Darkness cloaked the night sky, littered with stars that made patterns for people who had time to look. The moon carved a pale curve in the sky and she'd watched it slowly slide across the sky as she paced her bedroom. It was all she seemed able to do.
Her balcony door remained closed, a dresser casually dominating the space in front of it, despite the large windows that decorated its surface—an oversight on her side, she was sure.
The candle had burnt to a stub about an hour ago; if she knew how to track time via the moon's movements she didn't.
Caerwyn had gotten too dizzy by her constant activity and retired for rest, though she knew he used it as an excuse. Today was too busy, too many people, too many possible risks. Elin excused herself after Rhosyn's bath failed to settle her. Which just left her damp, cold and restless.
She turned the pebble over in her hand again and hated how it only turned Leoric with it and she tossed the small stone on her bed. The day sat too comfortable within her and that never settled well with Rhosyn. If something was too good to be true, it probably was.
She wanted to dismiss it. Shake it off. Ignore the sickening way her chest fluttered. But questions, doubts, and the need for there to be something wrong, kept slipping into her head.
Rhosyn eyed up the empty glass on her desk reproachfully. Alcohol normally dulled her mind, made it silent... It failed. Instead, the sweetness sat on her tongue and heat in her cheeks. It bottled her feelings and she could hear her heart deafening in her ears. It reminded her of Winter Festivities, which only turned her mind back to Leoric—great.
Giving into her intoxicated curiosity, Rhosyn headed for the hall, her bedroom forgotten as it didn't hold the peace she desired. She had questions, she told herself, and Leoric had started sharing more honesty. So maybe he could shed some light on the nagging thoughts that refused to heel.
Her slippers met the carpeted corridor, feet aimed towards the duke's office and a strange confidence burning in her stomach that she couldn't place. Though that confidence could be called something entirely different. But alcohol made grasping words and tracking feelings a little more difficult. Maybe it was liquid courage—she definitely needed it.
The castle sat quiet, corridors abandoned and sconces burning low. Clearly it was late, but the thought never seemed to connect properly as she started down the hall, liquor fuelling her desire.
It was all short-lived, of course. Two preppy steps and Kaly came into view, slowing Rhosyn's movements and shifting her expression from one of determination, to one of perplexity.
"Your Grace," she said, blinking at her as if confused by her energy at this hour. "Where are you going?"
Rhosyn stopped. Her nightie skirt pooling around her legs, her robe hanging open and her hair loose and still damp from her bath. Maybe she hadn't thought this one through very well.
"I was heading for the office—looking for His Grace," her voice came a little too soft and Rhosyn wondered what exactly had she drunk.
If Kaly did look her over, Rhosyn didn't catch it, or the judgment she had—stupid alcohol. Thankfully, she seemed to be the only one awake. Which meant Rhosyn's humiliation was marginally contained to this short, regretful lapse of liquid courage.
"His Grace has retired to his room," Kaly answered and Rhosyn stopped her mind for travelling any further by taking a deliberate step back towards her room—which was coincidentally the same direction as his.
"Of course," she half stuttered over an embarrassed laugh. "It's late after all... Thank you."
The head maid gave her a small smile, something sweet and Rhosyn couldn't help but notice how pretty she was. Her curly hair tidied away in a neat bun and uniform perfectly pressed still after a long day of work.
"Goodnight, Kaly." Rhosyn turned, wrapping her robe around herself and feeling foolishly sober.
"Goodnight, Your Grace." Kaly echoed, quietly, a smile hugging the words as she rounded the corner, footsteps fading away.
Only then could Rhosyn breathe. Yet it didn't relieve the pressure in her chest. Or the anxiety from her. She almost felt disappointed as she contemplated her door. Suddenly, the night seemed like it was going to be a dauntingly long one. Pacing. Thinking. Drowning—
A click paused her last steps.
"Rhosyn?"
Flutters resonated in her core and a frill down her back. The way Leoric called her name always made her acutely aware of how close he was to her—and she knew already it was too far.
She turned toward him, finding him standing in his doorway, wearing light trousers and a loose shirt untied. Defined muscle peeking out and Rhosyn's memory filling in all the details already, before she could catch herself and shy her gaze on anywhere but him.
"Hmm?" she hummed, not trusting her tongue—and now she was thinking of tongues.
"Did you need me?" he asked and maybe she could hear amusement in his tone, but she didn't dare look to check. "I heard you talking in the hall..." he explained.
"No..." Rhosyn murmured, taking a step toward him and not knowing exactly why she did.
A light thrum trembled in the air and she wasn't sure if it was something vibrating in the hall, or inside of her. Everything felt a little delicate. Her tongue tried to shape words to retreat, but none came to her.
"What did you want to say?" Leoric took a stride toward her—and it was a long one.
She could feel the warmth of him, chasing away the cold of night and making it that much harder to avoid looking at him.
Her mind screamed something, heart racing and her chest contracted. "Nothing—"
His hand slipped into hers and her eyes crashed into his.
"You can tell me, I won't judge."
If she couldn't find words before, she couldn't find thoughts now and she was thankful. Her thoughts had been slipping into doubt—and most recently, his shirt—
"No, honestly, it was nothing..." Rhosyn sputtered, half aghast with herself. "I just..."
Her thoughts forced their way through the fog in her mind, yet she couldn't grasp any of them—just feelings and she didn't trust them.
"I couldn't sleep either," Leoric offered and Rhosyn felt the comfort in his hand, a grounding in the whirlwind stirring in her mind. "Did you want a drink?" He turned, wandering deep into his darkened room and fiddling with something that clinked at a side table.
Rhosyn couldn't resist taking a step forward to peek into his room. Everything was dampened by night, but she could make out a few familiar shapes. A desk against the far wall, books and parchment piled across its surface and the surrounding bookcases. A door similar to hers that led to a balcony—no dresser obscuring it—a bathing area tucked just out-of-sight behind a screen-divider, and then an impressive four-poster bed.
"See anything you like?" Leoric teased and her eyes fell on him.
"I—"
"Nightcap?" He offered a small glass, with the barest hints of a smile.
The crystal of the glass playing rainbows in the amber liquid as it winked up at her. She didn't need another drink to render her more speechless. But that was the problem with alcohol, one was always so easily chased by another. It was a downward spiral and Rhosyn felt herself already falling.
Feeling his gaze on her, the space shrinking in his close proximity and the inviting concoction of leather and cedar that always clung to him, Rhosyn claimed the glass. Their fingers brushed and she pretended not to notice.
She took a sip, the familiar sweet taste of Sunwold Amber wine rolling over her tongue. In a heartbeat, she was taken back to Winter Festivities, to Lord Regin and their wine talk. Rhosyn blinked hesitantly, eyes meeting his again and she squinted suspiciously at the grin on his face.
"Alright, yes," he chuckled, a little smug. "I remember seeing a crate of it in your uncle's office." He almost looked abashed admitting it—as if it wasn't romantic.
That was when everything came tumbling down—and she was sure he could see it. He was already cupping her face with one hand, their lips meeting and the only use for tongues was to dance in their mouths.
Their glasses, forgotten, clattering to the ground. His arms wrapped around her, his shirt in her fists and they were moving, travelling—it was a waltz. Their lips played. He led and she followed willingly.
The door closed. They turned. His thumb glossing her jaw, fingers in her hair. His kisses told a story—one she found riveting. It was his very own fairytale, of battles and bravery. Of wishes and promises.
They searched, through the dark, between kisses and touches. She fell before the bed met her back. It was only when his lips found hers again that she felt anchored and everything slowed.
Leoric's lips skimmed hers and she paused. They shared a breath, the only sound in the piercing silence beside the pounding of their hearts.
He was all she could feel. Body pressing against hers and yet he didn't feel close enough. Her hand tangled in his loose shirt ties, or in his hair and yet all she could concentrate on was his mouth.
"Tell me you want this," he whispered—desire and need twisted tight.
His mouth hovered. Close enough to taste. Far enough to make her choose.
He wanted her to choose him.
But he was already the voice in her head—the touch her body remembered. A hook long since sunk in. She couldn't fight the pull.
Rhosyn gripped his shirt, breath shaking.
"Don't stop," she whispered—like a command she couldn't live without.
His eyes went dark.
"Then I won't."
His lips met hers and want devoured her—stolen breaths, tangled tongues.
Fingers found seams and skin, mapping her like he already knew the way.
She lost his mouth; he found her throat. A moan slipped out and he kissed the sound into her, teeth grazing, just enough to make her arch. His hand slid down her, thumb brushing her breast before travelling lower—patient, sure.
A gasp tore from her as his fingers slipped between her thighs, and his hum turned satisfied against her skin. Lips at her ear. Teeth at her lobe. Breath shivering down her spine.
When his thumb found the place that made her come undone, she broke on a whimper—heat blooming, mind emptying of everything but him.
Her knees rose, legs winding around him—instinct, invitation, insistence.
When he finally filled her, the rush was blinding. He braced on the bedpost, breath rough, and before he could steady himself she traced her tongue along his throat—testing, learning—and understood in a heartbeat why he liked it.
His growl vibrated against her mouth.
She smiled—because she liked what she did to him.
The night slipped into heat and breath and promises. And maybe… Rhosyn admitted she didn't just like it.
She wanted it.
She wanted him.