The rain hadn't stopped.
By the time Seraphina returned to the second estate study that night, the storm tapped steadily against the windows. The auction was over, but its weight still lingered. And with it came a quiet resignation: she wasn't going back to the Vessant estate. Not unless it was absolutely necessary. That place no longer held anything for her except danger and pretense. She peeled off her gloves slowly, one finger at a time, her hands still buzzing from the tension of the evening.
It had been a win. Quiet, but clear.
Caelan stood near the hearth, arms crossed. Firelight cast sharp angles on his face. He didn't speak. But he wasn't indifferent.
"You have them guessing," he said.
Seraphina didn't look away from the flames. "I have them looking," she replied. "Next, I'll have them doubting."
He gave a short nod. Both of them knew what came next wouldn't be easy.
She moved to the long, cushioned sofa positioned in front of the fire and sank into it. The heat from the flames wrapped around her shoulders and back. Her muscles ached from hours of keeping her spine straight and her composure intact. She leaned slightly into the cushions, letting her posture relax.
Caelan walked over without a word and lowered himself onto the sofa beside her. He didn't lean back, just sat near her, close but not touching.
Neither of them said anything. The fire cracked. The rain fell. It wasn't awkward. It was quiet, like they were both waiting for something.
He caught the faint scent of her perfume, lavender, soft and clean. It wrapped around him before he realized it, pulling him in like a quiet promise. The smell shouldn't have affected him. But it did. It made something low in his gut tighten. He tried not to shift closer, but the temptation sat heavy on his chest. She smelled like comfort and something he hadn't let himself want until now.
Her shoulder brushed his. He didn't pull away.
She leaned into him slightly. Her hands stayed in her lap, knotted together, but her body started to give in.
Her cheek came to rest on his shoulder. Her eyes closed. Her breathing slowed.
He didn't tense. He let her rest.
Caelan felt her weight lean against him. His thoughts were scattered. Her trust hit harder than any battlefield order.
He looked down at her face in the glow of the fire. She was warm. Steady. Real.
He let his hand hover over hers, then placed it down gently. She shifted slightly, curling her fingers against his.
Time passed.
Seraphina stirred. Her lashes fluttered. The fire had dimmed. She blinked and realized she was lying across the length of the sofa, her upper body stretched over Caelan's chest.
Her hand rested flat against his shirt. Her thigh pressed lightly along the edge of his. Her cheek was pressed to the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
And his face was bare.
The mask was off.
His expression was calm. No guard. No edge.
Seraphina's breath caught at the sight of him. He looked peaceful in a way she had never seen. The harsh lines usually carved into his face were gone, replaced with something quiet. Gentle, even. It softened him, made him seem younger. Human. Beautiful.
She studied the slope of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. His features were carved sharp and clean, like a statue brought to life, strong jawline, high cheekbones, lips that looked soft despite everything else about him being hard. His shoulders were broad beneath her, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. She could feel the solid weight of his body under hers, the faint outline of muscle through his shirt. He looked like the kind of man sculptors tried to recreate and always fell short. In the firelight, he looked almost unreal. Like a man she had only imagined before. And somehow, that made it worse.
She reached up and touched his jaw. She didn't plan to, but the urge was sudden and overwhelming. She needed to know he was real. That this version of him, unguarded, quiet, almost vulnerable, wasn't just an illusion created by firelight and exhaustion. She wanted to remember how he felt beneath her fingers. Wanted to understand what made her chest tighten whenever he looked at her like that. It wasn't just an attraction. It was curiosity. Need. Something deeper she couldn't name.
His breath caught. His eyes opened.
He woke to the feeling of her fingers on his skin and her gaze fixed on him, wide and unguarded. It shook him more than he expected. She wasn't just looking, she was seeing him. Really seeing him. The part of him he never showed. The man underneath the rank, the mask, the armor.
And what shook him more was how much he wanted her to see it. How badly he wanted to be known by her. He'd spent years staying unreadable. But now, with her eyes on him like this, tender, curious, open, he didn't want to disappear behind the walls again.
Her touch was light, but it anchored him. And the look on her face made him feel something he wasn't ready to name. He told himself it was the moment, the quiet, the fire. But deep down, he knew it was her.
And it terrified him how much he wanted her to keep looking. Not just tonight, but tomorrow. Always.
She was so close. Her lips parted just slightly, her eyes soft with something he didn't dare name. She was stunning in the dim firelight. Not because of the gown or the way her hair framed her face, but because she didn't even seem to know it. She had never tried to be beautiful, not for him, not for anyone. And that only made it more intense for him.
He wanted to reach for her. To bury his hand in her hair and pull her closer. He wanted to taste her mouth, her skin, to devour every inch she was willing to give. But he couldn't move. Because if he started, he didn't know if he'd be able to stop.
They stared at each other.
She leaned in. Desire bloomed fast and hot in her chest, unbidden but undeniable. She had wanted to kiss him before, in passing thoughts she never entertained for long. But now, with him beneath her and his face open in a way he never allowed, it felt impossible not to. She wondered what his mouth would taste like, what it would feel like to be devoured by a man so composed he could command armies with silence. She wouldn't fight it. If he wanted to take her apart, she'd let him. She leaned in closer. So did he.
Their mouths were close. Their breathing grew shallow, then deeper, touched by excitement they couldn't hide. Her breath fanned across his face, warm and steady. His was just as uneven, brushing against her lips in quick, steady bursts.
Their gazes flicked between each other's eyes and mouths, drawn like magnets. Her fingers curled slightly against his chest. His hand gripped the cushion beneath him, knuckles white. One more movement and their mouths would meet.
Their heads tilted. Not by thought, but instinct. Their bodies were already prepared. Already asking.
One more inch, and they would have kissed.
Then a knock broke the moment.
They inched away, just slightly. Their faces were still close, their eyes still locked. The space between them filled with things unspoken. For a heartbeat, it almost felt like they were pretending it hadn't happened. Like they were trying to tell themselves it was nothing, a misstep, a heat-of-the-moment impulse that would pass.
But neither looked away. Neither moved further.
Then the voice came through the door.
Caelan's expression changed. His eyes hardened.
"My lord," a voice called. "Urgent news."
He didn't stand right away.
His eyes stayed on her.
"I have to go," he said.
"I know," she said. But her tone didn't match the words.
They sat still.
"I don't want to," he said, voice low.
"I don't want you to," she replied.
His jaw flexed. "If I stay, I won't leave tonight."
She said nothing.
"I'll come back," he said. "If you'll let me."
She nodded. "I'll want you to."
That was enough.
He stood. The shift was instant. Duty settled on his shoulders again.
He gave her one last look. Then he left.
The door closed.
She didn't move.
Her mind reeled. That was close. Too close. One more breath and everything would have changed.
Part of her was relieved it hadn't happened. She wasn't free. Not yet. On paper, she was still Alaric's wife. And that meant anything with Caelan now would only complicate things.
But another part of her hated that the moment slipped through her fingers. Because she had wanted it. Desperately.
She told herself it was better this way.
But the ache in her chest said otherwise.
Later, when the fire burned low, she stood.
She still felt the heat of him.
She didn't look at the door.
She walked the private corridors of her estate. Past cold tapestries and dark sconces. Toward her archive.
She had moved the Vault here. Every scroll and artifact once stored at D'Lorien now rested in her hidden vault, locked beneath layers of protection.
Tonight she would begin sorting. Verifying. Separating truth from legacy.
There were things only she could identify.
The legacy wasn't lost.
It was hers now. And it was waking.