Page 323
Veyr said nothing.
“It was strange,” I continued. “Seeing something so ordinary.”
“Royal households are rarely ordinary.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He waited.
“I mean a family.”
His gaze changed.
I knew immediately where the word had landed.
His mother.
His sister.
Eight years of being dead.
I softened. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“You did nothing wrong.”
That surprised me enough that I stopped.
He looked toward the ceiling for a moment. “They still believe I am dead.”
“When will you tell them?”
His jaw tightened. “Soon.”
Fear lived inside that word.
Not combat fear. Something worse.
I reached for his hand slowly, giving him plenty of time to decide whether he wanted the contact.
His fingers closed around mine. Warm.
Silver-white ŭre brightened faintly beneath our joined hands, not sharply, just enough to notice.
“You’re allowed to be afraid.”
His eyes lifted to mine. “I am aware.”
“Good.”
A beat passed.
Then he added, “I dislike it.”
“That sounds more accurate.”
His thumb traced a slow, warm circle over the ridge of my knuckles. A flush spread up my arm, not the sharp heat of panic, but a deep, steady warmth that settled in my bones. I held my breath, waiting for words that didn’t come.
Instead, his fingers tightened slightly, and he brought my hand to his mouth. His lips were soft, dry, deliberate against my skin—a gesture so measured it felt like a vow. The air left my lungs. I could feel the faint shape of his exhale against my wrist. Something closed in my throat, thick and sudden.
