From that moment on, there were no patterns to their meetings, no rhythm but the one set by longing—only the burn of stolen time.

Once, she had pulled him into an unused drawing room just as he was leaving a meeting in the palace halls. The door hadn’t fully latched before her mouth was on his throat, her breath warm and urgent. His back met the wall with a thud, and his trousers were already halfway down his thighs. Her fingers—sure and impatient—had learned him too well.

Another time, it was the stables. Rain clung to her lashes, her hair curling at the edges. She kissed him with thunder still in the distance, the scent of lavender and peonies clinging to her skin, mingling with the scent of damp hay. He lifted her with a low, hoarse sound, her legs wrapping around his hips as he drove into her against the wooden wall, each thrust stealing breath from them both. Her moan echoed in the shadows like a prayer offered to no god at all.

There were many of those moments—shameless, necessary. Hidden corners and barely closed doors. Desperate hands. Bruised mouths. Encounters that barely lasted longer than the ache itself.

But her bed… her bed was different.

There, she unfurled beneath him like dusk. Her limbs stretched soft and slow, her eyes dark with welcome. No urgency, no fear of discovery—just the hush of candlelight and the quiet reverence of flesh meeting flesh. There, he could take his time. 

She’d pull him down with fingers buried in his hair, thighs falling open like pages of a book he would never tire of reading. And he would kneel. Wordless. Worshipful.

Every moment with her etched itself into him—by scent, by rhythm, by the trembling catch of her breath. She had become a part of him. A secret carved into bone. The solace he craved when the world felt too loud. 

“Thallan,” Katerina said, her voice quiet but distinct as she rose from the bed. The candlelight kissed the bare lines of her body, casting soft shadows across her skin.

He paused, halfway through pulling up his trousers, and looked toward her. “Hm?”

She crossed the chamber with unhurried grace, her movements fluid, deliberate. Her fingers brushed over the sheath of his sword where it rested on the table. “How does it feel,” she asked, curling her hand around the hilt, “to take a life?”

He stepped behind her, arms sliding around her as his hands closed over hers. Together, they drew the blade from its sheath, the metal catching the light. “That’s a weighted question,” he said, voice low against her ear. “We don’t count the lives of monsters the same way we do people. It’s what I was trained for. Like a farmer killing a wolf that stalks his flock.”

She didn’t flinch. Her eyes met his in the blade’s reflection as her finger traced the edge—not quite touching, but close enough. “So you feel nothing?”

“I suppose not,” he said, and it was the truth. 

“What if it were a human? Or elf? Or otherfolk?”

Thallan hesitated. “It would depend,” he admitted. “Why they needed killing. If the death was swift. What the cause demanded.”

He had only drawn his blade on a handful of orders, all under Sir Riordan’s command. Each time, it had been against monsters—trolls, goblins, low-thinking pests that snarled and lunged without reason. Beasts, not men. It was orders, extermination not execution. Beyond those encounters, his sword had known only the rhythm of sparring with peers, a dance of blunted edges and controlled strikes.

“Would you kill for me?” Katerina asked, her tone lilting, playful.

Her head tilted against his chest, and he looked down, catching the faint curve of her smile. But even beneath the teasing, there was something pointed in her question—a quiet challenge. One she didn’t need to explain, and he didn’t need to ask about.

“Of course I would.” His answer came with a smile, his lips brushing against her hair.

“Show me how to wield this.”

He didn’t question her command. Simply shifted, adjusting her grip gently with his own. “You’ll need both hands,” he murmured. “Your frame is too slight to balance it with one.”

His knee pressed lightly between her legs, adjusting her stance. “Distribute your weight,” he said, voice low and guiding. His hands trailed along her arms, bending them inward, controlling the line of motion. “Too wide and you’ll be off-balance.”

He stepped back, just slightly, one hand still at her waist, the other lifting her hair aside. “Now—stab forward.”

She obeyed, and the blade cut through the air with surprising steadiness.

He grinned. “Not bad. You might pass for a page.”

Her elbow found his ribs with practiced ease, and he let out a low grunt, more amused than pained.

“Oh, hush,” she laughed, the sound bright and fleeting before she repeated the motion, more confidently this time.

His hands returned to her arms. He guided her through the movement again, slow and deliberate. “The strength doesn’t come from your arms,” he said softly. “It comes from here.” One hand grazed her stomach, then her side. “Push from your center.”

She did it again—thrust forward with more intention this time—and he felt the subtle engagement in her stance, the way her core lent strength to the motion. It stirred a smile from him before he could stop it.

“There you go,” he said softly. “You’re a fast learner.”

Katerina’s lips curved. “One could say the same about you,” she teased, taking the scabbard into one hand as she angled the blade to slide it in. But it caught—jerked—and she winced, releasing the sword as it clattered against the table’s edge.

“Are you hurt?”

He was already moving, arms around her in a breath, drawing her back into his chest. His hand cradled her wrist as his thumb skimmed over her palm. A fresh bead of blood bloomed from her finger. 

“It’s just a cut,” she murmured, brushing it off with a small smile. “I suppose this is why they give pages wooden swords.”

“Well,” he said with a quiet laugh, “a splinter might still draw blood.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the wound gently before drawing the blood away with the soft drag of his tongue. But as he pulled back, his brow furrowed.

The skin had already begun to knit itself together. Too fast to be natural. His heart slowed in his chest. “You’re a siphon,” he breathed, the words more realization than accusation.

She turned in his arms, her bare body brushing against his, and looked up at him with a steadiness that belied the weight of her secret. “I hope that doesn’t upset you.”

All living things held a magic affinity—some blessing, some curse, depending on who you asked. For some, it coursed naturally through their veins: elves and monsters attuned to the elements of the natural world. The otherfolk wielded theirs with illusion or compulsion, bending perception and instinct.

But humans… humans were born apart from it. Not untouched, but untethered.

Those who learned to reach for affinity—witches—did so through ritual. Through incantation and intention, herbs and offerings. Their power was borrowed, coaxed from the world like a favor. A prayer.

Siphons did not borrow. They did not ask. They took.

No spells. No tools. They drew affinity straight from the source—be it air, land, beast, or being—and made it their own. Not learned magic, but an instinct. A hunger.

They were not simply witches. They were voids in the shape of people. And to those born with affinity in their bones… siphons were not just powerful. They were dangerous.

“No,” he said at last, quiet and honest.

“Then why is your jaw set so tight?” she asked, voice gentle as her fingers traced his cheek.

He hadn’t noticed. But she was right. 

A Siphon. The word alone carried weight, but the truth of it—what she was—was heavier still. A being who could strip the magic from another with a thought, who could wield any affinity like her own. It was no mere talent. It was power incarnate. The kind kings would covet. The kind nations would hunt.

And yet she had shown it to him. Bared it without flinching.

That truth should have unsettled him. But it didn’t—not as much as the realization of what it meant. That she trusted him. And that he, in turn, had become so devoted to her it frightened him. More than her power ever could.

“Because I’m learning, every day,” he murmured, voice low, gaze fixed on hers, “that there is still so much of you I haven’t yet discovered.” His expression softened with quiet regret. “And I am… disappointed in myself for not knowing. Is there a way I can make it up to you—for failing to learn all of you?”

Her fingers traced the side of his neck, delicate and deliberate, before lacing together behind it. Her head tilted slightly, eyes gleaming. “Show me your affinity.”

His fingers brushed along her thighs—slow, reverent. The motion kindled warmth beneath his skin as he let go of the restraint he wore like armor. He channeled it now—his affinity. The heat of him stirred the air around them, subtle and rising, like the hush before fire blooms.

The pads of his fingers warmed, the touch like sun on bare skin as he traced upward, hands molding to the generous curve of her backside. He gave a gentle, firm squeeze, and was rewarded with a breath from her lips, soft and trembling, almost a whimper.

His hands moved higher, fingers gliding up the slope of her spine. The heat grew—never enough to burn, but enough to leave a ghost of sensation in his wake. 

“Always so much control,” she purred against his mouth, her lips brushing his before claiming them.

He had always had control—over his words, his temper, his body. That had been his discipline, his strength. But not with her. Not with the way she looked at him. Touched him. Spoke his name like it belonged to her. 

With her, he had no control at all.