"I think you need cake."
Serena blinked. "I just got out of punishment."
Elara beamed, her hands wrapped around a thick wool cloak that nearly drowned her slender frame. "Exactly. That's why we need cake. And stolen wine. And maybe a walk where no one calls you companion like it's a leash."
Serena narrowed her eyes. "He'll be furious."
"I'll tell him it was my idea."
Serena snorted. "That doesn't make it better. That makes it worse. He adores you."
"I know," Elara said sweetly, tugging Serena toward the hallway. "Which is why I can get away with things."
The gardens behind the western wing were overgrown in winter, full of damp ivy and empty fountains. But the little stone gazebo at the center was still standing—half-forgotten and perfectly hidden.
Elara spread out a blanket she'd pilfered from her nursemaid's chamber and produced a bundle of napkins filled with delicate lemon cakes and honeyed tea.
Serena sat slowly, still half-watching the palace in the distance.
"You think he's tracking you?" Elara asked gently.
"I know he is."
"And yet you came."
"I said yes to you," Serena replied. "Not to him."
Elara poured the tea. "Then maybe… that's what he's been waiting for."
They talked.
Not about power.
Not about punishment.
But about books.
And their mothers.
And how Elara still secretly kept a journal of poetry under her pillow because the palace walls were too cold.
Serena didn't realize how much she'd needed to laugh.
Not until she did.
Back in the East Wing, Damián stood at the window, his jaw tight.
"She left with Elara," his guard confirmed.
He didn't respond.
Didn't curse.
Just closed the book in his hands and set it down without sound.
Elara was the only person in the world he never questioned.
And yet—
His hand flexed.
Because Serena hadn't told him.
Hadn't asked.
Had just… gone.
And that, more than anything, made something primal flicker behind his ribs.
He didn't want her locked up.
He wanted her willingly his.
And the more she tasted freedom…
The more he feared he'd lose the only woman who ever made obedience look like power.
By the time Serena returned to her chambers, dusk had turned the halls to shadow.
The door was ajar.
He was waiting inside.
Leaning against the fireplace, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.
"I told no one," she said calmly.
"I know."
"I returned before curfew."
"You didn't answer when I called for you."
She blinked. "You summoned me?"
"I don't like repeating myself."
She exhaled. "You're angry."
"No," he said.
And then he crossed the room in three steps and cupped her face with both hands.
"I'm obsessed."
His mouth crashed onto hers—not gentle.
Not cruel.
Just raw.
Like a storm breaking over dry earth.
Serena gasped, her hands fisting in his coat, as he kissed her like she was the one who'd disappeared, and he hadn't known what to do without her.
When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse.
"I don't care if you walk the gardens. I don't care if you run the halls. But if you leave me wondering—again—I will remind you whose name you wear around your neck."
She looked up, eyes shining.
"And if I want you to?"
His smile was dark.
Wicked.
Relieved.
"Then I'll give you a punishment that doesn't end at your knees."