Morning came too fast.
I woke up already tense, like my body had remembered before my mind did. The dream clung in fragments, his hands, his voice, the weight of him behind me, and the awareness of my own body followed a second later, sharp and embarrassing.
I stayed in bed longer than I should have, staring at the ceiling and trying to will the memory out of my muscles.
It didn't work.
By the time I forced myself downstairs, I had my expression under control, my hair pulled back, my breathing steady. On the outside I was composed.
On the inside I was still pressed against a library wall.
The dining room was already full.
Kael wasn't there.
I told myself that was a good thing. Distance meant clarity. It meant I could sit down, eat, and pretend nothing had happened.
Then Lyra looked up and smiled at me like she knew exactly why his chair was empty.
"Sleep well?" she asked lightly.
I nodded and reached for the coffee pot before answering, giving myself a second to steady my voice.
"Fine."
Her gaze lingered on my face a fraction too long before dropping briefly to my mouth. I wondered if my lips still looked bruised.
Kael's mother was speaking at the far end of the table, warm and calm, as if nothing had shifted under the surface of the house. Or maybe she knew and simply chose not to acknowledge it. I still hadn't decided which was worse.
Lyra leaned back in her chair, perfectly at ease in a way I could never quite manage here.
"He's training early today," she said casually. "He does that when he's trying to burn something out of his system."
My fingers tightened around my cup.
"I wouldn't know."
Her smile sharpened.
"No," she agreed. "You wouldn't."
The conversation around us continued –schedules, deliveries, the northern boundary, but it blurred into background noise.
I could feel eyes on me.
Not hostile. Not welcoming either.
Curious.
Last night had changed something. I didn't know how they knew, but I knew they did.
When I finished eating, I stood a little too quickly.
"I have work to do," I said to no one in particular.
Lyra didn't stop me. She didn't need to. The small, satisfied curve of her mouth followed me out of the room.
I avoided the library.
Instead I went outside, walking the gravel path behind the house until the cold air finally cut through the fog in my head. My body still felt keyed up, restless, like it was waiting for something to happen.
Like it was waiting for him.
That thought alone made me turn back toward the house, irritated with myself.
I was halfway to the side entrance when the training field came into view.
Kael was there.
Shirt damp with sweat, movements precise, controlled, brutal in their efficiency. He wasn't sparring. He was working alone, striking the heavy bag with a focus that looked dangerously close to punishment.
Each hit landed with a dull, solid thud.
I should have kept walking.
Instead I stopped.
He sensed me almost immediately. His rhythm broke just slightly before he turned his head enough to meet my eyes across the distance.
For a second neither of us moved.
Then he stepped back from the bag.
The air between us filled with everything we hadn't said.
I crossed my arms, partly against the cold, mostly to keep from doing something stupid like walking closer.
"You didn't come to breakfast," I said.
"You noticed."
"I notice when someone leaves an empty chair."
"I'm busy."
"With this?" I gestured toward the bag.
"With control."
The answer was too honest.
Heat flared low in my stomach before I could stop it.
"Good luck with that," I said.
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile.
"You should stay away from the training grounds," he said. "Someone could get hurt."
"Is that a warning?"
"Yes."
"For me or for you?"
His gaze dropped briefly to my throat before returning to my eyes.
"That depends."
The memory of his teeth in my dream flashed so vividly I had to look away.
Silence stretched again, thick with everything we were pretending not to acknowledge.
"Lyra says you're burning something out of your system," I said finally.
Something dark moved behind his expression.
"Lyra says a lot of things."
"She seems very sure of her place here."
"She was raised here."
The words were simple, but the meaning was clear.
She belonged.
I didn't.
I forced myself to hold his gaze.
"And where does that leave me?"
He didn't answer right away. It was the same pause he'd given me in the library when I asked him to explain.
"That depends on what you want," he said.
I didn't have a safe answer to that.
Because what I wanted wasn't logical or strategic or anything that made sense inside this house with its quiet rules and watching eyes.
What I wanted was the way he had looked at me when he lost control.
"I want the truth," I said.
"That's not the same thing."
"Then start somewhere."
He wiped his hands on a towel, buying time.
"You shouldn't have been in that corridor last night," he said.
"You were there too."
"I live here."
"I'm not a prisoner."
"No," he said quietly. "You're not."
But the way he looked at me made it clear that freedom was relative.
A voice called his name from the far end of the field.
He stepped back.
Distance again. Control again.
"This conversation isn't finished," I said.
"No," he agreed. "It isn't."
He turned away first, walking toward the others without looking back.
I stayed where I was, watching until he disappeared into the group, already different, already the person everyone seemed to orbit around, not the man who had pressed me against a wall and kissed me like he meant to ruin both of us.
The cold finally seeped through my clothes.
I went back inside through the side entrance and nearly walked straight into Lyra.
Her smile was soft.
Understanding.
Territorial.
"Be careful," she said gently. "He breaks things he can't keep."
Then she walked past me as if she owned the corridor.
I stood there, pulse hammering, her warning settling under my skin.
Because the worst part was that she might be right.
And I didn't know if I wanted to be careful anymore.