She didn't pull away, though every instinct screamed to. His fingers lingered, warm and deliberate, and she felt the heat of his presence like a tide pulling her under. "Eryndor," she said, her voice trembling, "what are you doing?"
"Seeing you," he said simply, his eyes locked on hers. "Not the princess, not the queen-to-be. Just Viana. Let me."
Her heart pounded, and for a reckless moment, she wanted to give in—to the night, to his beauty, to the promise of escape in his touch. He leaned closer, his breath grazing her cheek, and she felt the pull of surrender, her body swaying toward him. The silk of her nightgown felt too thin, her defenses crumbling under his gaze.
But a flicker of memory—Rayne's grin, Arden's steady hands—snapped her back. She stood abruptly, stepping to the balcony's edge, her hands gripping the railing.
"This… this isn't right," she said, more to herself than him. "I don't know what you want, but I can't."
