In the dim, honeyed glow of the sitting room, the heavy oak door felt like a barricade against the world, but it could not shield Eris from the man who now stood as its center.
Soren did not merely move; he hovered. His large, calloused hands, hands that knew the balance of a broadsword and the weight of a scepter, were suspended in the air like ghosts, twitching toward the silver-laced nightmare of her back.
The poise he had maintained in the cathedral had evaporated, replaced by a raw, restless energy that made the small room feel smaller.
"Let me help you," he murmured. The words were not a request; they were a plea, thick with a need to be useful, to be close, to finally unwrap the woman he had spent the morning worshipping from a distance.
Eris didn't turn. She could feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the chilled silk of her gown. "You don't need to help me, Soren. This is why I have a small army of attendants."
