Valerian's fingers tightened imperceptibly against the carved armrest of his throne, the polished throne beneath his grip doing little to ground him.
Gods help him.
This was becoming unbearable in a way no battlefield, no rebellion, no council war had ever managed to become.
Every slight movement from Aurelia drew him in like gravity had shifted in her direction alone. The soft rustle of her gown when she adjusted her posture. The faint scent of her skin and whatever floral oil she had used that morning—it smelt too delicate, too intimate, and too distracting for him.
It slipped through the air and settled in his lungs like a memory he could not exhale. And then there was the memory of last night. That alone was enough to fracture whatever restraint he still pretended to possess.
The feel of her beneath him. The way her breath had broken when he kissed her, when he touched her.
