The town was alive with noise—traders shouting over one another, beggars weaving through the crowds, travelers haggling for food or coin. It wasn't a rich place, but it was prosperous enough to matter. Which made it perfect. The merchant lord would have to stop here, and when he did, we'd be ready.
I kept my hood low, walking beside Muir through the chaos. No one here had any idea that two royal heirs were wandering their streets—a Water Prince and the Fire Prince himself. If they did, we'd have a riot on our hands.
To his credit, Muir blended in easily.
"Adaptability is my specialty," he'd said smugly when I gave him a look. "A good prince knows how to play any role."
I'd rolled my eyes, but damn it—he wasn't wrong. He haggled like a commoner, flirted like a fool, and gathered information with a natural ease that infuriated me.
We ended up at a small tavern near the square, nursing drinks while Muir worked his usual tricks—buying rounds, laughing too loud, slipping coins to the right hands. Eventually, he got what we needed: the merchant would arrive in two days, traveling with a small guard. Six trained men, maybe more. He always stuck to the main road—never the alleys. Predictable.
An exploitable habit.
As we left to scout for ambush points, Muir broke the silence with all the subtlety of a hammer.
"So… you kissed Lyra again."
I nearly tripped. "How the hell do you know that?"
He grinned, tapping his nose. "Dragon senses, my dear prince. You reek of it."
I shot him a glare. "I don't reek of anything."
"Please." Muir's grin widened. "When she came to wake me, she still smelled like you. And arousal. It was—how do I put this—delicious."
My fists curled. "Watch it, Muir."
He laughed, hands raised. "Relax. I'm not interested in your baby dragon—though I see why you are."
A growl rumbled low in my throat, but I swallowed it.
"So," he continued lazily, "are you two a thing now?"
I scoffed. "You'd be the last person I'd tell."
"That just means you don't know," he said, smirking. "Or worse—you do, and you're in denial."
I exhaled sharply, focusing on the road ahead. "We have more important things to deal with than this."
"Sure," he said. "But your whole brooding-prince act? Getting tired."
I ignored him.
I had bigger things to worry about.
Like the darkness.
The mission.
And the way I couldn't stop thinking about the woman I was supposed to keep at arm's length.
By the time we returned to the tavern to meet Lyra and Revik, I was already on edge.
Then I walked inside—and my patience shattered.
The air was thick with ale, roasted meat, and sweat. Laughter rolled from every table. None of it mattered.
Because right in the middle—absolutely hammered—were Lyra and Revik.
Revik had an arm around a burly merchant, both roaring with laughter at something that wasn't remotely funny. Lyra sat beside him, silver-white hair spilling down her shoulders as she belted out the words to a song she definitely didn't know.
Muir snorted beside me. "Well. This is new."
I ground my teeth. Leave them alone for one night, and of course they'd find trouble.
Revik spotted us first, eyes squinting before raising his tankard. "Well, well, well—look who it is!"
Lyra turned, face lighting like the sunrise. "Ohhh, it's Sparky and Snowflake!"
Muir barked a laugh. "Snowflake?"
Lyra nodded earnestly, pointing at him like she'd solved a mystery. "That's your new name! 'Cause you're all cold and pretty."
Muir smirked. "I think I like her better drunk."
I ignored him. "Go get us rooms. These two need to sober up."
Still grinning, Muir gave a lazy salute and sauntered off.
Revik staggered toward me, slapping a hand onto my shoulder. "I'm not drunk," he said proudly. "But I do have a bone to pick with you."
Lyra nodded solemnly beside him. "Yeah! What he said."
I sighed. "Revik, we can talk tomorrow. When you're sober."
"No, no, no." He shook his head—then lost his balance and started falling.
Muir reappeared just in time to catch him, smirking. "And that is why I don't drink." He jerked his chin toward the stairs. "Two rooms left. I'm taking this one before he breaks something."
Then, with a wicked grin: "Unless you'd rather Lyra and I share?"
"Absolutely not," I snapped.
Muir's laughter echoed up the stairs as he dragged Revik away, leaving me alone with Lyra—swaying slightly, smiling faintly.
She blinked up at me. "And then there were two."
I exhaled. "Time to go."
I gripped her arms—firm but careful. She wobbled, blinking those violet eyes, voice slurred. "Waaait." She braced herself, as if preparing to duel. "We gotta close our tab."
I sighed. Of course.
Leaving her by the table, I pushed through the crowd to the bar. "Closing a tab," I told the barkeep.
"Name?" he grunted.
Before I could answer, Lyra popped her head around me, grinning like she'd discovered fire.
"Sparky!" she shouted. "It's under Sparky!"
The barkeep's brow rose. I closed my eyes, inhaling slowly.
Then she leaned against me, poking my cheek. "This is him," she giggled. "This is Sparky. He's very… Sparky-e-e."
Laughter rippled through the tavern. I tossed a few coins on the counter. The barkeep shook his head. "Good luck with that one."
"Yeah," I muttered. "I'll need it."
I steered her upstairs, unlocking the room.
And froze.
One bed.
Of course.
Lyra peered past me, eyes lighting. "Oooooh," she drawled. "One bed. Who could've guessed?" Her grin turned lopsided. "Hope you don't snore, Sparky."
I rolled my eyes, closing the door. "You know I don't, drunken thief."
She grinned wider, then flopped onto the mattress, arms out.
This was going to be an interesting night.
The fire crackled as I stacked another log on. The warmth filled the small room. Simple task—one I'd done a hundred times. But tonight—
Tonight, I felt her.
The shift in the air. The weight of her gaze.
When I turned, I saw why.
Lyra sat on the bed's edge, wearing only her shirt—if it even counted. The fabric barely brushed her thighs, pale skin catching firelight.
My pulse slammed against my ribs.
Fuck.
I forced my face to stay neutral, though heat coiled low in my gut.
Her eyes followed as I stripped off my own shirt and tossed it onto a chair. Her gaze lingered—slow, hungry, unashamed.
I took a step toward her. Then another.
She tilted her head, violet eyes locking on mine—a dare.
And then—
Her legs wrapped around my waist in a blur, flipping me onto the bed. I hit the mattress hard. She straddled me, smirking.
"I win."
My hands gripped her hips—not pushing her away, not pulling her closer.
"You sure about that, little thief?" My voice was rough, low, dangerous.
With one motion, I flipped her, pinning her beneath me. Her breath caught. The heat between us pulsed.
"Go to sleep, Lyra." My tone came out strained, rougher than I meant.
Her lips parted. "You're pushing me away again."
I exhaled, shaking my head. "I'm not touching you when you're drunk."
Her expression softened—disappointment flickering through the haze in her eyes. "How gentlemanly of you," she murmured, voice teasing but quiet.
I started to move off her—until her fingers brushed my wrist.
She traced the scar on my forearm, feather-light, following it up my arm, across my shoulder, down my chest, stopping above my heart.
"How did you get this?" she whispered.
I stiffened. "It's not important."
I lay back beside her, staring at the ceiling.
But she didn't let go.
Her hand cupped my cheek, turning my head until I had no choice but to meet her eyes—soft, searching, pleading.
"Let me in, Rai," she murmured. "Please."