The apartment was too quiet, and I was done pretending sleep would come. For the past hour, I'd been lying in bed listening to Mikael in the living room, the small sounds of a man who was very deliberately not coming to bed.
A week of marriage, and we'd mastered the art of sharing a space barely large enough for one while maintaining the emotional distance of continents.
I gave up, pulled on my robe over my sleep top and shorts, and made chamomile tea in the small kitchen. When I padded into the living room, Mikael looked up from his book with surprise that quickly settled into careful neutrality.
"Can't sleep?" His voice was polite. Distant.
"Apparently not." I settled onto the opposite end of the small couch, curling my legs beneath me. "You either."
"Reading helps." He turned a page he clearly wasn't actually reading.
Silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. I sipped my tea while he stared at his book and the space of two feet between us felt like miles.
"I came across something interesting the other day," I finally said, desperate to fill the void. "In the church archives. References to some kind of blessed weapon—a Sword of Saint Michael."
I laughed, letting just the right amount of skepticism color my voice and tried to keep my tone conversational, curious.
"Probably just medieval superstition, but the descriptions were so detailed. All this talk about holy fire and cleaving souls… Very dramatic for church scribes."
Mikael's reaction was subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders tensed, and the book in his lap received suddenly intense attention.
When he spoke, his voice was carefully neutral. "The church has many such legends. Relics and blessed artifacts are common in old texts."
But I caught the flicker of recognition in his dark eyes, the way he chose each word. He knew exactly what I was talking about, and that knowledge sent a thrill of satisfaction through my veins.
"But you've heard of this one specifically."
"In passing. It's not particularly relevant."
"Right." I waited for him to elaborate and the silence stretched. "So you don't think there's any truth to—"
"I think it's late." He closed his book with quiet finality. "And we both need rest."
The dismissal stung more than it should have. I felt the familiar frustration rise in my chest—the same frustration that had been building all week as he'd retreated behind increasingly impenetrable walls.
I set my mug down on the floor and started to rise. "Right. Of course."
His hand caught my wrist before I could make another step, warm and firm.
"Wait." He looked up at me, conflict written across his features. "Don't go. I'm sorry, that was... unnecessarily harsh."
I settled back slowly, but he didn't release my wrist or look away. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, a gentle back-and-forth motion that sent warmth shooting straight up my arm and into places that had no business getting warm over a simple touch.
Silence settled again, but this time it felt different. Heavy with things that needed saying.
"Are you still mad at me?" I asked finally. "Is that why you won't let me close? Why you won't even sleep in the same bed. Why you retreat every night like—"
"I'm not angry." He cut me off, his jaw tight. "If I were angry, this would be easier."
"Then what?" I pushed, sensing the crack in his armor. "Tell me why the man who kissed me in that chapel like he was drowning won't even touch me now."
He looked at me for a long moment, something conflicted moving across his features. "I'm trying to maintain some semblance of… Of honor in a situation that's already compromised enough. Protect myself from wanting things I shouldn't."
"What things?"
His eyes met mine with unexpected intensity. "Thinking about my wife when I should be thinking about literally anything else."
Heat crept up my neck. "So you have been thinking about me…"
"Constantly." The admission seemed to cost him something. "Which is exactly the problem."
A slow smile curved my lips. "That doesn't sound like much of a problem to me."
"It is when I'm supposed to show self-control." His gaze dropped to where my robe had slipped open slightly, revealing my tank top beneath. "And you're not making it easier."
"I'm just sitting here."
"You're never just anything, Wren." His voice took on an edge that made my pulse quicken. "You've been testing me all this time. Little touches that seem innocent, or leaning close when you talk. That thing you do with your hair when you think I'm not looking."
Caught. I felt my face flush. "I don't…"
"Yes, you do." Something almost like amusement flickered in his expression. "You've been pushing boundaries to see how far you can go before I break. Admit it."
The accusation should have embarrassed me. Yet, it only sent a thrill down my spine. "And if I have been? Has it been working?"
His jaw tightened. "What do you think?"
This was exactly the kind of vulnerability I'd been working to create. So why did the genuine longing in those warm brown eyes make my chest tighten like something was squeezing my heart?
Because you're an idiot who's falling for your own con, that's why.
"You know," I said, letting a teasing smile curve my lips, "I think that kiss in the chapel was definitely... memorable. Though I have to say, I've had guys with more experience. Maybe you could use a few more lessons."
My tone was playful rather than cutting, designed to challenge rather than wound.
But I watched his jaw tighten at the implied comparison, saw something dangerous flicker in his expression. "Have you now?"
His voice carried an edge I'd never heard before—possessive and heated in a way that made my breath catch. Before I could respond, his other hand came up and cupped the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair, and then his mouth was on mine.
Deliberate and unhurried, like a man who'd spent considerable time thinking about exactly what he wanted to do and had finally stopped arguing himself out of it.
His lips moved against mine with patience that was somehow more disorienting than urgency would have been. When his tongue touched mine, I felt it in places that had nothing to do with my mouth.
Mikael kissed me like I'd handed him another challenge and he'd finally accepted it.
When he finally broke the kiss, his eyes were dark and satisfied in a way I'd never seen before.
"Still think I need lessons?" he asked, his voice rough with desire and challenge.
I stared at him for a moment, genuinely stunned by the transformation.
The controlled, careful man who'd been maintaining such rigid boundaries had just kissed me like he was claiming territory. And the evidence of his skill was still making my lips tingle.
"Maybe I underestimated you," I murmured, then made my move.
He’s ready to play? Let’s play then.
I shifted from my seat, sliding onto his lap with practiced ease. My robe and sleep clothes settled around us as I straddled him, my knees bracketing his hips. I let my hands rest flat against his broad chest where I could feel his heart pounding.
"We're married, after all," I said softly. "There's nothing wrong with this… No vows being broken, no principles compromised."
His hands gripped my hips reflexively, and I could feel his body's immediate response beneath me—a hardening proof that his desire was every bit as strong as I'd always suspected.
For a moment, I thought I'd finally won, that his carefully maintained control would shatter under the combined assault of wine, proximity, and the undeniable chemistry between us.
But then his expression hardened with familiar resolve.
"Nice try." His voice was strained but controlled as his hands moved to lift me off his lap with careful but implacable strength. "But my willpower might impress you more than you think."
He set me back on the couch beside him, putting distance between us even as the heat in his eyes betrayed how much the restraint was costing him.
"Don't play games with me, Wren," he continued, standing abruptly. "It won't work."
Despite his words, the way his hands had trembled slightly when he'd lifted me, the hardness I'd felt beneath me, the darkness still lingering in his gaze—all of it told me I'd achieved exactly what I wanted.
His restraint was cracking.
The desire he was fighting was becoming harder to deny with each passing day.
"Of course not," I said lightly, adjusting my robe as I stood. "I wouldn't dream of trying to seduce my own husband. That would be terribly inappropriate."
The look he gave me was pure warning before he turned toward his study. "Goodnight, Wren."
The door closed behind him with decisive finality.
I stood alone, my heart still racing, my lips still tingling, my entire body humming with frustrated want. He'd proven he could kiss me senseless, could make me forget every calculated move I'd planned. And then he'd walked away anyway.
Damn him.
My mug sat on the floor where I'd set it down before everything had shifted. Without thinking I reached out with my magic to retrieve it. The simplest spell, just lifting the mug a few feet to my hand.
I barely touched the power and the mug shot upward like it had been launched from a catapult, slamming into the ceiling with explosive force. Ceramic shattered, shards raining down across the floor with sounds that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet apartment.
I stared at the destruction, my arousal forgotten as cold fear washed over me.
I'd used the smallest fraction of power and it had responded with violence.