The air didn't just shift. It snapped.
Like the moment before lightning strikes — thick, electric, suffocating.
I tried to stand. My knee caught on the mat.
I crashed back down — straight into him.
His chest was a wall. No give. No mercy. The impact stole my breath and replaced it with the scent of him: ink, cedar, and something cold that lived under his skin.
"Careful," he said.
One word. Low. Rough. Not a comfort. A threat.
His hand landed at my waist. Not to steady. To anchor. To brand. His fingers splayed, hot through the thin fabric, like he was memorizing the span of me.
"I am not one of your storybook princes, Seraphina."
His voice was velvet over a blade. A confession and a condemnation.
Cake smeared my cheek from the fall — strawberry, cream, humiliation. I licked my lips without thinking, chasing the taste. Stupid. Stupid.
His gaze dropped to my mouth and stayed.
