Page 26 of Burning Her Beautiful
“You kept the flower,” he murmurs.
“It reminds me that beauty can be weapon and shield.”
His hand rises, brushing a strand away from my cheek. His knuckles graze skin like velvet tinder. Heat pools low in my belly.
“Your storms are gentler tonight,” he says.
“Storms rest before they rage anew.” I lift a hand to his chest, feeling the steady thunder of his heart.
He captures my palm, turns it to press a kiss at the pulse point. Desire ignites, but deeper than the simmering need lies gratitude—an ache to show him he is more than a branded weapon.
Before thought can betray courage, I lean in and press my mouth softly to his cheek. He stills, as if the world has narrowed to the shape of my lips. Then he exhales—a ragged sound—and tilts my chin until our gazes lock.
“You kissed me,” he says, voice gone rough at the edges.
“I did,” I breathe. “To thank you.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “Thank me again.”
He lowers his head. Our lips meet, slow and deliberate. A spark jumps, and the vines above us unfurl, leaves brushing hair as if eager spectators. His hands settle at my waist, firm and reverent, yet he does not push further. When we part, he leans his forehead against mine.
“I should let you rest,” he murmurs, though his thumbs stroke small circles that belie restraint.
“Then we both should.” I step back, heartbeat galloping. “Tomorrow will come too soon.”
He nods, but the hunger in his gaze promises unfinished business. He threads the moon-white blossom from my braid and tucks it behind his ear with a playful arch of brow. I laugh, the sound airy in the night.
“Sleep, Iliana,” he orders gently.
I retreat into the suite. At the doorway I glance back. He remains on the balcony, the flower glowing ghost-pale against dark hair, silver eyes alight..
Sleep toys with me but refuses conquest. I pace, replaying every hum, every stolen glance. Eventually I sprawl across the bed, still wearing my slate-blue gown, and stare at the coffered ceiling. Thunder murmurs beneath the floating continent, yet inside my chest a steadier storm builds.
I will break every collar. I will weave whisper networks until walls themselves sing of freedom. And when marble pillars finally crack, whether by secret song or violent vine, I will walk into the lightning without regret.
Purpose thrums behind my ribs until exhaustion drapes like velvet. As my eyes drift shut, I feel the ghost of Varok’s kiss against my pulse, anchoring me to a future neither of us yet dares to name.
9
VAROK
Midnight settles over the citadel of Galmoleth like velvet ink, soft enough to lull the sentries lining the parapets, yet heavy with an unspoken promise of trouble. The stained-glass panels in my private dining salon glow with backlit lightning, painting the long table in restless, jeweled patterns. Two place settings await, gold forks gleaming beside crystal goblets. My hands rest on the chair backs while I listen to the pulse roaring inside my ears.
Tonight should belong to strategy. Tomorrow I will face a hall of nobles thirsty for scandal, and Lady Sarivya is no doubt poised to pour them poison sweet as amaranth wine. Agent Yalira’s evidence must be planted before dawn. Garrik’s reports of guard rotations still lie unread on my desk.
None of that matters in this single, suspended breath.
Bootsteps whisper beyond the carved doors. My heart lurches—ridiculous and eager—so I school my expression into calm the moment the latch clicks. Iliana enters, cloaked in dusk-blue velvet that catches lamplight like a moonlit lake. A single vine blossom—white, impossible in this season—rests behind her ear, its petals trembling with each graceful step. She shutsthe door behind her, eyes sweeping the room, then settling on me.
“You requested my presence,” she says. The words hold no fear, only a quiet current of curiosity that ignites heat beneath my skin.
“I did.” I draw out her chair. “Please, sit.”
She studies me for a heartbeat—measuring command, perhaps savoring it—then glides across the carpet and lowers herself onto the padded seat. Her cloak parts to reveal a fitted bodice of matte indigo leather that traces the gentle swell of her breasts before flaring at the waist into soft silk panels. At her throat, an amethyst pendant glints, its chain dipping into the hollow where her pulse flickers. She rests her hands in her lap—fingers laced, poised, and utterly unbroken.
I pour a wine infused with star-fruit and dark spice. When I hand her the goblet, our fingers brush. The small contact disrupts the carefully balanced air, sending awareness spiraling through me. I retreat to the opposite chair but do not sit. Instead, I circle the table, letting the silence stretch until it vibrates.
“Your network grows,” I say at last while refilling my own glass. “Garrik counted seventeen new hums traveling the pipe shafts before dusk. None matched our codes. I assume they were yours.”
