The air in Caden’s chambers was thick with the faint musk of pine and leather, a scent that always clung to him no matter how often the maids scrubbed the stone floors or aired out the tapestries. Elara stood just outside the heavy oak door, her breath shallow, her palms slick with nerves. Her heart pounded like a war drum as she adjusted the thin silk of her dress, the fabric clinging to her curves in all the right places. The deep crimson color matched the flush creeping up her neck, her skin glowing under the flickering torchlight. She had spent hours preparing for this moment—every detail meticulously planned, every move calculated.
But what truly set her apart tonight was the perfume she wore. It wasn’t hers. It was Lyra’s. The woman who haunted Caden’s thoughts, the one he called hi
