Page 75 of Iron Roses

Now I stand just outside it. Again.

Her door is shut. No sound beyond it. No breath. Nothing.

My palm hovers above the wood. I don’t knock.

My fingers curl instead, pressing into the side of my thigh.

She hasn’t left the room since we returned from the dunes. Since she asked if I could love her and then kissed me like she didn’t need the answer.

Since I didn’t give one.

The door creaks.

I freeze.

It opens only halfway.

And then—

She stands there barefoot, one hand still on the knob, the other tangled in the lace hem of the gown clinging to her like spun air. Ivory, loose at the shoulders. Thigh-high slit that sways open with her sway. The fabric is soft enough to be transparentin the light. Her skin is flushed—not blush, but heat. Fever. A blooming rose that crawls up her throat.

Her eyes are puffy, red-rimmed. Like she’s been crying or dreaming too deep.

Her mouth parts—dry, too dry—and she starts to speak.

“Cassian—”

I’m already there.

My hand lifts—instinct, not thought—and presses to her forehead. Thumb brushing aside a damp strand of hair stuck to her temple. Her skin scorches beneath my palm.

She flinches slightly, but I don’t move. She shakes her head. “It’s nothing. I didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”

But her legs shift like she’s bracing herself against gravity. Her gown slips down one shoulder. My eyes follow the line of her collarbone, the way it pulls tight like a string straining to hold her upright.

She tries again.

“I just need to rest—”

Then her stomach growls. The sound ricochets between us, oddly alive in the stillness. She stiffens.

I raise a brow.

She scowls.

“I’m fine.”

My hand drops from her face. I take her fingers—too warm, too limp—and turn gently, guiding her down the hall. Her pace stutters, but she doesn’t resist. She lets me lead her like she’s too tired to argue. Or maybe because she knows I won’t let her fall.

We reach the kitchen.

The maids see me before the door finishes opening. Their chatter dies mid-word. One drops a spoon. Another jerks upright so fast her apron whips sideways. Eyes widen. Back straighten.

I raise one hand. They scatter.

Not out of fear, exactly.

But they know what I am when I enter a room without shoes, without gloves, without guards.

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