Elena had survived kidnappers, a concussion, cracked ribs, three days of fever, and an entire fortress of murder-happy Kharathi soldiers.
Apparently, the universe decided her next challenge would be:
Soren.
Because Soren—high prince, walking storm cloud, wielder of unreasonable cheekbones—was currently giving orders like she was a crate of fragile glassware.
Soren straightened and gave a curt nod to Kael. "Move her chambers."
Elena blinked. "Move—what? My what?"
"Your room," Soren clarified. "It will now be across from mine."
Her entire soul malfunctioned.
"Why?!"
He held her gaze without flinching. "Because I will hear you if anything happens."
"That sounds—"
"Practical," he said.
"No, it sounds—"
"Nonnegotiable."
She spluttered like an angry kettle.
Kael, traitor that he was, only bowed and said, "I'll have it arranged immediately."
Elena spun toward him. "Kael, you don't have to actually—are you already walking away? KAEL!"
But Kael was already gone, absolutely not getting between her and Soren in this mood.
Soren wasn't done.
"And assign a Sentinel to guard her door."
Elena groaned. "A guard? Really?"
He turned slightly. "Eris."
The youngest Sentinel approached—broad-shouldered, deadly, beautiful in a terrifying way, and barely older than Elena.
She stared at him.
He stared back with the polite, stoic expression of a man who had absolutely heard her moan Soren's name during the rescue.
Fantastic.
Elena waved weakly. "Hi. Please never talk about anything you've ever seen."
Eris dipped his head solemnly. "Of course, my lady."
She turned on Soren. "Why him?!"
"He's the fastest," Soren said.
"He's a puppy in armor!"
"He is a lethal warrior."
"He looks like he models for medieval cologne ads!"
Soren's lips twitched.
"Good," he said. "He'll do."
Elena threw her hands up. "This is absurd!"
Soren stepped closer—too close—until her breath froze in her chest.
"Elena," he murmured softly, "I almost lost you. Let me keep you safe."
Her heart kicked painfully.
Heat and fear and something far more dangerous tangled inside her ribs.
"…Fine," she whispered. "But I won't like it."
He smiled—slow, devastating.
"I know."
Of course he knew.
Of course he did.
She wasn't done.
"You can't just move me like a chess piece," she snapped.
"I can," he said simply.
"And you can't just assign me a guard! I managed fine on my own—I nearly escaped on my own, actually."
Soren slowly turned his head toward her.
Very slowly.
"Elena," he said, voice flat, "you passed out on a stone floor."
"I would have escaped if I weren't concussed."
He blinked once. "You were chained."
"I was thinking about escaping."
Soren exhaled like he was trying to remain polite at a diplomatic banquet.
Then—he stepped closer.
Much too close.
"Elena," he murmured, "you can't escape your own bedside when you stand up too fast."
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"Fine," she said, chin lifting stubbornly. "Then teach me how to fight."
Silence.
Dead silence.
Even Eris blinked.
Soren stared at her as if she had suggested jumping off the tower to "see what happens."
"No," he said immediately.
"Why not?!"
"Because," he said, "I like my Sentinels alive."
"I'm not a Sentinel!"
"Precisely."
She scowled. "I could learn."
"You absolutely could not."
Her gasp was loud and offended. "Wow. Rude."
He leaned in, voice low enough to curl around her spine.
"Elena. If I teach you to fight, you'll take it as permission to run into danger on purpose."
She opened her mouth to object—
He raised a brow. "Yes or no?"
She closed her mouth.
"Exactly," he said.
"That's… unfair logic," she muttered.
"That's accuracy."
She huffed. "Maybe I want to defend myself."
Soren's expression softened—barely.A shadow of something raw flickered through his eyes.
"I will defend you."
"But I won't always have you."
His jaw tightened. Hard.
"You will," he said.
She stared at him.
"Soren—be realistic."
"I am," he replied, stepping closer until her breath caught. "And realistically, Elena, I am never letting you face danger alone again."
Her heart stuttered.
Her brain tried to climb out of her skull.
"…Still rude," she whispered.
He smiled—slow, devastating, annoyingly victorious.
"I know."