Nightmare

My head was a fucking mess.

The moment my lips left Isolde's skin, reality crashed down with the force of a collapsing tower. I'd kissed her back. Kissed her. The princess. 

Not just some harmless peck or quick, forgettable brush, either. I'd lingered, lips pressed to the bare curve of her back, drawn in by a need that felt older than either of us.

Every nerve in my body was singing, alive and raw, even as cold panic spread through my veins.

What the fuck had I done?

The silence in the room was suffocating, heavy as lead. I'd been bracing myself for her wrath—a slap, a threat, a scathing insult—but none of it came.

Instead, I was left listening to the frantic rhythm of my own heartbeat, standing behind her like some criminal caught in the act.

The zipper now sat halfway down, my hands still hovering over the warm skin I'd just dared to touch.

Why wasn't she saying anything? Why wasn't she yelling, or shoving me away, or doing something other than just… standing there, stiff and silent?

I looked up and caught her reflection in the mirror: Isolde's ears were bright red, her jaw clenched so tight I thought she might shatter a tooth.

For a moment, I wondered if she'd actually gone catatonic. Maybe I'd broken her, finally crossed a line that couldn't be uncrossed.

Then she cleared her throat—a sharp, almost strangled sound.

"What the heck did you do, Skyblade?" Her voice was raw, pitched low, almost trembling with a fury she was barely containing.

I forced my hand to drop, backing up a step. I couldn't meet her eyes in the mirror, but I tried anyway, jaw set, refusing to flinch.

"It was a mistake," I said, my tone as cold as hers had ever been. "Let's just forget it happened, alright?"

She whirled to face me, gown hanging half-off her shoulders, hair wild, violet eyes burning. "Forget it? You—" She seemed to choke on the rest of her sentence, hands fisting at her sides. "You just kissed me."

I shrugged, heart thumping wildly, desperate to sound casual even as everything in me rebelled.

"Yeah. And it shouldn't have happened. So let's just—move on. You get changed. I'll turn around, you can stab me with your hairbrush later if it helps."

A beat. She looked like she might actually throw something at me—one of the silver candlesticks, maybe, or the fancy soap dish.

Instead, she spun away, clutching the fabric to her chest, and stalked toward the other side of the room.

"Gods, you're impossible," she muttered. "Get out, Skyblade. Now. Just for a minute."

I didn't need to be told twice. I turned on my heel, all but fleeing for the corridor, my heart pounding so loud I was half-afraid the guards in the hall would hear it.

I stared at the stone wall, fists pressed to my temples, trying to breathe, trying to make sense of the riot inside my head.

What the hell was wrong with me? Why had I done that? She was Isolde—cold, sharp-tongued, untouchable.

We'd spent years sniping at each other, keeping our distance, pretending whatever this was didn't exist. And now I'd shattered it with a single kiss. Not even a real kiss, not on the mouth, but still—there was no going back.

I wanted to punch a hole through the wall.

After what felt like an eternity, I heard her voice from inside: "Fine. You can come back."

I pushed the door open, eyes carefully averted. She was in bed already, covers pulled up to her chin, her face mostly hidden by a curtain of white hair.

I kept my eyes on the floor, grabbed my own pillow, and dragged it to the far side of the ornate carpet.

The bed looked enormous, a mountain of silk and down, but I wouldn't have touched it now for all the gold in the southern isles.

The silence pressed down again, thick as smoke.

I flopped onto the floor, curling up on my side, blanket pulled tight around my shoulders.

Every muscle in my body ached with tension and embarrassment. I turned over, then back, then over again, trying to get comfortable, to ignore the echo of her skin against my lips.

It was useless. My mind wouldn't let me rest. I could feel her in the room, every shift and sigh, the tension between us so thick it felt like a living thing.

Why did I do that? Why did I want her so badly it hurt? She was arrogant, prickly, more likely to curse me out than thank me.

But gods—she was beautiful, fierce, the only person who'd ever looked at me and seen more than the half-demon orphan, more than a tool to be used and discarded.

It was unbearable, wanting something you couldn't have. Needing someone who probably hated you for wanting them.

I shut my eyes, willing myself to sleep. It didn't come. I heard Isolde shift on the mattress, pulling the covers tighter, her breath a little too quick.

Just ignore it. Let her be. Pretend it never happened.

 Finally, when I turned over for the hundredth time, I noticed something odd: the faint, choked sound of distress, almost a whimper, coming from the bed.

I propped myself up, heart skipping. Isolde was tangled in the covers, face turned away, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts. Even in sleep, her jaw was clenched, her fingers knotted in the sheets.

A nightmare.

For a moment, I hesitated. She'd murder me if she knew I'd seen her like this. But the sound—the fragile, wounded sound—cut through every line we'd drawn.

I crawled to the side of the bed, careful, quiet. "Isolde?" I whispered. "You alright?"

She didn't answer, just whimpered again, shoulders shaking. The sight twisted something in me. I reached out, brushing my hand gently over her shoulder.

"It's just a dream," I murmured, voice soft, the way I would've spoken to a spooked horse, or a crying child. "You're safe. No one's going to hurt you."

She twisted, eyes still closed, but her grip found my wrist. Before I could pull away, she dragged me up—fast and clumsy—and suddenly I was sprawled half on the bed, her arms around me, her body pressing close.

She didn't wake, just buried her face against my chest, clinging with a desperate strength that left me breathless.

"Hey," I said, voice barely above a whisper. "It's alright. I'm here."

I should have pulled away, should have pried her arms off, but I didn't. I let her hold me, let my hands settle awkwardly on her back. Her breath slowed, the tremors fading, and she softened against me, warm and fragile in a way I'd never seen.

My heart was racing, my mind a blur. She'd never let me see her like this if she was awake. But gods, she fit perfectly in my arms. Like we were made to find each other in the dark.

Slowly, I shifted, sliding onto the bed beside her. She mumbled something I couldn't catch, face still hidden, arms tightening around me.

I should have moved. Should have remembered every reason this was a bad idea. But I couldn't bring myself to break the moment. Not when she needed me. Not when I needed her.

I let my eyes close, heart thudding in my chest, her scent filling my senses. I held her, gentle and careful, feeling the rise and fall of her breath, the slow surrender of her tension.

And for the first time since I kissed her, my mind finally quieted.

I didn't know what would happen when morning came. If she'd hate me, if she'd pretend nothing happened, if we'd go back to sniping and scowling as if nothing between us had changed.

But for now, in the hush of midnight, I let myself have this—her warmth, her trust, the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, she needed me as much as I needed her.

The silence felt different now. Not heavy or suffocating, but peaceful. A promise of something more.

Before I knew it, I was drifting, lulled by the steady beat of her heart, the comfort of her arms.

And, against all logic, I fell asleep—safe in the arms of the one person I was never supposed to love.