Caelith trembled all over.
His hand slipped under her clothes, his palm against her skin. His hot, calloused fingertips caressed her waist.
She had gone soft in his hold—too soft to resist, too bound to escape. Her wrists restrained, her strength undone, she could only yield as he claimed her inch by inch, as though she had always belonged there.
"Rhaegar…"
"Mm."
"You…"
"I am here, only for you."
His voice was low—steady, grounding—and for reasons she could not name, it calmed her.
The storm of him did not cease, only deepened—his intensity rising, his restraint thinning. And yet beneath it, there was care… something fiercely protective, even as he drew her further into him.
At last, she closed her eyes and stopped resisting.
She let herself be carried by that dangerous, consuming closeness—half fear, half longing—into a fleeting, forbidden moment that neither of them would relinquish.
The night stretched long.
