Night in the citadel was a living thing.
It pressed against the walls, breathed through the corridors, slipped through the cracks between stone and silence. Lanterns burned low, their light soft and treacherous, casting shadows that felt intimate rather than safe.
Elena stood in front of Soren's mirror and barely recognized herself.
Claire's doing, obviously.
The dress clung where Elena wasn't used to being held—dark fabric skimming her waist, her hips, parting along her thigh in a way that felt intentional. The neckline dipped low enough to make her acutely aware of her own breathing.
She should change.
She didn't.
Because pretending she could keep avoiding Soren—pretending this thing between them didn't exist anymore—no longer made sense. It felt dishonest. Cowardly. Exhausting.
She couldn't keep circling him like a skittish animal when everything in her was already leaning forward.
So she walked to his door.
Her pulse roared in her ears. Her hand trembled.
She knocked.
Softly.
The door opened almost immediately.
Soren stood there, hair damp, shirt unlaced and hanging open, bare chest catching the lanternlight. He froze like he'd taken a blow straight to the sternum.
"Elena."
Her name sounded torn from him.
"Can we talk?" she asked, barely trusting her voice.
The door opened wider.
She stepped inside.
The chamber glowed warm and dim, stone walls softened by firelight. Maps and weapons lined the room—order and war and discipline everywhere. The door closed behind her with a quiet finality that made her stomach flip.
Soren didn't move at first.
He just looked at her.
Slowly. Thoroughly. Like he was trying to commit her to memory before he spoke.
"Why are you dressed like that?" he asked, voice low.
Heat rushed up her throat. "Claire said it might help me feel… normal."
He took one step toward her.
She inhaled sharply.
"Soren—"
Another step.
Her back met the wall without her noticing when she moved. He stopped inches away, breathing unevenly despite the effort to control it.
"I have been trying to stay away from you," he said quietly.
"You succeeded," she whispered. "Very effectively."
His eyes closed for half a second, pain flashing across his face.
"It was the wrong choice."
Her heart kicked.
"Then why make it?"
"Because wanting you," he said, opening his eyes, "makes me reckless."
The honesty hit harder than any declaration.
"I can't keep pretending," she said softly. "I miss you."
Something in him fractured.
His hand braced against the wall beside her head—not trapping, not threatening. Grounding himself.
"Elena," he said, strained, "you should not be here."
"Then tell me to leave."
He didn't.
His jaw worked, restraint vibrating through him like a drawn bowstring.
"If I lose control—"
"Maybe I don't want you to keep it," she whispered.
The space between them vanished.
Her hand rose before she could second-guess it, fingers brushing his bare chest. Warm. Solid. Alive.
Soren shuddered.
"Elena," he breathed, voice breaking, "don't—"
"I'm still breathing," she murmured. "So are you."
That was it.
He kissed her.
Not gentle. Not tentative.
A kiss that felt like surrender and confession all at once—years of restraint collapsing into a single, devastating moment. She leaned into him instinctively, hands sliding into his hair, feeling the way his control trembled beneath her touch.
He groaned, low and raw, as if the sound were pulled from him unwillingly.
"Elena," he said against her mouth, reverent and wrecked. "I need you."
She felt it—in the way he pressed closer, in the way his body responded without restraint, in the heat that flared between them like something finally allowed to exist.
His hands framed her wrists, lifting them gently above her head—not pinning, not forcing. Holding. Looking at her like she was something he'd waited his entire life to touch.
"Tell me to stop," he said, forehead resting against hers. "Or tell me not to."
Her answer was immediate.
"Don't."
Something inside him snapped.
He lifted her without effort, her breath leaving her in a soft gasp as her feet left the floor, instinctively wrapping closer to him. He carried her the few steps to the bed and set her down carefully, like she was fragile and sacred all at once.
He followed, hovering over her, kissing her again—slower now, deeper—like he was memorizing her.
"So much," he murmured. "I want you so much."
Her hands gripped his shoulders, choosing him.
And then—
The door burst open.
"SOREN."
Kael's voice cut through the room like a blade.
They froze.
Soren went utterly still, breathing hard, forehead dropping to Elena's shoulder for one brutal second before he straightened. His hands left her immediately, retreating as if burned.
Kael stood in the doorway, eyes wide, clearly aware he had just interrupted something catastrophic.
"I—" he swallowed. "I knocked."
"No, you didn't," Soren said flatly.
Kael winced. "Right. My mistake."
Kael stopped just inside the threshold, breath tight, eyes flicking once—quickly, deliberately—away from Elena before locking back on Soren.
"There is… a situation," he said carefully.
Soren didn't move. His hands were still braced on either side of Elena, his control visibly locked in place by sheer will.
Kael swallowed and continued, voice dropping into command cadence.
"At the border. ."
That did it. Soren's head lifted slowly.
"Speak," he said.
Kael straightened. "Two Kharathi units crossed the river markers at dusk. Light infantry. No banners. No formal declaration."
Elena felt Soren's body go still against hers—like a blade being drawn from its sheath.
"They claim escort status," Kael went on. "An envoy. But they're probing, not parading. Mapping patrol routes. Testing response time."
Soren's jaw tightened. "How far in?"
"Far enough to be deliberate," Kael said. "Not far enough to be accidental."
Silence stretched. Then Soren exhaled—slow, controlled, lethal.
"They're measuring me," he said.
"Yes," Kael replied. "And they're measuring what you'll do next."
Soren's gaze flicked briefly—once—back to Elena. Not hunger now. Not heat.
Protection. Decision.
He stepped away from her at last, the space between them cooling but charged with everything unsaid.
"Get out," he said quietly to her. Not unkind. Not dismissive. Urgent.
She hesitated.
He met her eyes, something fierce and unfinished burning there.
"This is not over," he said quietly.
She nodded, breathless, unsteady. "I know."
She slipped past Kael without a word, heart hammering, legs weak.
Behind her, Kael cleared his throat awkwardly.
"…I really should start knocking."
Soren did not answer.
Because if he spoke, control would shatter again—and this time, neither of them would stop.