Rhys is leaning against a black town car, and when he sees me emerge from the building, something shifts in his expression.
Not the easy smile I expected. Something rawer. He pushes off the car and meets me halfway across the sidewalk, hands shoved in his pockets like he's physically restraining himself from reaching for me.
"I owe you an apology."
The words land like a slap in the cold air. Rhys Voss, apologizing. I didn't know his vocabulary included that particular combination of syllables.
"For what, specifically? The list is getting rather long."
"For what I said."
He runs a hand through his hair, and for the first time since I've known him, he looks genuinely uncertain.
"That was cruel. I was hurt and I wanted to hurt back, and you didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire."
"You're right. I didn't."
"I watched the results come in and something inside me just..."
He exhales, breath fogging in the night air.
"I wanted him to feel what I've felt my entire life. Coming in second to Caspian. Always second. The backup plan, the spare heir, the one who gets the leftovers."
"I'm not a leftover."
"No. You're not. You're the first thing I've ever wanted before you were his."
"I don't know what I'm doing here, Rhys."
His name in my mouth changes something. I watch his pupils dilate, watch the careful control slip just enough to show me what's underneath.
"Do you remember what I promised you? What I said I'd do when I finally got to hear you say my name?"
My pulse kicks up, heat spreading through my chest despite the cold.
"I remember."
"Are you ready to find out if I keep my promises?"
I should say no. I should turn around and walk away and spend the rest of my life wondering what might have happened if I'd been brave enough to stay.
Instead, I take his hand.
By the time we reach the hotel, I've stopped fighting the current.
"This doesn't mean I've chosen," I tell him as the elevator climbs. "This doesn't mean tomorrow will be any clearer than today."
"I'm not asking for tomorrow." His thumb traces circles on my wrist, finding my pulse point with unerring accuracy. "I'm asking for tonight."
The elevator doors slide shut, and the air between us thickens, heavy with unspoken hunger.
His hand grips mine, fingers lacing together like they were made to fit, and I feel the heat of his skin seep into mine.
My pulse quickens, thrumming in my wrists. His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist, slow and deliberate, and I bite my lip to stifle the whimper threatening to escape.
"I've thought about this every night since the masquerade," he murmurs against my temple. "Every. Single. Night."
The room is a sanctuary of soft light and shadows, the bed a sea of crisp white fabric waiting to be ruined.
He doesn't rush.
His hands are trailing up my arms, skimming the curve of my waist, pulling me flush against him. I can feel every inch of him—hard, unyielding, and aching with the same need that's pooling low in my belly.
His lips find mine, and the kiss is slow, deliberate, like he's savoring the taste of me. My hands fist in his shirt, clinging to him as if he might vanish if I let go.
He peels my dress off with agonizing slowness. Every touch feels electric, leaving trails of goosebumps in their wake.
"No masks this time," he whispers against the curve of my shoulder. "Just you and me."
His lips follow the path his hands have taken, kissing the curve of my shoulder, the dip of my collarbone, the swell of my chest.
He teases, flicking his tongue over sensitive peaks until I'm arching into him, desperate for more. His hands grip my hips, holding me steady as he worships me with his mouth, biting and sucking until I'm trembling.
"You have no idea how long I've waited for this." His breath is hot against my skin. "How many times I've imagined exactly what sounds you'd make when you knew it was me touching you."
I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, eager to feel his skin against mine. When I finally push it off his shoulders, my breath catches.
His chest is sculpted, every muscle taut and begging to be touched. I drag my nails lightly over his skin, relishing the way he shudders under my touch.
His hands slide down my back, pulling me closer, grinding against me until I'm panting.
He lays me down on the bed, his weight pressing me into the mattress as he kisses me deeply, his tongue tangling with mine.
His hands explore every inch of me, skimming over my thighs, parting them slowly. His fingers slip between my folds, sliding through slick heat, teasing and circling until I'm writhing beneath him.
"That's it," he breathes against my ear. "Let me hear you. I want every sound you've been holding back."
He laughs softly, a low, dark sound that sends a shiver down my spine, and drives me closer to the edge.
"Do you feel that? How much I want you?" His voice is rough, unraveling. "This is what it should have been from the start. You, knowing exactly whose hands are on you."
He positions himself at my entrance and stops. The anticipation is unbearable, my body arching toward him, desperate for the connection he's holding just out of reach.
"Look at me." His hand cups my face, tilting it toward his. Those blue-green eyes bore into mine, stripped of charm, stripped of performance. "I need you to see me, Elara. Not him. Not a shadow. Me."
I hold his gaze, and something passes between us that feels dangerously close to the truth.
"I see you."
Only then does he push inside me, every inch of him claiming me while his eyes never leave mine.
I gasp, my nails digging into his back as he fills me completely. He holds still for a moment, letting me adjust, letting me feel every bit of him, watching my face like he's memorizing every flicker of sensation.
Then he begins to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that's maddening and perfect. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider as he thrusts deeper, hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur.
The pace is unhurried, each stroke deliberate and deep. His lips find mine again, swallowing my moans as he drives me higher and higher.
My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more of him, all of him. His hands roam my body, squeezing and teasing, until I'm teetering on the edge, my body tightening around him.
"Say my name," he commands, his voice breaking on the words. "I need to hear you say it when you fall apart."
We shatter together, his name tearing from my throat as his body shudders against mine, inside mine, around mine.
The release crashes through me like a wave I've been holding back for years, and somewhere in the wreckage of it, a tear slips down my cheek.
He catches it with his thumb, his eyes searching my face with something that looks almost like tenderness.
"Why are you crying?"
I don't have an answer.
Maybe it's grief for the marriage I thought I was saving that night at the masquerade. Maybe it's relief at finally being seen. Maybe it's the terrifying realization that I don't know who I am anymore without someone else's hands defining my edges.
"I don't know," I whisper. "I don't know."
He kisses the salt from my skin and doesn't ask again.
"You were always supposed to be mine," he whispers into my skin like a secret he's been keeping for years. "From the very first moment I saw you. Always mine."
Afterward, we lie tangled together, our bodies slick with sweat, the sheets a ruined mess around us. His fingers trace lazy patterns on my skin, and I close my eyes, savoring the warmth of him against me.
When I finally look at my phone again, the screen is filled with missed calls.
Seventeen from Caspian.