The castle was quiet now, the kind of quiet that only came late at night when the servants had retired and the torches in the halls burned low. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the fire and the gentle rustle of fabric as Y/n moved about the room. Oryx lay on the enormous bed, his broad shoulders propped against the headboard, one arm folded behind his head. His dark eyes followed every movement she made—the brush sliding through her hair, the slow glide of lotion over her skin, the way his shirt hung loose on her frame.

He didn't wait for her to finish. He never did when it came to her. When she crossed to the bed, his hands found her waist easily, lifting her onto his lap as though she weighed nothing. The fine linen of his sleep shirt bunched around her thighs. The firelight flickered over the sharp lines of his face, the black ink of his tattoos curling over his chest and down his arms. He traced the delicate bones of her fingers with his calloused thumbs, his expression softening in a way no one else in the kingdom would ever believe.

He knew every step she'd taken, of course. The guards reported everything. But hearing it from her lips was different. It settled something restless in him.