Bastián did not slow until the doors of the Sovereign’s Wing closed behind us.
The corridor outside his private rooms disappeared into silence the moment we entered, shutting out the music, the gathering, the watching eyes of Sangre Antigua. The world narrowed down to the sound of his breathing and the hard grip of his hands on me.
My pulse had not recovered since the garden.
Neither had he.
He carried me through the dimly lit room without speaking, one hand locked under my thighs, the other pressed against the middle of my back carefully enough to avoid the exposed skin there, which I noticed immediately. Even now, even half out of control, some instinct in him still tracked the places I guarded most fiercely.
That terrified me.
The room was dark except for the low amber lamps near
