A single tear slipped down Salviana's cheek, tracing a warm path to the pillow.
The vivid scene—the slow undressing, the press of his body, the deep claiming thrusts, the shared release—shattered like glass. It had never happened. Not tonight. Not yet.
In the real quiet of their chambers, Alaric had kissed her after they left the Great Hall. A heated, lingering kiss that tasted of wine and unspoken want, his hands firm at her waist, his breath unsteady against her mouth. For a moment she had felt the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her, and hope had flared.
Then he had drawn back.
He had carefully helped her out of the emerald gown, mindful of the bandage on her ankle, and eased her into the soft linen of her nightshift. He had tucked the heavy covers around her with almost painful gentleness, brushed a strand of hair from her face, and pressed one last, restrained kiss to her forehead.
