Rhaegar dragged her swiftly into a side drying room—the door slammed shut behind them with a sharp bang.
The chamber was dim, lit only by a narrow window set high above. All around them hung layers upon layers of embroidered silks, draped like veils of gauze, swaying faintly in the still air.
Caelith was pressed back against the wooden door, its chill seeping through her spine—while before her stood the heat of him, close, inescapable.
She drew in a breath, glaring up at him. "Have you lost your mind?"
He did not answer. He only looked at her with eyes full of sorrow.
In the muted light, his gaze burned—dark, deep, carrying that familiar edge of something untamed… something dangerously close to madness.
His hand rose, fingers closing around her chin, lifting her face.
"Why were you smiling at Lucas Ostenton?"
"What?"
"I saw you." His thumb brushed slowly along her jaw—not forceful, yet leaving no room to move. "You smiled. Beautifully so. Why at him?"
