Chapter 2

The grand hall feels smaller with him in it, the air pressing against my skin like a second gown. Kaelen sits across from me at the long table, his fingers curled around the goblet of enchanted wine I poured—wine that shimmers faintly, laced with a spell to loosen tongues. Not that he needs it. He's already too bold, too present, his storm-gray eyes tracking me as I settle into my chair. The orbs overhead pulse with violet light, casting shadows that dance over his face, highlighting the scar on his jaw, the faint stubble I imagine scraping against my skin. I shift, the silk of my gown sliding coolly over my thighs, and I wonder if he notices the way my breath hitches.

"You live alone here?" he asks, voice a low rumble that vibrates through me. He takes a sip, lips lingering on the rim, and I catch myself staring. 

"For longer than you'd believe," I reply, swirling my own goblet. The wine's scent—jasmine and something darker—rises like a tease. "Solitude suits me." A half-truth. I've had no choice, not with this curse humming in my veins, waiting to claim anyone foolish enough to come too close.

"Doesn't look like it," he says, leaning forward, elbows on the table. His sleeve rides up, revealing a corded forearm, and I imagine those hands gripping, pulling. "You've got a fire in you, hiding behind all this." He gestures vaguely—at the tower, the magic, me—and that grin flickers again, daring me to prove him wrong.

I arch a brow, letting a thread of power slip free. The air stirs, a phantom breeze brushing his neck, lifting the damp strands of his hair. His eyes widen for a heartbeat, then narrow, intrigued. "Careful, Kaelen," I murmur, my voice dipping low. "Fire burns." 

"Good," he shoots back, unflinching. "I've never minded a little heat." 

The words hang between us, heavy and ripe, and I feel that restless ache flare again—sharp, insistent, pooling low in my belly. I set my goblet down, fingers trembling faintly, and reach for a platter of fruit—plump figs and berries that glisten like jewels. A distraction. I pluck one, rolling it between my fingertips, and his gaze follows the motion, intense enough to make my skin prickle. 

"Tell me something true," I say, needing to shift the ground beneath us before I lose it entirely. "What's a man like you running from?" 

He leans back, the leather of his tunic creaking softly, and takes another slow sip. "Nothing worth chasing me here," he says, but there's a shadow in his tone—something unspoken, jagged. "I've wandered too long, seen too much. Fights, betrayals, the usual rot. This storm's just the latest excuse." His eyes lock on mine again, piercing. "And you? What keeps an enchantress locked away?" 

The question stings, too close to the truth. I pop the berry into my mouth, its tartness bursting against my tongue, and let a tendril of magic play—a whisper in his ear, my voice without sound: *"Secrets you can't imagine."* He jolts slightly, hand tightening on the goblet, and I smile, wicked and slow. "Curiosity, maybe," I say aloud. "Or cowardice. Pick one." 

"Cowardice doesn't suit you," he says, voice rougher now, like he's fighting something too. He sets the goblet down, fingers flexing, and I wonder what those hands would feel like on me—firm, unyielding, chasing away the cold I've known too long. 

The air thickens, the orbs dimming as if the tower itself senses what's building. I rise, needing space, and drift to the balcony overlooking the abyss. The crimson moon hangs heavy, bathing the world in blood-red light, and the wind tugs at my gown, pressing it tight against my curves. I hear him follow, boots soft on the stone, and my heart thuds—a traitor's rhythm. 

"You shouldn't stand so close," I warn, not turning. His heat is at my back now, close enough to feel, not close enough to touch. 

"Why not?" His breath brushes my neck, raising gooseflesh, and I grip the railing, nails digging into the stone. 

"Because I'm dangerous," I whisper, and it's the truest thing I've said. I turn my head just enough, our faces inches apart, and those gray eyes are molten now, stormy with something I recognize too well—want. 

"Danger's half the fun," he murmurs, and then he moves—slowly, deliberately—his hand hovering near mine on the railing. I should pull away, banish him, end this before it begins. Instead, I let my fingers drift, brushing his. 

The contact is a spark, a jolt that ignites the curse. A shimmering thread flares between us, warm and alive, wrapping around my senses—his pulse, his breath, the rough edge of his desire flooding into me. I gasp, and he groans low, stepping closer, his chest brushing my shoulder. "What is that?" he rasps, but he doesn't pull back. He presses my hand down, pinning it to the stone, and the thread tightens, a delicious ache blooming where our skin meets. 

"My curse," I breathe, lips parting as I fight the urge to turn fully into him. "Touch me, and you're mine." 

His free hand lifts, hovering near my cheek, trembling with restraint. "Then why," he says, voice raw, "does it feel like I'm the one claiming you?" 

And then his lips crash into mine, fierce and hungry, and the world explodes into violet fire.