Morning in Meropide arrived without sunlight—only the gradual brightening of hydro lamps from deep amber to pale gold, a mechanical dawn that never quite reached the surface’s warmth.

  Clorinde woke first.

  Her eyes snapped open, wide and startled, as though her body had forgotten where it was. The ceiling pipes stared back at her—cold, familiar, too close. She was still wearing his shirt; it had twisted around her waist in the night, one sleeve slipping down to bare her shoulder. The fabric smelled overwhelmingly of him now—and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat crawling up her neck.

  She regretted falling asleep so deeply. No vigilance. No guard up. Just trust. Raw... reckless trust.

  The bed creaked as she shifted—too loud in the quiet room. She froze, listening.

  Below her, Wriothesley’s breathing was slow. Deep. Even.

  Still asleep.

  She exhaled—shaky—and carefully, silently, crept to the edge of the bunk. The metal frame groaned under her weight; she winced, froze again. Then leaned over just far enough to see him.

  But that wasn't enough. She hurriedly tidied the bed she slept on slowly... creepily went down the ladder to see more clearly. The bunk bed creaking at every movement. When it did, she would halt every movement. Breath held after each step down.

  When she finally reached the ground. There he was... fully asleep. Too vulnerable for her eyes.

  He lay sprawled on his back on the bottom bunk, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting across his stomach. The thin blanket had slipped down to his hips. His shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of scarred abdomen that rose and fell with each steady breath. Scars crisscrossed his skin like old battle maps—some thin and silver, some thick and raised. One particularly jagged line ran from his neck, to his chest toward his navel; another curved over his collarbone like a crescent moon.

  Clorinde stared.

  She had seen him fight—had dueled him herself—but never like this. Never vulnerable. Never hers to look at.

  Her heart beat too loud in her ears.

  “I always knew he was handsome,” she thought, the admission slipping through her mind unguarded, “but I didn’t know he was this attractive.”

  He had grown—everywhere. Broader shoulders, thicker arms, the kind of solid, earned muscle that came from years of survival rather than vanity. His face in sleep was softer than she remembered: jaw slack, lips parted slightly, lashes dark against his cheeks. A faint scar shadowed below his eyes—probably from the trees he’d assaulted on his way back last night. Even unconscious, he looked like he’d fought the world and won.

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  She wanted to touch him.

  The urge came sudden and fierce—her fingers twitched where they gripped the bunk railing. She wanted to trace the scar on his neck. Follow the line of his collarbone. Press her palm to the center of his chest and feel the steady thud beneath.

  She leaned further—slowly, stealthily—arm stretching downward.

  Her fingertips were inches from his cheek when his hand shot up.

  Caught her wrist.

  Not hard. Not cruel. But strong. Unbreakable.

  Clorinde gasped—sharp, startled.

  Wriothesley’s eyes snapped open.

  In one fluid, instinctive motion—pure muscle memory from years in the ring—he rolled, pulled, and flipped her.

  She landed beneath him on the bottom bunk with a soft thud, air punched out of her lungs.

  He pinned her there—knees bracketing her hips, one hand still locked around her wrist, the other braced beside her head. His weight pressed her into the thin mattress; his chest hovered just above hers, close enough that every rapid breath brushed her collarbone. The blanket had fallen away completely. His shirt was rucked up further now; she could feel the heat of his bare skin against her thighs where the borrowed shirt had ridden high.

  For one suspended heartbeat, neither moved.

  Then Wriothesley blinked.

  Reality crashed in.

  He stared down at her—black shirt, button undid by his strong pull, her chest almost exposed—violet eyes wide with shock, lips parted, cheeks flaming—pinned under him like he’d just countered an assassination attempt.

  “Oh—shit—”

  He started to push off.

  Clorinde’s free hand shot up—grabbed the front of his shirt—held him there.

  He froze.

  She was breathing hard—chest rising and falling beneath him, each inhale pressing her breasts against his ribs. Her legs had instinctively parted to brace herself when he flipped her; now his hips rested in the cradle of her thighs. The position was obscene in its intimacy—his heat against her core, separated only by thin layers of fabric. She could feel him—everywhere. The hard planes of his stomach, the tremor in his arms as he fought not to press closer, the rapid thud of his heart against hers.

  She should have fought back.

  She was the Champion Duelist. She could have thrown him. Disarmed him. Ended this in three moves.

  She didn’t.

  She couldn’t.

  Because deep inside—beneath pride, beneath training, beneath everything—she didn’t want to.

  The realization hit her like a blade between the ribs: she liked this. The weight of him. The strength in his grip. The way he could overpower her so easily and chose—every second—not to. She had dueled him before. She knew he had always held back. Now she felt the full truth of it: he could crush her if he wanted to. And he never would.

  Something inside her snapped—quietly, irrevocably.

  Her fingers tightened in his shirt.

  “Clor—” His voice was wrecked. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know,” she whispered.

  He searched her face—frantic, terrified he’d crossed a line.

  She lifted her free hand. Cupped his jaw. Guided his gaze back to hers.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said softly.

  His breath shuddered out of him.

  “I know you’re strong,” she continued. “I’ve always known. I just... never felt it like this before.”

  His eyes darkened—pupils swallowing gray until only black remained.

  “Clorinde…”

  She tilted her chin up—barely an inch.

  He groaned—a low, broken sound—and lowered his head.

  Their lips met again.

  Slower this time. Deeper. Less frantic than the alley, more deliberate. His tongue brushed hers—tentative, asking—and she answered with a small, needy sound that made him shudder. One of his hands slid from her wrist to lace their fingers together; the other cupped the back of her neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin beneath her ear. She arched—instinctive, helpless—hips lifting slightly against his. The friction dragged a choked noise from his throat.

  They kissed like they were drowning and each other’s mouths were air.

  When they finally parted—gasping, foreheads pressed together—neither spoke.

  The night had been long.

  The morning was longer.

  And neither of them wanted it to end.