in the alley when he had told her she would not escape him. That voice, low and certain, haunted her. Even when she pressed a pillow over her head, his words clung like smoke.
"You want someone who doesn't flinch at your tears."
She hated that he was right.
On the fourth night after Vivienne's salon, sleep finally dragged her under but it gave her no peace. She dreamt of Kaelen. He stood close, his hand on hers, his thumb brushing lightly across her skin as though he owned the pulse beneath. His lips moved with words she could not hear, yet somehow she understood them. When she woke, her heart was racing, her body warm, shame flooding her chest.
She pressed her palms over her eyes. No. You cannot. You must not.
By morning, her distraction had not gone unnoticed.
Marcelline cornered her in the breakfast room, where untouched food sat between them. "You look pale," her sister said flatly, studying her face. "And restless. What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?" Marcelline leaned forward, her dark eyes narrowing. "You barely sleep. You eat almost nothing. And when you do speak, it's as if you're somewhere else entirely. Where are you, Sera?"
Seraphina's throat tightened. She reached for the teacup but found her hands shaking, the porcelain clinking against the saucer. Marcelline's gaze followed the movement, sharp as a knife.
"It's him, isn't it?" she whispered. "Kaelen."
Seraphina's eyes flashed upward. "No," she said too quickly, too harshly.
Her sister sat back, lips pressing into a thin line. "Then it's Lucian. Or both of them."
The silence that followed was heavier than denial. Seraphina rose, her chair scraping the floor. "I don't want to talk about this."
Marcelline caught her wrist, gently but firmly. "Then at least talk to yourself, before it swallows you whole."
The words clung long after Seraphina pulled away.
By afternoon, a letter arrived. The handwriting was instantly familiar Lucian's elegant script, neat and deliberate. She froze, the paper trembling in her hands before she could bring herself to break the seal.
Seraphina, it began. I know I have wronged you. I know my betrayal is beyond forgiveness, but I beg you to let me speak with you face to face. Not to excuse myself, but to show you that what I feel for you was not a lie. Meet me tomorrow, at the gardens by St. Armand's Gate. I will wait as long as it takes.
Her vision blurred over the words. Her heart lurched with something like longing, but it soured quickly into rage. She crumpled the letter in her fist, then smoothed it out again with trembling fingers. She should not care. She should burn it, tear it, let it rot. And yet her chest ached at the sight of his signature.
That night, she sat by the fire, the letter clutched tightly. The flames danced, daring her to feed it. She lifted the parchment, but her arm refused to obey.
"You'll ruin your supper if you sit brooding over that all night."
Her body stiffened. She turned sharply and there he was.
Kaelen lounged in the shadows of the room as though he belonged there, one shoulder against the mantle, his coat still damp from the mist outside. His eyes glinted with quiet amusement, as if he had been watching her for some time.
Her pulse leapt. "What are you doing here?" she hissed, shoving the letter into her lap as though she could hide it.
"Vivienne asked me to deliver something," he said easily. "But when I saw the light still burning, I thought… why not see if you're still torturing yourself." His gaze flicked deliberately to the crumpled page in her hands. "Seems I was right."
Her cheeks flushed hot. "It is none of your concern."
"On the contrary," Kaelen murmured, stepping closer, his voice lowering. "Everything that touches you becomes my concern. Especially him."
The heat of the fire seemed to thicken as he approached. Seraphina pressed the letter tighter in her hands. "I don't"
"Do you want him back?" Kaelen asked suddenly. The sharpness in his voice startled her, a blade hidden beneath silk. "After everything, after he humiliated you before the world, after he crawled to your feet and still betrayed you do you want him?"
Her breath faltered. "I don't know," she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them.
Kaelen's jaw flexed. He reached down, plucking the letter from her hands with maddening ease. She made a sound of protest, but he only held it up between two fingers, studying it like one might study an insect.
"Pathetic," he said softly. "Ink on paper, begging for mercy he doesn't deserve. This is all he has left. And you…" His eyes lifted, locking onto hers with unnerving intensity. "You deserve more than this."
He extended the letter toward the flames. Seraphina's heart hammered. She reached out instinctively not to save Lucian's words, but to stop Kaelen from controlling the choice. Their hands collided, fingers tangling briefly around the same scrap of parchment. The contact sent a jolt through her chest, heat rushing to her face.
"Let it go," Kaelen murmured, his breath brushing her cheek.
For one long heartbeat, the world held still. Then she ripped her hand away, shoving him back. "You don't decide for me."
The fire crackled. The letter fluttered in Kaelen's grip. His mouth curved, not quite a smile. "No," he said slowly. "But you will. And when you do, it won't be him you choose."
He released the parchment. The flames caught instantly, curling the edges black. Seraphina gasped, half in fury, half in relief, watching the words dissolve into ash.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Kaelen's eyes lingered on her, dark and unreadable. "Sweet dreams, Seraphina." He turned and slipped into the night, leaving only the scent of rain on his coat and the echo of his voice in the room.
She sank into the chair, her chest heaving, eyes burning as she stared at the last traces of the letter. Smoke curled upward like ghosts.
And though she tried to tell herself she hated him for it, her hand still tingled where his had brushed hers.