The air didn't just shift — it snapped.
Like the split second before lightning strikes: thick, charged, hard to breathe.
I tried to stand. My knee caught in the mat, and I fell straight back — right into him.
His chest was solid as a wall. No give. No softness. The knock drove breath from me, and left only his scent: ink, cedar, and something cold that lived deep under his skin.
"Careful," he said.
One word. Low. Rough. Not comfort — a warning.
His hand settled at my waist. Not to steady me. To hold me in place. To mark me. Fingers spread wide, burning through thin fabric, like he meant to memorize exactly how much of me he could cover.
"I am not one of those storybook princes, Seraphina."
His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade — both confession and judgment at once.
Strawberry cake and cream were smeared across my cheek from the fall. Without thinking, I licked my lips for the taste. Stupid move.
His gaze dropped straight to my mouth… and stayed there.
