The fire had died down, but the heat between them lingered.
She could still feel Damien's lips, his hand at her waist, the rasp of his breath when he whispered "Tell me to stop". She had not. That truth haunted her more than the kiss itself.
She paced her room long after she slipped free of him, the storm still clawing at the windows. Guilt twisted in her chest like a second heartbeat. This was not what she had come here for. She had sworn to break the Varezzis, not let herself be undone by one of them.
And yet…
The way he had looked at her, raw, vulnerable, was not the way an enemy looked at his captor, or his bride. It was the way a man looked when he wanted to be seen, perhaps for the first time.
Sleep refused to come that night. Her body ached with restlessness, her mind sharper for the lack of rest. At last she lit a candle and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. She needed air, distance, anything to steady the war inside her.
The halls were empty, the estate hushed except for the wind pressing at the windows. Her candle swayed with her steps as she descended the grand staircase, meaning to lose herself in the dark gardens.
But he was already there.
Damien sat at the base of the stairs, head bowed, a tumbler of whiskey hanging loosely in one hand. No jacket, no armor of composure, only the quiet wreckage of a man alone with himself.
Elara froze. She should have turned back. She should have let him sit with his ghosts. Instead, her steps drew her down.
"You drink alone?" she asked softly.
His head lifted. Even in the dim light, his eyes caught hers with dangerous clarity. "Sometimes it's the only way I can stand the silence."
She hesitated, then moved to sit across from him. The cold marble seeped through her thin gown, but she ignored it.
"Silence never bothered me," she murmured.
Damien studied her, his gaze heavy, unreadable. Then, with a faint smirk, he slid the tumbler across the floor between them. "Then share it with me."
The whiskey burned her throat, but the burn steadied her. She wiped her mouth and met his stare. "You're making this difficult."
"Difficult?" His voice was soft, dangerous. "Or impossible?"
The tension stretched taut between them again, pulling at something neither could admit aloud. His hand rested on the step, close enough that if she shifted just slightly, her fingers would brush his. She didn't. He didn't. But the absence of touch was louder than any kiss.
"Elara," he said at last, her name carrying a weight that stripped it of everything but truth. "You don't know how many nights I've stood in this house imagining escape. You don't know how often I've thought of burning it all to the ground."
She swallowed. "Then why don't you?"
His gaze darkened. "Because I never had a reason worth surviving for..until now."
Her chest tightened. She hated the way his words struck her, hated that they sounded like confession instead of manipulation. She wanted to call him a liar. She wanted to believe him.
She rose quickly, setting the glass down with more force than necessary. "You're dangerous, Damien."
He tilted his head. "And you're not?"
Her feet carried her up the steps, back into the shadowed halls. But even when she shut her door, she could still feel him beneath her skin, the weight of his gaze, the echo of his words, the ghost of his touch.
Sleep did not come. Only the guilt. Only the hunger.