The door shut with a soft finality behind her, the echo of it curling around the stone walls like a whisper she couldn't shake.
Lyra stood in the private quarters of the newly appointed Princess Consort. Her dress — a blood-red gown stitched with silver thorns — clung to her skin, heavy with the weight of too many eyes and too many lies. The royal wedding had ended. The audience dispersed. Evelyne's perfectly painted face had cracked, if only for a moment. And Thorne…
Thorne had played his part too well.
She lifted a hand to her chest, fingers brushing the necklace he'd clasped around her throat in front of the entire court. A Vellorin heirloom she never remembered seeing — likely pried from her family's vaults by southern force or subtle blackmail. It wasn't a gift. It was a statement. One that screamed:
She belongs to the Wastes now.
Lyra unclasped it slowly, as though it might bite.
Behind her, the silence thickened — until a breath broke it.
Low. Measured. Male.
She turned.
Thorne stood near the hearth, the firelight casting gold across the hard lines of his jaw, making his white tunic glow like spilled moonlight. The top buttons were undone, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looked more like a war god than a groom. Dangerous. Unbothered.
But his eyes…
They weren't cold now.
"I didn't think you'd come here," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"This is my room too," he replied, quiet but firm. "And I always honor a deal."
Of course he did.
He crossed the room slowly, the shadows bending as if making way for him. When he stopped in front of her, Lyra tilted her chin up — the defiance instinctive, even as her heart thudded like war drums against her ribs.
"I told you I don't do love," she said again, a repeat of what she'd told him before the ceremony.
His eyes traced her face, then dropped — not with lust, but calculation. As if memorizing every bruise on her soul. "Good. I don't do lies."
They stood there, inches apart, the silence stretching. It wasn't awkward. It was tight. Tense. Like a bow pulled taut.
Then his gaze dropped to her hands.
"Are you hurt?"
Lyra blinked. "No."
A pause.
"You're trembling."
She hadn't noticed. She wasn't sure she liked that he did.
"It's not fear," she muttered.
"I didn't say it was."
He stepped closer — no threat in it, just heat. When she didn't move, he reached for her wrist, slowly, as if giving her time to pull away. She didn't.
His touch was shockingly gentle.
Calloused fingertips ran along the faint scars decorating her forearm — old burns, long since healed. But he didn't ask. He just looked. Then his thumb brushed over the bone, anchoring her.
Her breath caught. Not because it hurt. But because it didn't.
"You shouldn't sleep in that," he said, voice low and rough as gravel. "It looks like armor."
She gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "That's the point."
Thorne studied her for a long moment before pulling back and turning away. She expected him to leave.
Instead, he walked to the adjoining chamber, disappeared inside — and returned with a tunic. Soft, oversized, clearly his.
"I'll wait outside. There's salve in the drawer if the corset chafed," he said, setting the tunic on the bed. "You'll sleep here. I'll take the chair."
Lyra stared at him.
"Why?" she asked.
Thorne met her eyes. "Because I don't want you thinking I'm like him."
Her throat tightened. "Caelum never—"
"You don't have to defend him," he cut in. "But I won't touch you unless you ask me to."
That should've made her feel safe.
Instead, it made her feel seen — and that was worse.
He stepped outside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
For a moment, she just stood there. Then she peeled off the gown — carefully, methodically — as if each layer was a piece of her former self. When it pooled at her feet, she stepped free, fingers tracing the red lines the corset had carved into her skin.
They looked like shackles.
She changed into the tunic. It smelled of ash and wind and something darker — like war clinging to linen.
When she opened the door, Thorne looked up from where he sat, legs stretched in front of the fire, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His sword leaned beside the chair like a loyal pet.
Lyra hesitated.
"You said I could sleep in the bed."
"You can."
"So can you."
His brows rose slightly, but he didn't speak. Didn't smirk. Just watched her like she was both challenge and invitation.
She walked past him, climbed into the bed, and turned her back to the door.
A long silence.
Then footsteps. The soft rustle of fabric.
The mattress dipped as he lay down behind her, not touching, not reaching — just there.
His presence filled the room like smoke.
She stared at the wall. He didn't move.
The quiet should've been comfortable. But Lyra's thoughts crawled in the dark like insects. The cold stone of the prison she died in. The fire. The screaming. The sound of her own heart cracking in her chest when Evelyne said, "You were always meant to be disposable."
Her breath hitched.
And then —
Warmth.
Not an embrace. Not a kiss.
Just a hand. Large. Steady. Resting lightly on her back, over the tunic, between her shoulder blades. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just... there.
"Breathe," Thorne whispered.
She did.
And the breath didn't shatter her this time.
Not quite.
Another minute passed. Then she whispered, "Why did you really agree?"
"To the contract?"
She nodded, even though he couldn't see.
"I was going to say no," he said. "But then I saw your letter. Your handwriting."
Lyra frowned. "What about it?"
"It looked like you'd written it with a knife."
Silence again.
Then—
"I did," she said.
Thorne chuckled. It was soft. Real. And a little dangerous. "That's when I knew," he murmured. "You weren't offering a deal. You were declaring war."
His hand stayed on her back, grounding her.
And for the first time since her return, Lyra let her eyes drift shut.
Sleep came like a thief.
But this time, she didn't fight it.
Because someone was finally watching the door — not to trap her.
But to guard it.