Alaric's boot struck a patch of loose soil hidden beneath slick moss. For one treacherous moment the ground betrayed him, crumbling under his weight. His balance vanished, and the crown prince's body pitched forward toward the slope. The forest seemed to still in that heartbeat—the hiss of leaves, the breath of damp air, the thud of his heartbeat hammering in his ears.
And Lucian moved.
Not with panic. Not with haste. But with the precision of someone who had been waiting for exactly this. His hand shot out, fingers curling with unyielding strength around Alaric's arm. The grip was iron, steadying, and it pulled them together in a sudden, startling collision of bodies. Their chests brushed, their shoulders locked, balance threatening to topple both until Lucian anchored them with deliberate slowness.
The closeness was inescapable.
