A King’s Rage, A Lover’s Touch

Kaelith's hands trembled with barely contained fury as he guided Seraphine to a chair. The sight of her—bruised, breathless, shaken—ignited something primal in him.

He crouched before her, his fingers brushing against a torn sleeve. "Did he hurt you?" His voice was low, dangerous.

Seraphine exhaled shakily. "No. But he let me go."

Kaelith's eyes darkened. "Then he thinks he still has a claim on you."

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but instead of pressing further, he took a cloth from the washbasin, dipping it in warm water. Carefully, he took her wrist, wiping away the dirt and blood. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle.

Seraphine watched him, something unreadable in her gaze. "You're angry."

Kaelith didn't look up. "I'm furious."

He cleaned a scrape on her collarbone, his fingers grazing her skin. She shivered, but not from cold.

Kaelith stilled. His grip on the cloth tightened.

Silence hung between them, heavy with something unspoken.

Then, without warning, he tossed the cloth aside and leaned in, his forehead pressing against hers. His breath was warm, ragged.

"You're mine," he murmured. "And no man—not Kieran, not your father—will take you from me."

Seraphine swallowed hard, her hands tightening on his sleeves.

For the first time since escaping, she felt safe.

And for the first time since meeting her, Kaelith felt something terrifying—something he could no longer deny.

To be continued…

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