The air crackled the moment they stepped into the war room.
Velvet curtains muted the wind's howl outside, but inside, the tension screamed. A low-burning fire cast jagged shadows across the marble floor, flickering against steel blades and battle maps nailed to the walls like threats. Lyra stood still, gloved hands clasped in front of her, spine straight even though every muscle itched to move.
Thorne didn't speak right away.
He didn't need to.
His presence filled the room like smoke—slow, curling, suffocating. The leather of his coat creaked as he shrugged it off, tossing it carelessly across a chair. Snowflakes clung to his shoulders. His hair, damp and mussed from the ride, framed a face carved from winter itself. Sharp jaw. High cheekbones. Eyes like frozen iron.
He looked like a man who belonged in war—bone-deep and brutal.
She hated how much she noticed.
"I heard about the Duke's visit," Thorne said finally, voice low. Scraped raw.
Lyra didn't blink. "So?"
His gaze cut to her. "So… you smiled at him."
"I smile at many people."
"Not like that."
She took a slow step forward. "Jealousy doesn't suit you, your highness."
Thorne's mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.
"Jealousy," he repeated, voice a thread pulled taut, "is for men who think they own what they want. I've only borrowed you."
Borrowed.
Lyra inhaled sharply.
"I'm not a thing," she said.
"I know," he said. "That's the problem."
Silence.
Thick. Sharp. Bloody with all the words they wouldn't say.
He stalked toward her.
One step.
Another.
She didn't move, but her pulse betrayed her—thudding in her throat like a drum in a funeral procession.
Thorne stopped inches away. The heat of him soaked into her skin. She could smell leather, smoke, and the coppery tang of blood that never quite left him.
"I offered you my name," he said quietly. "My army. My kingdom."
"I never asked for your heart."
"I didn't offer it."
But gods, his voice sounded like he wanted to.
His fingers found her chin. Rough glove. Rougher touch.
He tilted her face up.
And Lyra—stupid, stubborn Lyra—didn't look away.
"You think I'm soft because I let you in?" she murmured.
Thorne's breath hitched. "No. I think you're dangerous because you haven't."
And then—
Then he kissed her.
Not softly. Not sweetly.
Like a man kissing fire. Knowing it would burn. Needing the pain.
Her mind fractured. All her careful walls crumbled, brick by bloody brick. She grabbed his collar and yanked him closer, biting his lower lip as if to punish him for making her want this. Want him.
Thorne groaned—deep and low, like it had been carved from his chest.
His hands gripped her waist. Tight. Possessive. Not gentle.
And Lyra welcomed the bruises.
Because this wasn't love.
It was armor.
It was power.
When she broke the kiss, they were both breathless. She didn't step back. Didn't look away.
"Is that what you needed?" she said, voice like ash and embers. "To mark your territory?"
He stared at her—throat working, jaw clenched—like she'd struck him.
"No," he said finally. "That was me saying: you're not alone."
Something broke in her.
Not loud.
Not clean.
Just a small, hairline fracture somewhere deep. The kind that lets light in. Or lets everything else out.
"I don't need saving," she snapped.
"I know," Thorne said. "But maybe you need someone who'll burn with you."
Her lip trembled.
Just a little.
She turned away. "Don't say things like that."
"Why?"
"Because I might believe you."
He exhaled slowly, like her words physically hurt.
Then, softer than she'd ever heard him: "What would be so wrong with that?"
She didn't answer.
Couldn't.
Because part of her wanted to believe him. Wanted to lean into him, press her forehead to his chest, and let herself pretend—for just a moment—that someone might actually choose her. Not for status. Not for power.
But because she was worth it.
Because she was Lyra fucking Vellorin and she burned.
But there was no room for softness. Not yet. Not in a world that once lit her on fire and danced around the ashes.
So instead, she smirked.
Cold. Cutting. Safe.
"You should be careful, Thorne," she said. "The last man who kissed me ended up on his knees."
Thorne didn't flinch.
He leaned down, whispered against her ear.
"Good. I kneel for no one. But for you? I'd make it an art."
Lyra blinked.
Shit.
Shit.
He meant it.
The silence swelled again, but it wasn't heavy this time. It crackled—alive, electric, dangerous.
She turned, striding to the fireplace before she did something stupid. Like kiss him again. Like fall.
She braced her hands against the mantle, letting the heat lick up her arms. It smelled like pine and smoke. Like war was coming.
"Tomorrow," she said, not turning around. "We start with Evelyne. She won't see it coming."
Thorne didn't respond right away.
Then, softly: "No mercy?"
"No mercy," she said. "Not this time."
Behind her, the floor creaked as he moved.
"Then I'll ready the knives," he said.
And this time… she smiled.
Not for a man.
Not for a crown.
But for herself.
Because power didn't come from kisses or kingdoms.
It came from fire.
And Lyra Vellorin was finally learning how to burn.