Chapter Text
The grand hall of the palace was alive with conversation and music, a sea of vibrant silks and polished armor. The air was thick with perfume and the subtle clink of glasses, the echo of laughter and the murmurs of powerful voices. Ezran and Aanya stood at the forefront, their presence providing some calm amid the raucous crowd.
A thousand conversations swirled around Callum as he stood beside his wife, eyes never truly settling on the people near him. The room was full of people—nobles, diplomats, dignitaries from across the lands, both human and elf. All had come for one thing: to discuss, to negotiate, and to display their wealth and status. Yet, despite the regal finery and the displays of power, Callum’s mind wandered only to the one person in the room who wasn’t part of any conversation.
The hall buzzed, the air thick with disguised sweetness and polite exchanges. The nobles moved in tightly-knit groups, their voices warm with charm but laced with underlying agendas. Diplomats from both realms shook hands and nodded, yet their words were often laced with veiled meanings, hollow pleasantries wrapped in layers of subtle competition.
Callum stood at Rayla’s side, her arm linked with his as they moved through the crowd, the polite smiles and gracious nods they offered feeling like an exhausting performance. Every word, every gesture, seemed carefully measured, a part of a dance he knew all too well. And yet, none of it held his attention. None of it could match the quiet fire that simmered just beside him.
A diplomat from a neighboring human kingdom made a passing remark about the recent treaty, his words smooth and practiced, but Callum barely heard him. The man was talking, yes, but his words were just noise—diatribes wrapped in fine silks. His eyes flickered over to Rayla, where she stood, poised and silent, her face an unreadable mask of patience. She didn’t belong here, not in this room full of hollow smiles and hollower words, and neither did Callum.
Another clink of glass echoed through the hall, and another round of shallow laughter bubbled up from a nearby group. The joviality felt false in a space so heavy with unspoken judgments. It wasn’t just the nobles’ dismissive glances toward Rayla, the princess of Katolis—though they were enough to make Callum’s fingers itch with frustration. It was the knowing glances exchanged by the elites, the quiet murmurs behind their fan-lined hands, the politics and posturing that seemed to suck the air from the room.
Rayla’s grip on his arm tightened slightly, a subtle reminder that she, too, was feeling the weight of the crowd. He glanced at her, offering a smile that was more for his own comfort than hers. She met his gaze, her expression unreadable, but her eyes softened just a fraction—enough for him to see the brief, private moment between them, amidst the sea of strangers.
Ezran’s voice broke through the murmur of the crowd, calling to them from across the room. His face lit up with his signature warmth, and Aanya, ever the composed queen, stood at his side, regal and serene. Soren, looking much more at ease in the formal setting than Callum, followed closely behind, his usual grin already in place.
“Callum, Rayla!” Ezran called, striding over to them, his arm reaching for his brother. “I’m glad you two made it! I hope it hasn’t been too much of a hassle so far.” He glanced around at the gathering, then back at them with a mischievous smile. “It’s looking like it’ll be a long one, so I think it’s time we got you both a drink.”
Aanya gave them both a polite smile, her presence always poised, but there was a warmth in her gaze that spoke of her genuine care. “Ezran’s right,” she said, her voice smooth and calm. “It’s just the start. You’ll need something to get through all this.”
Callum chuckled softly, trying to push aside the tension that had settled into his shoulders. “I’m sure a drink will make it more bearable,” he said, though his tone hinted at the exhaustion already creeping in. His gaze lingered on Rayla, who had already started scanning the room with quiet detachment, her attention shifting from one group of nobles to another.
Soren, standing slightly to the side with a knowing look in his eyes, added, “He’s got a point, you know—this place is practically a battlefield, only with more gold and fewer weapons.” He shot a wink at Rayla, as if trying to lighten the mood. “But hey, you’re both looking great. We should make it through the night without too much trouble, right?”
The distraction of their approach helped take some of the sting out of the constant strain of the evening, but Callum still felt the pull of the unspoken tension, the desire to slip away with Rayla, where they didn’t have to put on a performance for the crowd. But for now, he forced himself to stand tall, nodding as Ezran led them toward a nearby table where attendants were preparing fresh drinks.
Even with the company of their friends and family, the air still felt stiff, weighed down by the presence of too many people with too many agendas. Conversations buzzed around them, but it all felt distant, like listening to the hum of a faraway storm. Callum found himself distracted by the clink of glasses, the laughter that was a little too loud, the way people turned their heads a little too sharply as if measuring, calculating, assessing. He couldn’t help but feel the pressure of it all, the suffocating weight of expectation, despite being surrounded by people who knew him well.
Ezran, Aanya, and Soren had their own quiet corner of the room, but even their easy camaraderie couldn’t fully cut through the thick atmosphere. They all sipped their drinks, exchanging small talk, but the night already felt too long, too drawn out.
It was then that two of the nobles passed them, deep in conversation. One of them—his face vaguely familiar, but Callum couldn’t place the name—leaned toward the other, his voice a low murmur, but loud enough to carry in the space between them.
“Do you really think she belongs here? A princess of Katolis at a gathering like this… So beneath us.”
The other noble laughed quietly, but the sound was sharp, cutting. “I can’t imagine what the King of Katolis is thinking, marrying her into the family. Surely he’s aware of her… less-than-desirable qualities.”
Callum’s grip tightened on his glass, his jaw clenching as he stared at the nobles’ retreating forms, ready to march after them and unleash a few choice words. He could feel his blood start to boil—how dare they speak of Rayla like that? The insults, veiled in polite words, were a slap in the face, not just to her, but to everything they had fought for.
But before he could move, Rayla’s calm, steady hand rested on his chest, halting him in place. Her touch was gentle, but firm, and it instantly grounded him. She didn’t need to say anything more than that. He turned his gaze down to her, finding her calm blue eyes watching him, the subtle lift of her brow telling him all he needed to know.
“Relax,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm on his raw nerves.
He inhaled sharply, his clenched fist relaxing against the wineglass, his gaze shifting from her hand to her face. The warmth of her touch slowly broke through the heat of his anger. It was the way she always did—calm and steady, a reminder of what truly mattered in those moments.
“It’s alright,” Rayla added, her voice soft but unwavering. “Just enjoy your wine, darling.”
Callum swallowed, taking a slow breath to steady himself. He wanted to say something, to give those nobles a piece of his mind, but Rayla’s presence, the soft weight of her hand on his chest, kept him tethered to the moment, to her. He looked at her again, finding that little spark of mischief in her eyes, as if she already knew how this would play out.
He nodded, forcing a smile as he took another sip of his drink, the bitterness of it matching his mood. But he followed her advice, keeping his focus on her instead of the venomous whispers in the air.
He let out a stiff sigh, his shoulders still tight as he tried to will the tension from his body, but it clung to him like a heavy cloak. Even with Rayla beside him, her calming presence a steady anchor, the weight of the night was hard to shake. His grip on his glass was firm, knuckles white, but his thoughts still churned, fueled by the sneers and whispered words of the nobles.
Rayla’s hand found its way to his chest again, just as gentle as before, but this time, her touch lingered there, warm against his racing heart. The softness of her fingers on his skin sent a current through him that he couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried.
She let her hand drift slowly up his chest, fingers brushing against the sharp line of his jaw before they slid to his face, tracing the curve of his cheek with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the hardness of the night. The world around them felt distant—hushed and muted, as though it didn’t exist when Rayla’s touch was the only thing that mattered. She slipped her fingers into his hair, the feel of her hand so natural in his, as if they had always been this close, this... together.
When her fingers found the tiny braid behind his ear, a small breath caught in his throat, and he held still for a moment, not daring to move. The subtle pull of her hand held him in place, and despite the urgency of his thoughts, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. His heart pounded harder, but now it wasn’t out of frustration—it was out of the overwhelming closeness, the way Rayla made everything feel too real, too immediate. His gaze fell to her face, her soft lips barely an inch from his cheek.
She leaned up, slow and deliberate, brushing her lips gently against his skin. The kiss was fleeting, but it lingered in the air between them, an invitation he knew too well, even if it was unspoken. There was a weight to it, something heavier than just a simple kiss—something that made his chest tighten, made his breath catch in his throat.
“Just breathe,” she murmured against his skin, her voice soft, coaxing. The warmth of her breath brushed over him, and in that instant, everything else seemed so far away. The nobles, the judgment, the endless political games—they didn’t matter.
All that mattered was the way her fingers caressed his hair, how the faintest pressure of her lips still lingered on his cheek, how everything in him seemed to swell with an ache he couldn’t quite place, but felt deep in his bones.
His heart stuttered in his chest, the tightness in his throat not from the weight of the night, but from the weight of what he was feeling—something more than a fleeting kiss, something more than the heat of the moment. He wasn’t sure what it was yet, but he knew he wanted it. Needed it. More than just the moments between them, more than just the quiet companionship. His pulse raced, and his fingers tightened slightly on the glass, not from anger, but from the ache to feel more of her, to not have to hide this—whatever this was—behind the walls of social obligation.
The night dragged on like an interminable storm, each moment weighed down by the thrum of polite conversation, the clink of silverware and glass, the well-masked laughter that seemed to float in the air but never truly reached the heart. Callum’s shoulders ached from the strain of holding himself still, of playing the role of the perfect prince, smiling and nodding as diplomats and nobles droned on around him, their words hollow and empty.
The smell of expensive wine and delicate perfumes thickened the air, and the grandeur of the palace, all gilded walls and marble floors, seemed to mock him with its beauty. It was all so lovely, so polished, yet suffocating.
Rayla was still at his side, her arm linked with his, but despite the closeness, he could feel the distance between them widening. It wasn’t physical; it never was with Rayla. But the oppressive atmosphere, the constant pressure to appear the part, was pulling at him like a vice.
"Your Highness," a voice interrupted his thoughts, pulling his attention away from Rayla. The man was old, his sharp eyes gleaming with the hunger for favor that so many at these events seemed to wear like a second skin. He spoke of trade agreements, the ways in which the elven kingdoms could benefit from closer ties with the humans of Katolis. But the words bounced off Callum, barely registering.
Behind the man, a group of women stood, gossiping behind their fans, exchanging glances that did not escape Rayla’s watchful eyes. She hadn’t let go of his arm, but Callum could feel her tension too. He wanted to say something—anything—to send this man and his companions off with a sharp word, but he couldn’t. Not here. Not now. His lips tightened into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He forced himself to nod and engage in the conversation, but his mind was already elsewhere, back with Rayla. His hand clenched around his glass again, his fingers numb from the tightness.
The tension in his chest didn’t loosen as the man prattled on about trade negotiations, his words slipping by without meaning. Callum masked the frustration brewing inside by taking a deliberate sip from his glass, his gaze briefly flicking back to Rayla. She was unbothered by the stifling nature of the event, her cheek resting gently against his arm, her fingers tracing the line of his chest beneath his shirt. She felt solid and warm against him, a quiet reassurance amidst the clamor of politics.
Rayla had always been different—more unguarded in the midst of this manufactured grandeur, unashamed of what they had together. She’d learned to navigate these events with him, becoming more confident as the years passed. Her presence beside him was a steady anchor, and to any onlookers, it was obvious who held her heart. Callum couldn’t help but feel the swell of pride for her as she kept her hand firmly on his chest, fingers splayed wide in possessive affection, not caring what the nobles might think. It was a reminder that in moments like this, they were still their own—no matter the weight of royal obligations.
The clink of glasses around him seemed to grow louder, the hum of conversation turning into a blur as the man continued speaking. Callum’s attention wavered, his thoughts constantly returning to Rayla. Her closeness was a constant anchor, but it didn’t dull the sense of unrest gnawing at him.
He watched as Rayla leaned into him, her posture relaxed, but her eyes never leaving the scene, always alert. There was something unspoken between them—a shared understanding that this event, like so many others, wasn’t really for them. It was for the politics, the posturing, the endless games played by those who still thought of them as something to be scrutinized.
She was so sure of herself now. And Callum was proud of how far she’d come, how far they’d both come. She didn’t shrink from the weight of the world on her shoulders. She didn’t hide what they were. She was unashamed of them, of him. And that... made it so much harder to pretend he wasn’t just counting down the minutes until they could slip away from this—away from the expectations and constraints.
The man before him spoke of alliances and trade routes, but Callum didn’t hear a word of it. Instead, he let his gaze drift over Rayla’s face, the soft curve of her cheek, the way her lips parted slightly in quiet contemplation. His heart stuttered in his chest, pulling his attention back to her despite the man’s continued monologue.
As he struggled to keep his composure, Rayla’s thumb brushed lightly against his chest, just enough to catch his attention. Her eyes met his, and she smiled, the quiet strength in her expression calming the tumult inside him. His heart skipped again—just once, but it was enough to make his pulse race.
“I’m here,” she said with a quiet certainty, just loud enough for him to hear over the noise.
A shiver of warmth ran down his spine. For all the posturing in this room, for all the trivial distractions, it was her presence that mattered. Her words weren’t just a promise—they were a reminder. He wasn’t alone, even in a room full of people who didn’t understand. And he would never be.
But that thought, that realization, made the ache in his chest tighten even more. He wanted to be close to her, so close. The kind of close that didn’t leave room for any of this—this endless politicking, these games.
The man paused in his speech, giving Callum a chance to speak, but Callum didn’t immediately respond. His grip on his glass tightened again, as if to steady himself. Rayla’s hand, still on his chest, gave a light squeeze, grounding him.
“Your Highness?” the man prompted, but Callum only nodded absently, still too lost in the weight of the moment. He was here, surrounded by people who would never understand what it meant to be his. To hold her like this, to be hers as much as she was his. They’d gotten married too young for anyone’s comfort. They had survived the aftermath of that decision, and yet moments like these made him ache to tell everyone what they were really to each other.
The diplomat didn’t seem to notice the shift in Callum’s attention, continuing his monologue about economic benefits and the possibility of increased trade. But as his words droned on, his voice becoming a faint hum in the background, Callum’s gaze never strayed from Rayla. The way her presence settled him, the way she seemed completely unfazed by the pomp and circumstance surrounding them—it made him long for something simpler.
For a moment, all that mattered was the feel of her hand pressed against him, the warmth of her fingers on his chest, the faint brush of her breath against his skin. It was enough to make his heart ache, to make him wish they were anywhere but here—away from the stuffy, constricting air of the gala and the prying eyes of the nobles who didn't even know what they were interrupting.
Finally, the diplomat’s voice grew softer, signaling the end of his speech, his entourage beginning to shift as they prepared to move along to another group. Callum snapped back into the present, nodding absently, offering a few polite words to maintain appearances. The group lingered for a few moments longer, but Rayla’s hand on his chest remained, a steady anchor against the swirl of the evening.
The diplomat gave Callum a shallow bow, and his entourage followed suit, their departure a slow, deliberate exit as they moved away from the couple. Callum let out a quiet breath, the tension that had been building in his chest slowly unwinding. For a moment, it felt like they had been freed from the web of politics, and he could finally take in a breath that didn’t feel suffocating.
Rayla leaned in, her voice barely a whisper in his ear. “You handled that well,” she said, her thumb tracing circles against his shirt.
Callum nodded, though he wasn’t entirely sure it had been handled well at all. But her praise soothed the irritation bubbling beneath his skin, just as her presence always did. “If I had my way,” he muttered, his voice low, “I’d pull us out of here right now.”
Rayla’s soft chuckle vibrated through him, a quiet, teasing sound that made his chest tighten even as it relaxed. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. “At least you don’t have suitors falling all over you anymore,” she remarked, her voice playful, and Callum snorted lightly, unable to stifle the laugh that escaped him.
“I think the suitors are the least of my concerns right now,” he muttered, taking another sip of his wine to mask the smirk tugging at his lips.
Rayla’s fingers slid up and down his chest, the movement slow and deliberate, sending a wave of warmth spreading across his skin. Her voice dropped lower, more teasing, as she added, “Can’t say I blame them though. If I were them, I’d also have trouble keeping my hands off you.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His breath caught in his throat, and for a brief second, he almost choked on his wine. He quickly set his glass down, his face flushing hot despite his best efforts to keep composed. He cleared his throat, fumbling for a response, but nothing came to him immediately.
Rayla’s lips curled into a mischievous grin as she watched him struggle. The look in her eyes was pure mischief, the kind that stirred something deep inside him, a longing that he tried to keep hidden behind the shield of social propriety.
“Rayla,” he managed, his voice rough, still feeling the heat rising in his face. “You—” He cut off, unsure how to finish the sentence without sounding like he’d completely lost his composure.
She didn’t seem bothered by the effect her words had on him. Instead, she leaned in even closer, her lips just inches from his ear, sending a shiver down his spine. “What’s wrong, darling?” she murmured. “Too much for you?”
Callum swallowed hard, the air suddenly thick with tension. He was acutely aware of every part of her—the heat of her body next to his, the soft brush of her fingers on his chest, the sound of her breath as it mingled with his. His heart pounded in his chest, and his fingers gripped the edge of his glass, his knuckles white as he tried to steady himself.
He shifted slightly, tilting his head down to look at her, meeting her teasing gaze with a mixture of amusement and something deeper, something harder to name. “You know,” he said, his voice still rough, “I think it’s safe to say I’m the one who has trouble keeping my hands off you.”
Rayla’s eyes softened for a split second, the playful smirk slipping into something warmer, more intimate. But before he could linger on the intensity of that look, the crowd around them seemed to surge, shifting the atmosphere back to something far less personal. Callum could still feel the weight of her words pressing on him, but he forced his attention back to the present, trying to push aside the growing longing.
The evening stretched on like a slow ache, the clinking of glasses and the hum of conversation blending into a distant buzz, too far removed from the intensity building between Callum and Rayla. The world seemed to blur, the crowd moving around them like they were floating through a haze.
Callum couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting back to Rayla. She stood so close to him, the warmth of her body radiating through the fine fabric of their clothes, but it wasn’t close enough. Not nearly. The heavy layers of his jacket, the crispness of his shirt beneath it, felt like a suffocating barrier between them, a cruel reminder of the space between them—both physical and unspoken. The fine tailoring of his attire suddenly felt stifling, uncomfortable. He could almost feel her heat through the fabric, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t nearly enough.
Her fingers traced slow circles against his chest again, and his pulse quickened. Every brush of her fingertips, every movement of her hand was a quiet invitation. A quiet reminder that she was here, just within reach. It was maddening.
He wanted to pull her closer, to let the soft press of her body against his chase away the discomfort. The ache in his chest deepened, the pull of desire growing sharper with each passing second. But there were too many people around them. Too many eyes, too many expectations.
His breath hitched as he shifted slightly, trying to relieve the pressure building in his chest. His jacket felt heavier now, the weight of it too much to bear. It was a constant reminder of all the things they couldn’t do here. All the ways they had to be. He could almost feel the fabric of his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin beneath it, the tie too tight, the jacket too restrictive.
He could feel the subtle brush of Rayla’s fingers against his chest, the soft glide of her touch over the fabric, and the thought of what that touch could be without the weight of their clothing, without the distance between them, made his pulse spike.
And Rayla—Rayla, who had become so comfortable beside him over the years, wasn’t helping. Her hand didn’t waver, her fingers keeping their steady rhythm, but she was so at ease, so calm, that it only made his longing for her sharper. Every little shift of her body, every soft touch, sent a sharp pang through him.
Her breath brushed against his ear, and Callum’s grip tightened around his glass. The wine was barely noticeable anymore, the taste of it lost to the feeling of her hand on him. His jacket felt like it was burning against him now, the space between them too vast despite how close they stood. He could feel his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, the frantic drum of it making it hard to focus on anything else.
Rayla’s voice was low, just a breath against his ear, but it cut through the chaos. “Callum,” she whispered, her voice like velvet, pulling him back from the edge of his thoughts. “You’re so tense.”
His jaw clenched involuntarily, a low growl of frustration building in his throat. He wanted to speak, wanted to tell her everything that was running through his mind, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he leaned his forehead slightly against hers, the tips of their noses brushing together for a heartbeat before he pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.
The intensity of her gaze, that unspoken understanding, was enough to set his chest on fire. But the distance between them—his jacket, his shirt, the collar too tight—made everything feel too far. Too restrained.
His breath was unsteady, shallow, as he forced himself to stay in the moment. “Rayla,” he whispered, the words rough in his throat, “I can’t… I—”
Before he could finish, Rayla’s thumb brushed gently against his chest again, a simple gesture that felt like a dare. Her lips were so close to his, the space between them almost unbearable.
“You can,” she whispered back, her voice barely audible, the faintest trace of a smile playing on her lips. “And you will.”
And just like that, his resolve shattered. The tension in his chest, the ache of wanting, suddenly felt unbearable, crushing. He couldn’t hold back anymore. Not with her this close, not with the heat between them growing stronger with every second.
But the crowd. The others. His hands trembled slightly, his fingers numb against his glass, even as his mind screamed for him to close the gap between them, to pull her into him completely.
Rayla leaned in closer, the brush of her lips against his ear sending a wave of warmth through him. He could feel the heat of her breath, the softness of her body against his, and his heart raced with the knowledge of how much he wanted her. It wasn’t just her presence he craved—it was the closeness, the touch, the undeniable pull between them.
“I can’t,” he whispered again, his voice hoarse, but Rayla only gave him a soft, knowing smile, her thumb still caressing his chest in slow, deliberate movements.
“You can,” she repeated, her voice a low promise that sent shivers through him. “And you will.”
Callum closed his eyes for a brief moment, steadying himself, but when he opened them again, the sight of her, her eyes locked on his, her hand resting on his chest as though claiming him in front of the entire room, nearly broke him.
All he could think was: I need you. I need you now.
But the night stretched on. The music played. The laughter swirled around them. Yet every second felt like a stolen moment, each one pulling them closer to something they both knew was waiting—but never quite ready to be named aloud.
The tension continued to build, an invisible thread pulling them together, even as the room around them stayed unaware. It was as though everything else faded away, leaving only the two of them, locked in a quiet war of desire and restraint, of what was possible and what they both longed for.
The evening stretched on, and with every passing moment, the voices around Callum faded further into the background. The clinking of glasses, the hum of polite conversation, and the ebb and flow of laughter seemed muffled against the roaring tide of his thoughts. His mind kept drifting back to Rayla, to the way she stood beside him, her fingers brushing against him so casually, yet every touch sent a jolt of warmth through his body.
The diplomat in front of him continued speaking, his words a blur of trade agreements and negotiations. Callum nodded at the appropriate moments, offering the polite, detached responses that were expected of him. But his thoughts were a million miles away, lingering on the feel of Rayla’s presence beside him, on the way her breath had fluttered across his skin when she spoke, on the way her hand had slipped so naturally into his, grounding him, but also pulling him toward a place he couldn’t quite reach.
What would they do if they were alone? If there were no pomp, no politics, no glittering eyes watching their every move? His thoughts wandered further, spiraling into the territory of longing he couldn’t ignore. The idea of her without the distance of layers of clothing, of the suffocating formality of their surroundings, teased at the edges of his control. What would it be like to pull her close, to feel her press against him without the space between them, without the restrictions of a jacket that felt like it weighed a thousand pounds? To feel her hands on him without the watchful eyes of the room.
He could imagine it, vividly—Rayla’s lips soft against his, her fingers tugging at his shirt, his jacket discarded in a corner somewhere, her hands moving over his skin with a freedom that made him ache. He could feel the burn of her touch, the way her body would fit against his as though they were made for this. He could almost taste her kiss, the way she’d sigh into him, pulling him closer, claiming him. He wasn’t sure if it was the wine or the slow burn of the evening, but the thought consumed him, stole his focus completely.
Every soft word from Rayla, every little touch against his chest, felt like an invitation—one that made his pulse quicken, made the air feel too thick to breathe. She had that power over him, and he knew it. She was his, and that thought both grounded him and set him alight. The pressure inside him mounted with each word the diplomat spoke, but he couldn’t seem to pull himself out of his haze. He wanted her. Wanted to touch her without restraint, without all the barriers. He imagined what she’d do to him if they were alone—how she might press him against the nearest wall, her hands sliding under his shirt, pulling him into something unspoken, something real.
His body reacted to the thought, his grip on his glass tightening so much he thought it might shatter. His breath caught, the ache between his ribs becoming unbearable. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could take this. How much longer he could stand the distance, the way every touch, every brush of her hand against him, made him burn with the need to pull her closer.
Rayla’s voice cut through his thoughts, soft and almost teasing, a stark contrast to the heavy heat building in his chest. “Callum,” she whispered, her hand sliding up to his shoulder, her fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of his jacket. “Are you even listening to them?”
He blinked, dragging his gaze away from the empty space between them, back to the conversation at hand. The diplomat had asked him a question—something about trade routes—but Callum couldn’t find the energy to care. His pulse thudded in his ears, his mind too far gone to focus. He nodded, offering a polite smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course,” he muttered, though he had no idea what he was agreeing to.
Rayla’s smile was soft, knowing, and she didn’t press him for more. Instead, her hand slipped down from his shoulder, resting lightly on his chest again, as if to remind him of the warmth that only she could provide. Her touch, simple yet possessive, sent a surge of heat through him. If only they could leave this place, leave all the watchers behind. If only it were just the two of them, with no room for anyone else, no expectations, no stifling clothing, no diplomatic games.
The thought clawed at him, the ache in his chest deepening with every passing second. He wanted to pull her into him, to slip away into a space where there were no barriers, where he could show her everything he’d been holding back. Where she could feel all of him—the tension, the longing, the hunger.
But here, in this crowded hall, surrounded by people who would never understand, he was forced to keep it hidden. The frustration swelled again, but it wasn’t just the feeling of being trapped in this room—it was the suffocating realization that he could never fully have her like this. Not now. Not yet.
He leaned in just slightly, his breath warm against her ear, and his voice was rough when he whispered, “I can’t stop thinking about what I want to do with you, Rayla. What I’d do if we weren’t here.”
The words, dangerous and raw, lingered between them, their meaning clear despite the lack of a response. Rayla’s breath hitched, and for the briefest moment, he felt her body stiffen against him before she exhaled, soft and steady, her hand sliding up to his jaw.
“You’ll have to wait,” she whispered back, her voice low and steady, yet with an unmistakable edge of promise. “But I think it’ll be worth it.”
Callum’s heart stuttered again. He wanted to argue, to beg, but instead, he held her gaze, feeling the electric charge between them. The quiet tension continued to build, leaving them both teetering on the edge of something more than they could say—something more than the silence of the room, more than the forced civility they had to maintain.
But the night was long, and even if it felt like an eternity, they both knew they could survive it. Just barely.
As the evening stretched on, Callum’s mind refused to let go of the thoughts that were quickly consuming him. Each new conversation, each new encounter with diplomats or nobles, only served to pull him deeper into the haze of longing that clouded his thoughts. His mind drifted back to Rayla again and again—her touch, her proximity, the way she made him feel so alive in the midst of this suffocating world. The pressure in his chest tightened with every passing moment, every brush of her hand or quiet exchange of glances that left him burning with the need for something more. Something real.
The room felt warmer, stifling, the air thick with perfumes and faint echoes of hollow laughter. Callum could feel the weight of his jacket pressing down on him, the fine fabric feeling too restrictive, the collar too tight around his neck. He briefly thought about loosening it, just a little, to ease the pressure, to get some relief from the overwhelming heat, but then his thoughts turned dark. His fingers tingled with the memory of the marks at the base of his neck.
Marks she’d left.
His breath caught. His mind shot back to the moments they’d shared alone, when it had just been the two of them, when she’d been so undone, when her lips had found their way to his neck, to the tender skin beneath his jaw. He remembered the way her mouth had moved against him, soft and gentle at first, and then with an urgency that had both stunned and ignited him.
The sensation of her teeth on his skin, the warmth of her lips as they left their imprint there, their mark—a reminder of something shared, something so intimate —sent a wave of heat through his body now. He could feel the thrum of it all over again, his pulse quickening as his mind wandered further. Gods, he couldn’t stop thinking about it, about the way she’d made him feel. The feel of her against him, her breath hot and soft against his skin.
His fingers tightened around his glass again, the wine swishing dangerously inside as he tried to steady his hand. The thought of loosening his collar, of freeing himself just slightly from the suffocating pressure, only made his thoughts spiral further. The marks. The memory of her touch, her lips, her teeth—her claim on him. It was all too much.
His gaze flicked to Rayla, her presence like an anchor and a weight, both soothing and unbearable. She stood beside him, talking to another noble, her attention momentarily pulled away, but even that only deepened the tension in his chest. She was close, so close, but not close enough. He ached to feel her against him, to slip his fingers into her hair and pull her into him. The thought of her hands on him, her lips on his neck again, made his breath come faster. His thoughts were spiraling, and there was nothing to stop them.
The diplomat before him kept speaking, his words falling into oblivion, unheard. Callum’s mind was consumed with one thing and one thing only— Rayla. Her touch, her warmth, the marks she’d left, her claim on him that no one could ever take away. His entire body seemed to hum with the need for more.
If only they were alone. If only there were no barriers, no fabric between them. If only the weight of his jacket didn’t feel like a thousand pounds pressing him down. He was sure he was going to lose it. The strain was becoming unbearable, and yet, the thought of seeing this night through without pulling her close felt impossible.
His breath caught again. His collar was choking him, the cloth feeling like it was suffocating him as much as his unspoken desire for Rayla. He shifted slightly, trying to adjust it, but the pressure only seemed to intensify, and his thoughts spiraled further.
He could barely focus on the words the diplomat was saying. Instead, he thought of what he wanted to do. What he needed to do. His fingers trembled ever so slightly around his glass, and the sharp sting of his own frustration shot through him.
Rayla was right beside him, and still, it felt like they were worlds apart. He wanted her so badly, needed to feel her close, needed to feel her hands on him again, those marks— those marks —a constant reminder of just how far they’d already gone. How far he would go to be with her. He couldn’t wait any longer. He couldn’t stand it.
His breath hitched. He couldn’t stop himself now.
He leaned closer to Rayla, his voice barely a whisper, laden with the weight of his desire. “Rayla,” he murmured, his tone low and desperate. “I can’t... I can’t think straight. Not here. Not with you so close and yet so far.”
Her gaze flicked to him, her eyes darkening slightly with an unreadable expression. She knew. She knew what he needed, what he was feeling, and she didn’t shy away from it.
“Callum,” she whispered, her voice soft, yet full of promise. “We’ll get through this... but you’ll have to be patient with me.”
His heart pounded in his chest, his body so tense with need that it felt like it might break. But he nodded, barely able to hold her gaze, as his mind teetered on the edge of control. She was his, and he would wait. But every passing moment felt like agony. He couldn’t wait to feel her close, to have her again. To claim her in the way she had already claimed him.