The silence between them was deafening, yet it carried none of the tension Levan always seemed to wear like armour. His hand was steady around hers as he led her back toward the palace, his long strides unhurried, his expression unreadable as ever, so different from that time when he used to leave her behind.
Ilaria, however, was anything but calm. Every movement sent her nerves into disarray. The way his thumb shifted slightly against her knuckles when his grip adjusted. The faint brush of his calloused fingertips against her palm. Even the heat of his hand was enough to set her heart pounding louder than the crunch of gravel beneath their steps.
She dared not look at him. If she did, she feared she might give herself away entirely. Instead, her eyes stayed low, fixed on the rhythmic sway of their joined hands. Why did something so simple feel like the most intimate thing in the world?
