That highway.
He'd heard of it before—routes opened only for nobility, royalty, or exceptionally important guests. Common people used trains or carriages. For the king to grant Sir Melchior such a permit… it meant the vampire wasn't just an honored guest.
It was an apology.
An amends for the assassination attempt.
And that alone told Sylene just how significant Melchior truly was in the king's eyes.
Melchior's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer. That soft smile—calm, unpressured, impossibly gentle—made Sylene's heart stumble painfully in his chest.
Oh no.
Oh no, no, no.
Don't think about him.
Why did the vampire occupy most his thoughts so... completely? Why did his mind drift back to him again and again, no matter how hard he tried to anchor himself?
He shouldn't.
He really shouldn't.
Melchior seemed to notice the tension anyway.
The little birdy is uncomfortable.
