The pre-dawn light was a cold, bruised purple, creeping through the cracks of the blackout curtains. In the quiet of the penthouse, the air felt heavy, still clinging to the shared warmth of the night.
Seraphina stirred as the mattress shifted. The space beside her, which had been occupied by a solid, protective heat for hours, was suddenly empty. She opened her eyes to see Czar standing by the window, already fully dressed in his charcoal suit, his silhouette sharp and imposing against the waking city.
He was pulling on his leather gloves, the rhythmic snap of the material against his wrists sounding like a gavel. The vulnerability of the night—the whispered vows and the near-touch—was being methodically packed away behind the armor of the Sovereign.
"You're going," Seraphina murmured,
