"Marcus Branthorne. In your dining room. Tonight. Explain."
Caelan's voice cut through the silence. Seraphina's fingers stopped on her bodice laces.
"Business dinner," she said without turning around. "Nothing more."
"Nothing more." He stepped closer. "You didn't think to inform me you were meeting with the third richest man in the empire? Besides Alaric and Evelyne being there, you were alone with him."
There it was. The real question under strategic language.
"Since when do I require your permission for business associates?"
"Since those associates pose security risks to our operations." His voice was controlled, but she caught the tells. Tension around his eyes. Pulse jumping in his throat.
Jealousy. Raw jealousy wrapped in tactical concerns.
"Security risks," she repeated. "Or something else entirely?"
Caelan went very still.
"I should have sent Jorin," he said quietly. "Should have waited for proper intelligence. Should have followed protocol." His jaw tightened. "But seeing Branthorne here, in your chambers, after hours..."
There. The crack in his control.
"You couldn't wait," Seraphina said. "You came here yourself because you couldn't bear not knowing."
"Tactically unsound," he agreed. His eyes said something else. "Operationally reckless. Emotionally..." He stopped.
They stared at each other. Neither spoke the obvious truth.
"We're fighting the wrong war," Seraphina said.
Caelan laughed without humor. "I compromised operational security because I couldn't manage my own..." He gestured at feelings he wouldn't name.
"Your concern for our alliance," she said carefully.
"Yes. That." His mouth twisted. "My concern for our alliance."
They were professional partners. They had to stay professional partners.
"Sit down," Seraphina said. "If you're here, we might as well make it productive."
But as she turned back to finish undressing, her fingers caught on the bottom laces. The bodice hung loose at the top, but the knots at her back were impossible to reach.
"I can't..." she admitted quietly.
She heard him move closer. "Let me."
His voice had changed. Softer. Careful.
His fingers brushed hers away from the laces. First skin contact. Warm. Deliberate. She had to hold the front of the bodice to keep it from falling.
Neither spoke as he worked the knots free. Just breathing and fabric shifting. His knuckles brushed against her bare spine with each lace, and she fought not to arch into the touch.
Her breathing changed. Became shallower.
"Your breathing changed," he observed quietly.
She didn't deny it. "Finish it."
His hands stilled at her response. The command was about the laces and something else entirely. When he continued, his touch became more deliberate.
By the time the last lace was freed, she was breathing like she'd been running.
"There," he said, hands lingering on her shoulder blades.
Her breathing was still uneven. They both knew it.
"You should..." she started.
"I should," he agreed, but his hands didn't move.
She shivered. Only then did he step back.
"Give me a moment," she said, moving toward the bathroom.
The door closed with a soft click.
She emerged in silk nightgown and robe, covered now but the intimacy lingered. He'd moved to the window, giving her space.
The lavender scent hit him immediately. Not her formal court perfumes, but something personal. Private. His usually sharp focus began fragmenting.
"The Skyglass deal concluded today," she said, settling onto the settee. "Successfully. Beyond our projections."
He took the seat beside her instead of across. Close enough that their knees almost brushed. Close enough that the lavender scent grew stronger.
"How successfully?" His voice had gone rough.
"Enough to make me genuinely wealthy. Enough to buy real influence." When she leaned forward, her hand landed on his thigh for a second before she pulled back. The heat lingered. "Your investment portion alone secures your position for the next decade."
He should be calculating numbers, analyzing implications. Instead he was mesmerized by how lamplight played across her collarbones.
"And Marcus's portion?"
"Makes him even more valuable to someone like Evelyne," Seraphina admitted. "Another reason tonight's magical violation was strategically devastating."
She reached across him for a sealed letter from her desk. The lavender scent became overwhelming. Their fingers overlapped completely when she handed it to him.
"I've written to my family's old allies," she continued. "Can you ensure this reaches Lord Mortimer safely?"
Instead of taking the letter, he let their hands remain joined. His thumb stroked across her knuckles once, deliberate, before he took it.
"Your tactical analysis seems less precise tonight," she observed.
"Does it?" He didn't deny it. "Perhaps the variables have changed."
"What variables?"
"Environmental factors. Unexpected sensory input. Data that wasn't accounted for in the original assessment."
"You make it sound very clinical."
"Don't you prefer clinical? It's safer than the alternative."
"And what would the alternative be?"
"Honesty." The word hung between them. "Which neither of us can afford."
"No," she agreed quietly. "We can't."
He tucked the letter inside his jacket. "Anything else?"
"Charm protection. For you, for me, for everyone in our network. Whatever Evelyne used tonight was stronger than anything I've encountered."
"Here," he said, reaching up to touch behind her ear where a charm ward would go. His fingers lingered. "And here." His other hand touched her wrist, feeling her pulse race.
She went completely still but didn't pull away.
"You're being very thorough," she observed.
"Thoroughness keeps people alive." His fingers remained against her pulse. "I assume you value your life."
"That depends. Whose assessment of threat are we using?"
"Mine." His thumb traced her pulse point. "I notice things others miss."
"Such as?"
"Changes in breathing. Elevated pulse. The way someone's control slips when they think no one's watching."
"Interesting theory." Her voice remained steady despite her racing heart. "And what do your observations tell you now?"
"That you're not as unaffected as you pretend to be."
"Pretending is a survival skill. Surely you understand that."
"I do." He stepped back slowly. "The question is what we're both pretending not to notice."
"For everyone in our network," she said, returning to safer ground.
"For you. Especially you."
Strategy had been abandoned completely.
"I should go," Caelan said finally, moving toward the balcony. "Staying longer increases risk."
"Caelan." His name escaped before she could stop it.
He paused, hand on the balcony door. Didn't turn around.
"Next time, send Jorin," she said quietly. "Your judgment matters too much to compromise it with emotional variables."
"Understood." His voice was neutral. "It won't happen again."
But as he stepped onto the balcony, his posture went rigid.
"Seraphina." His voice carried urgency. "Come here. Now."
She moved to his side, followed his gaze to the courtyard below. A coach was departing, its occupants barely visible but unmistakable.
Alaric and Evelyne. Together.
"Where are they going at this hour?" she whispered.
"Nothing good," Caelan replied, his arm wrapping around her waist as they watched. She didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned back against him in the night air. "This changes..."
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound at her chamber door froze them both. Her back pressed to his chest, his hand over hers on the balcony rail. In the moment of panic, he pulled her closer, protective instinct overriding everything else.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
More insistent. Whoever it was wouldn't leave.
They were breathing hard, hearts racing, pressed together in fear and adrenaline. When she turned in his arms to face the door, they were suddenly face to face, bodies pressed together, both knowing they were about to be caught.
His hand moved to his blade, but his other arm stayed around her waist.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The final knock came while they stared into each other's eyes, both calculating escape routes and consequences, both acutely aware of how this looked, how this felt, and what it meant that neither was pulling away.