Isla didn't go back to the palace immediately. She walked the empty streets of Velentia, her fingers still buzzing from Tristan's touch, her lips still aflame from his kiss. She should feel ashamed—she was the daughter of a duke, betrothed to another in a union that would solidify her family's political position.
But all she could think of was him.
The way his breath had mixed with hers.
The way his fingers had gripped her like she was a treasure, a secret.
By the time she climbed up to her chambers, daylight was already bleeding across the sky. She pushed her hand into her chest, where her heart was still pounding away. What have I done?
But the real question—the one that scared her and exhilarated her in equal measure—was: What do I do next?
For the remainder of two days, Isla attempted to suppress thoughts of Tristan Blackwood.
She listened to interminable speeches on politics and alliances, tolerated her father's discourses on obligation, and made polite smiles when Lord Cedric—the man she was to wed—called to have tea.
He was pleasant, suave in a practiced manner. But when he took her hand, there was nothing.
Nothing like Tristan.
Nothing like the night.
Her mind gave her away, recalling the way Tristan had wrapped his arms around her, the fire in his eyes, the taste of his lips, something both deadly and alcoholic.
And that's when she knew.
She needed to see him again.
She crept through the palace halls under a dark cloak that night, her heart racing as she stole back to the same alley where they had first met.
Would he arrive?
Had he changed his mind?
Had she fantasized about the sparks they had shared?
Minutes crawled by like hours. The chill of the night air caressed her skin, and uncertainty crept in. Perhaps he's not coming…
And then—
A figure moved.
Before she could move, firm hands yanked her into the shadows, slamming her back against the coarse stone wall. The smell of leather and steel wrapped around her, and she gasped.
Tristan.
"What are you doing here?" His voice was low, gravelly—tainted with something she couldn't quite identify.
"I had to see you," she confessed, her heart pounding.
His fingers curled against her arms, as though fighting a battle within. "You shouldn't be here, Isla."
"But I am."
She didn't know who had moved first, only that one moment there was room between them, and the next his mouth was on hers—starving, desperate, as though he'd spent the last two days struggling the same fight she had.
She gasped against his mouth, and Tristan took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his hands sliding up to cradle her face, his body pressing against hers in a way that made her knees weak.
"I tried to stay away," he murmured against her lips.
"So did I," she breathed.
He kissed her again, more slowly this time, as if tasting each moment. His fingers wrapped in her hair, his other hand sliding down her arm in a caress so gentle it sent shivers down her spine.
When he finally broke away, his forehead pressed against hers.
"This is madness," he breathed.
"But it's our madness," she said, her fingers clutching his tunic as if to release them would break her.
A gentle laugh escaped him, but his eyes held no humor—only yearning. "What are we doing, Isla?"
She smiled, leaving another gentle kiss on his lips. "Falling."
And Tristan Blackwood, the king's mos
t devoted warrior, the man bound to duty and law—allowed himself to fall.