Soren dragged her out of the training yard so fast Elena barely felt her own feet.
Leather. Heat. The iron grip of his hand around hers.
He was furious.
No—not furious.
Unraveled.
They crossed the archway, boots striking stone in a rhythm that matched the pounding in her chest. The corridor beyond was empty—no servants, no Sentinels, no witnesses.
The moment they crossed into that emptiness—
Soren stopped. Abruptly. So abruptly she collided with his back.
Before she could breathe, his hands were on her hips—gloved, firm, pulling her back against him with a low, breaking groan he couldn't swallow.
"Elena," he rasped, voice barely human, "what are you doing to me?"
She looked up at him with deliberate innocence.
"I just told you the truth."
His fingers dug into her hips—not painful, but desperate. Hungry.
"You said," he breathed, leaning down until his lips brushed her cheek, "you wanted to know how my gloves would feel on your skin."
Her breath hitched.
"I do."
He nearly doubled over.
"Elena," he warned—no, begged—"don't say that here."
"Why?" she whispered, stepping closer, her hands sliding slowly up the front of his armor. "No one can see us."
He exhaled sharply—ragged, ruined.
"I am trying," he said, forehead falling against hers, "with everything I have, to get you somewhere private."
"Oh?" she whispered, brushing a slow thumb along the seam of his glove. "Why private?"
His entire body shuddered.
"Elena," he growled, "if you touch me like that again—"
She did.
A soft stroke of her finger along the back of his gloved hand.
Soren snapped. He pinned her gently—but with unmistakable need—against the cold stone wall, his hands braced on either side of her head.
"Do you want me to lose control right here in the hallway?" he demanded, his voice dark silk and fraying restraint.
She swallowed. Hard.
"I want…" Her words trembled. "I want you to tell me what you would do if we weren't in a hallway."
He choked on a sound that was half laugh, half groan.
"Elena," he said, voice breaking, "if I answer that, we will never reach a room."
She leaned forward—barely—just enough to brush her lips across his jaw.
"Then don't answer," she whispered. "Show me."
He swore in another language.
Then grabbed her hand—firmly, decisively—laces their fingers together, and began walking again.
Fast. Urgent. Dragging her toward the nearest door like a man who had finally surrendered to gravity.
"Which room?" Elena breathed, stumbling after him.
"The closest one," Soren said without turning around. "I'm not waiting."
He surged forward—
—and that is the moment a door at the end of the hall slammed open.
Footsteps. Voices. Soren went still like a predator forced back into shadow.
His jaw flexed. His nostrils flared. His hands stayed locked in hers.
"Elena," he whispered, "walk. Now."
He moved again—fast, controlled, furious—and Elena followed, breathless, heat flooding every inch of her skin.
They turned a corner. Found the nearest room.
Soren closed the door behind them with a quiet, lethal finality.
Then he turned toward her—
And the look in his eyes said: This was only the beginning.