Page 25 of Moonlit Desires

"You didn't do anything I didn't want," she says, taking a step toward him.

Kael retreats further, maintaining the space between them with warrior's precision. His expression hardens, shame evident in the tight line of his jaw, the furrow between his brows.

"What I want is irrelevant," he says, voice flat with forced control. "What you want is irrelevant. There are boundaries that exist for reasons beyond our understanding." He straightens, physically reconstructing his formal demeanor. "I have failed in my duty. Three centuries of discipline, undone in a moment of weakness."

The self-loathing in his voice makes Lyra flinch. She crosses her arms over her chest, suddenly conscious of her disheveled appearance—training shift askew, hair tumbling from its tie, skin marked by his attention. The evidence of their passion now feels like an accusation.

"Is that all I am to you? A duty?" The question comes unbidden, edged with a hurt she hadn't anticipated.

Kael's eyes finally meet hers, and the raw emotion there steals her breath—longing and regret so intertwined they cannot be separated. "You are everything," he says quietly. "That is precisely the problem."

He bends to retrieve his discarded practice sword, the movement precise and controlled, as if each muscle must be individually commanded. When he straightens, his face has smoothed into the impassive mask she first encountered days ago in Lythven—the guardian, not the man.

"I swore an oath to protect you. To teach you. To serve you." His voice drops lower. "Not to claim you. Not to mark you as mine. Not to indulge desires that have no place in our relationship."

Frustration wells in Lyra's chest, hot and unexpected. "Don't I get a say in this? In what our relationship is or could be?"

"No," Kael answers, the single syllable heavy with finality. "You are Ella Moonshadow's daughter. The last hope of a dying court. The bearer of royal blood. And I am your guardian, bound by oath and honor to remember my place." He adjusts his gripon the practice sword, knuckles white with tension. "Today, I forgot that place. It will not happen again."

Lyra reaches toward him once more, unwilling to accept the wall he's rebuilding between them. "Kael—"

"We will continue tomorrow," he interrupts, voice formal and distant. "With proper distance. The forms require precision, not..." He doesn't finish the thought, but his gaze flickers briefly to the column where moments ago their bodies had pressed together in mutual hunger.

Before she can formulate a response, he turns and strides from the courtyard, back straight as a blade, head held high. Only the faintest tremor in his shoulders betrays any emotion as he passes through the arched doorway and disappears into the palace.

Lyra remains alone in the suddenly vast courtyard, the morning sun now high enough to eliminate the shadows that had witnessed their encounter. Her body still aches with the echo of his touch, nerves singing with unfulfilled promises. She raises a hand to her lips, feeling their tenderness, the slight swell where his kisses had claimed her with such intensity.

The realization comes slowly, unfurling like a night-blooming flower: she had wanted him to continue. Not just the physical pleasure, though that had been undeniable, but something deeper. She had wanted his possession, his dominance, the weight of his devotion pressing her into the stone. She had wanted to surrender to the warrior who had waited three centuries to serve her.

The thought should frighten her. After all, she's spent her entire life in Lythven fighting to maintain her independence, to keep everyone at arm's length. Yet with Kael, she had wanted closeness, had craved the surrender of control to someone stronger, someone who looked at her not just with desire but with reverence.

Her legs finally steady enough to support her, Lyra moves to the center of the training circle. The silver inlay in the stone no longer glows, returning to mundane metal in the full light of day. She retrieves her own discarded practice sword, feeling its weight anew in her palm.

Without Kael's guidance, she attempts to remember the forms he showed her—waxing crescent, first quarter, gibbous, full. Her body moves through the motions, muscle memory already forming despite the brevity of their lesson. The physical activity helps clear her mind, though her skin still tingles where his hands had explored.

As she executes the final form, sweat dampening her brow, Lyra comes to a decision. Kael may have his duty, his oaths, his three centuries of discipline. But she is Ella Moonshadow's daughter, heir to the Moon Court, bearer of the royal sigil. And if there's one thing she's learned in her brief time at Court, it's that royal blood carries its own authority.

She touches her swollen lips once more, a smile forming at their corners. Tomorrow they will train again, with "proper distance" as he commanded. But distance, she's beginning to understand, is as much about perception as physical space.

And perception is something she intends to change.

Chapter seven

IntotheWoods

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The Silverwood beckons Lyra with whispers only royal blood can hear. She steps between ancient trunks of impossible silver, seeking solitude after the morning's training session left her with more questions than answers. The forest floor gives beneath her feet like flesh rather than earth, and she feels a flutter of unease in her chest—an uncomfortable awareness that she is a stranger here, despite the mark on her back claiming otherwise.

The trees rise around her, sentinels of polished bone reaching toward a sky she can no longer see. Afternoon light filters through the canopy in narrow shafts, dappling the ground with puddles of gold that shift and retreat as she approaches. She had slipped away from the palace while the Court prepared for evening festivities, needing space to breathe, to think, to escape the weight of Kael's rejection and the hunger that still lingers in her veins.

At first, the Silverwood welcomes her, paths widening invitingly beneath her steps. The beauty of it steals her breath—trees so tall they seem to puncture the heavens, their bark smooth as satin beneath her curious fingers. Flowers unfurl as she passes, luminous blooms that track her movement like attentive eyes.

But beauty slides into strangeness as she ventures deeper. The path that had seemed so clear begins to waver, edges blurring like watercolor left in rain. Lyra turns back, only to find the way she came has vanished, replaced by an identical corridor of silver trunks that she's certain wasn't there before.

"Hello?" she calls, her voice swallowed by the unnatural stillness of the air. No birds answer. No insects hum. Only the soft sigh of leaves responding to a wind she cannot feel.

The forest floor transforms with each step. What was once packed earth becomes a carpet of phosphorescent moss that pulses with inner light, casting her shadow in sickly greens and blues that distort her silhouette into something feral and unrecognizable. The moss squelches beneath her boots, releasing spores that drift upward like ghostly fingerprints reaching for her face.

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