Elena decided she was going to listen to Claire.
Which meant, naturally, she made the worst possible decision.
She went looking for Soren.
She checked the council wing. Empty. The war room. No trace. The corridor with the tall windows where she'd seen him days ago. Nothing.
Her frustration rose with every turn she took.
"Perfect," she muttered under her breath. "I'm out here trying to talk about my feelings and he's doing—whatever brooding ice princes do when they're not staring holes into people."
She stopped.
Where would he be?
She closed her eyes.
Thought.
Soren wasn't in a diplomatic mood. Not in a reading mood. Not in a pacing-through-halls-like-a-feral-wolf mood either.
No, if he was unsettled the way she was—
Her eyes snapped open.
"The training grounds," she whispered.
The walk there felt like marching into her own execution.
The moment she stepped into the grounds, she knew she wasn't ready for this.
...
Eight Sentinels moved across the snow-packed arena like a storm given form.
Swords flashed in arcs of sunlight. Boots cut deep patterns into the frost. Their bodies moved with terrifying precision — not brute force, but something closer to a lethal dance.
The clang of metal was rhythmic. Their timing was immaculate. Every turn, parry, spin of blade was synchronized so perfectly she felt it in her bones.
"Holy—" she breathed. "They're… pretty."
And deadly. And pretty. Like someone had taken the concept of an elite military unit and merged it with a tragic fashion catalogue.
She stepped closer, unable to look away.
Kael ducked under a sweeping strike, pivoted, and sent his opponent's weapon flying into the snow. Another Sentinel caught it midair without even glancing.
It was absurd. It was impossible. It was… kind of hot.
And then—
Her breath left her body.
Because Soren stepped forward into the circle.
He wasn't wearing a shirt.
Of course he wasn't. Why would the universe give her even a shred of mercy?
His skin glowed pale against the stark winter sun, muscles shifting beneath it like coiled steel. Broad shoulders flexed as he rotated his wrists around his twin training blades. A faint sheen of sweat glistened along his back.
He didn't just look powerful. He looked like the reason the word power was invented.
The Sentinels attacked in pairs — testing him, pushing him, trying to force an opening.
They didn't get one. Soren moved like he was carved from frost and fire both — sharp, precise, devastatingly fluid. His strikes were poetry. His footwork was sinfully smooth.
She forgot how to swallow. Forgot how to breathe. Forgot her own name.
"What the—" she whispered. "What is he made of, concentrated protein powder?!"
One Sentinel swung downward. Soren blocked with one blade, twisted, caught the man's wrist, flipped him to the snow, and disarmed him in a single, effortless motion.
The Sentinel laughed breathlessly, shaking his head as he retreated.
Soren didn't laugh.
He rarely laughed.
But something inside him looked… lighter. Unburdened.
Until—
He stilled.
Every movement in the arena stopped as if someone had cut the sound from the world.
Soren's gaze lifted. Found her. Held her.
Heat shot up her throat so violently she nearly choked. She couldn't look away — his eyes dragged her in like gravity.
He handed his blade to Kael without breaking their stare.
Kael took it, saw where Soren was looking, and sighed quietly in that "we're all doomed" way he had.
The Sentinels dispersed instantly, as if the prince approaching a woman was a sign to evacuate the premises.
Cowards. Thoughtful cowards.
And then—
Soren walked toward her. Not quickly. Not slowly.
Just with that inevitable, unstoppable presence that made the air tighten around her ribs.
Her pulse thudded.
She tried—tried—to look anywhere but at the very bare, very muscular torso moving straight toward her. It didn't work.
By the time he reached her, she was actively praying the snow would swallow her alive.
"Elena," he murmured, voice roughened from exertion.
She said nothing.
Couldn't. Wouldn't. Because if she opened her mouth, she might actually confess every unholy thought she'd had since she walked in.
Soren stepped even closer — close enough she could feel the heat radiating off him in waves despite the cold air.
"Are you going to speak," he asked softly, "or stare at me until you forget how to walk?"
Her voice failed her.
Heat flooded her cheeks. Her stomach. Lower.
He leaned in. Just slightly.
Just enough that his breath brushed her cheek.
"Elena," he said, "look at me."
She did.
Mistake.
His eyes were molten. Hungry. A storm barely restrained.
He moved suddenly — not grabbing, not harsh, but fast enough to steal her breath. Her back hit the wooden training post behind her with a soft thud. His arms bracketed her in. Not touching. But caging.
She inhaled sharply.
"Soren—" she whispered.
He dipped his head, lips almost brushing hers.
"Tell me," he murmured, voice low and devastating, "why you came."
Her heart thundered so loudly she was certain he could feel it vibrating between them.
"I—wanted to talk," she said.
The lie tasted thin the instant it left her mouth.
Soren's gaze dropped to her lips. Slowly. Deliberately.
A smile curved his mouth—not kind, not amused. Something sharper. Knowing.
"Talk," he repeated softly, stepping closer, "or something you've been trying not to think about since the yard?"
Her breath hitched. Damn him. Damn the way he saw straight through her.
They slid—slow, traitorous—over the breadth of his bare shoulders, over skin marked by old scars and muscle shaped by violence and discipline. No shirt. No armor. Just him. Solid. Heat-sheened from training.
Her gaze dropped lower before she could stop it.
Down the hard planes of his chest. The ridged lines of muscle that tightened as he breathed. And then—there. The sharp V where strength narrowed and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers, the line so unmistakably male it made her swallow hard.
She remembered the weight of him above her. The way his body had aligned with hers without effort. How easily he'd pinned her—not with force, but with certainty. With control so absolute it had felt deliberate.
Anyone else, her mind whispered recklessly, would have taken advantage of that.
The thought burned low and hot.
Her knees weakened—just a fraction.
He noticed. Of course he did.
His hand lifted—not to touch her, not yet—but close enough that heat radiated from his knuckles, close enough that her skin prickled like it already knew what it wanted.
"Say it," he whispered. "Say what you want from me."
She shook her head, a useless motion. "You know I can't."
"I know you can," he said quietly. "You're just afraid of what happens if you do."
He leaned in. So close her breath stuttered.
Their foreheads hovered an inch apart. No more.
She could see every detail of his mouth—the faint scar on his cheek, the tension in his jaw like he was holding something feral on a leash. She wondered, helplessly, what those lips would feel like without restraint. Without control.
The space between them felt louder than steel clashing. Louder than the world.
Her body betrayed her completely—heat rushing low and fast, pooling where she refused to think about it. Her hands curled into fists at her sides to keep from reaching up, from testing how real he felt.
"Soren…" she breathed.
The sound fractured.
His eyes darkened, something primal flickering beneath the discipline.
"Yes?" he prompted, barely more than air. "Tell me."
Her lips parted.
Her pulse skidded wildly.
For one suspended, unbearable second, the world narrowed to this—his warmth, his breath brushing hers, the undeniable truth that if she said one word wrong, one word right—
Neither of them would stop.
And she knew it.
He knew she knew.
The promise hung between them like a blade poised to fall.
"Your Highness!"
They froze.
At least six inches of pure longing snapped back between them.
A breathless steward sprinted across the training yard, skidding on the snow.
Soren did not move. Did not step away.
He lifted his head slowly, eyes still locked on hers.
"Elena," he murmured, voice a threat and a promise at once, "this conversation is not finished."
He pushed off the post, turning to the steward with lethal calm.
"What," he said coldly, "is so urgent that you interrupt me?"
But Elena barely heard the steward's stammered words. Her heart was still pounding against the wooden post. Her lips still tingled from almost-touch.
And all she could think was:
Next time, she wasn't letting anything interrupt.