The study had always been her sanctuary. While the rest of the palace shifted and shimmered with the noise of courtiers and politics, this room remained hers. Her father rarely used it anymore, he preferred his council chamber and the garden terraces for meetings, but Eliza had claimed the old library as her own. It smelled of parchment, ink, and old oak. Heavy drapes kept it cool, though slivers of golden sun sneaked through, dancing over rows of leather-bound volumes and velvet cushions.
She had eaten her lunch here, as she always did, a delicate tray of roasted figs, bread with honey, and a cup of chilled rosewater. The sweet taste still lingered on her tongue. It should have satisfied her, but it hadn't. Nothing had. Not the books, not the food, not even the warmth of the sun that poured across the stone ledge where she sat. Something inside her stirred, unsatisfied.
Eliza stood, smoothing her skirt over her hips. The deep green silk clung as she moved, whispering against her skin. She felt unusually aware of the fabric, how it hugged her thighs, how the lace at her collar itched just faintly at her neck. Her body hummed with something new, something unfamiliar. She blamed the weather.
Setting the book aside, she moved toward the tall window, pressing a hand to the sun-warmed glass. The grounds outside shimmered in the golden light. Garden paths snaked between hedges, rose bushes bloomed in riotous color and far in the distance, the workers had begun returning from their midday meal, visible only as small figures. The day called to her, promising respite from her own restlessness.
A walk, she decided. A brisk one.
She called to Elena, who followed her dutifully to the corridor, and waved her off with a soft smile. "I'll be in the gardens. Alone, please."
Elena hesitated, but gave a small bow. "As you wish, my lady."
Eliza stepped into the palace hallway, the soles of her shoes clicking softly against the polished floors. Her fingers trailed along the wall as she moved, cool marble giving way to sun-warmed stone as she passed arched windows. The scent of blooming jasmine wafted in from the courtyard, mingling with something sharper, paint?
She paused. That was new.
Another step. The scent grew stronger.
She rounded the corner and came to the servants' gallery, a place not often used by nobles, but she enjoyed its quiet, private charm. Her hidden route to the gardens always passed this way. The paint scent must be from one of the murals being restored; the palace employed artists often, and she'd heard whispers of a new painter brought in from the north, mysterious, quiet, talented. She hadn't seen him yet.
She took one step forward.
Her slipper met something slick.
Too late, she realized.
She slipped.
The world tilted violently. Her hand shot out, grasping air, her mouth opened in a silent cry, then a body caught her.
A firm chest. Strong arms. The scent of clean sweat and something deeper: spice, pine, and paint.
She fell against him.
He had knelt instinctively, arms encircling her to break the fall. Her body landed flush against his. Her breasts pressed to his chest. Her breath caught. His chest rose and fell beneath her cheek. His arms were strong and warm, one at the small of her back, the other cradling her shoulder.
And his eyes…
She lifted her head and saw them: dark, intense, rimmed with gold like a wolf's in sunlight. They locked on
to hers, and she forgot how to breathe.