First night together

"You're sleeping on the floor."

That was the first thing out of Isolde's mouth when the castle attendant closed the door behind us.

Her eyes were hard, chin tilted up like she was daring me to argue. If I'd been any less exhausted, I might have laughed. Instead, I let my bag drop, eyed the narrow canopy bed, and shrugged.

"Fine by me, Your Highness," I said, sweeping a mocking bow. "Wouldn't want you to catch my commoner germs."

She made a noise something between a huff and a scoff and started unpinning the elaborate jewelry from her hair.

Her hands moved with the sharp precision of someone who wanted nothing more than to stab me with a hairpin.

I watched her in the gilded mirror as I kicked off my boots and stretched, feeling every ache from a night spent guarding her door.

I could have made a scene, claimed royal protocol, but honestly? Sleeping on the floor was preferable to sharing a mattress with a hurricane in a ballgown.

"Just don't snore," I added. "I've had enough sleepless nights on this trip."

"I do not snore," she snapped, shooting me a glare so cold I nearly shivered. "Unlike you, I have standards."

I grinned, dropping my swordbelt and stripping off my overshirt. "Yeah? I bet your standards keep you real warm at night."

She glared harder, then turned her back, yanking at the laces of her gown. I caught the flush on her cheeks in the mirror, and something twisted low in my gut—familiar, unwelcome.

I ignored it. This was Isolde, queen of frostbite. Getting under her skin was the only fun left on this assignment.

As I dug out my nightclothes from my pack—a soft linen shirt and loose pants—I started undressing, turning away out of courtesy.

I peeled off my shirt, the salty air still clinging to my skin, and reached for the tie on my pants.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Isolde's voice snapped behind me, sharp as a whip.

I glanced over my shoulder, bare-chested and amused. "Getting ready for bed. What's it look like? Unless you want a show—"

"Absolutely not!" she blurted, face flaming now. "Gods, can't you do anything with dignity?"

I bit back a laugh, yanking my shirt over my head. "Depends who's watching. If you're so offended, turn around. Or better yet, kick me out and you can have your royal highness privacy."

She whirled, nose in the air. "Get out. I want to get changed. And if you try to peek, I'll cut your eyes out myself."

"I'd believe it," I muttered, pulling on my shirt and scooping up my boots. "Yell when you're done."

I stepped into the corridor, the door snapping shut behind me. The hall was empty, echoing with the sounds of distant voices and the clink of glass from the kitchens below.

I leaned against the wall, rolling my neck, trying to shake the weird heat in my blood. We'd argued a thousand times, but lately it was different—sharper, hotter, like something might snap if we weren't careful.

It was only a few minutes before the door cracked open again, a sliver of candlelight spilling into the hall.

"Lyra!" Isolde's voice, softer now, almost hesitant. "I need… your help."

I raised an eyebrow, but pushed inside, shutting the door behind me. She stood with her back to me, the deep violet gown half-zipped, her hands fisting at the small of her back.

"My zipper's stuck," she muttered, voice tight. "Don't laugh."

I didn't. I couldn't. The sight of her—bare shoulders glowing in the candlelight, hair tumbling down her back, skin flawless and pale against the rich fabric—hit me like a punch to the ribs. I swallowed, suddenly all too aware of every inch between us.

"Let me see," I said, my voice rougher than I meant.

I stepped close, close enough to catch her scent jasmine and spice, the clean salt of the sea.

My fingers brushed hers as I reached for the zipper, and I felt her tense, the muscles along her spine tight as bowstrings.

The zipper was well and truly stuck, teeth snarled on a bit of embroidery. I tugged, careful at first, then harder. It didn't budge.

My hand lingered at the base of her spine, the heat of her skin burning through my palm.

"Hold still," I murmured, my breath ghosting over her neck. "This is going to take a second."

She shivered—just a little, but I felt it. My fingers worked the zipper, trying to be gentle, but each brush of skin made it worse.

My pulse hammered, too loud in my ears. I was close enough to see the goosebumps rise along her back, to count the freckles on her shoulders, to breathe in the subtle sweetness of her hair.

The zipper refused to move. My knuckles brushed her bare skin, and something in me snapped—a want I'd ignored for too long, a hunger I'd buried under years of banter and rivalry.

Gods, why was I even thinking about this? She was Isolde. We'd spent years fighting, circling each other, pretending we hated every second.

But now, with her body warm under my hands, her breath hitching when I leaned in, I couldn't stop.

I tried again, pulling gently, then harder, my palm sliding up her back for leverage. She let out a frustrated little gasp, hands gripping the edge of the vanity.

"Careful," she snapped, but her voice wavered, softer than before.

"I am careful," I said, mouth close to her ear, voice dropping without meaning to. "But you're not making this easy."

She shifted, her back arching just enough to press into my touch. My hand lingered, thumb tracing the soft curve of her spine.

The zipper finally gave, sliding down an inch, then two, the fabric loosening beneath my fingers. I froze, hand resting on bare skin, heart thundering.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. The room was quiet, only our breathing filling the space.

I didn't know why maybe it was the way her head dipped, the way her body stilled beneath my touch, or maybe I'd just lost my mind after weeks of wanting what I couldn't have—but I leaned in.

Slow, careful, almost afraid of what I was doing. My lips brushed the skin between her shoulder blades, soft and warm and impossibly tender.

I didn't even know why I was doing it. I just needed to. Needed to feel her, taste her, remind myself that underneath all the cold, she was fire.

Her skin was silk beneath my mouth, her breath catching, and I pressed my lips there, lingering—just a moment longer than I should have, just long enough for everything to change.

And for the first time, I let myself want her.