Page 45 of Maksym

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The words were muffled by my shirt. I closed my eyes.

“No.”

“I woke you.”

“I was not asleep.”

Her shoulders trembled. I moved my hand once more down her spine, then stopped as the truth of what I had done reached the waking room.

“I am sorry,” I said. “I touched you without permission.”

She shook her head against my chest. The motion was small, exhausted, and devastating.

“You were tangled,” I continued, because confession required facts. “You were going to hurt yourself. I should have called Millie, but I heard you and came in.”

Her fingers gathered more of my shirt.

“I’m glad you did.”

The words were barely audible. For a moment, I could not answer. There were victories too fragile to celebrate. This was one. Not trust, not forgiveness, not acceptance of the bond. Only a frightened woman relieved that one specific touch had not become harm.

It was enough to make my entire body ache.

I began to ease back. “I will get Millie.”

Her hand closed around my forearm. The strength of her grip stopped me.

Yesterday, if time still had any meaning, she had been skin and bone and failing heartbeats. Now her fingers pressed into muscle with enough force to remind me what royal blood had made of her. She noticed too. Her eyes, still wet and shadowed, flicked to her own hand as if it belonged to someone else.

But she did not let go.

“Please,” she said.

I went still. Her face remained turned partly away, hair loose across one cheek, lashes clumped with tears. In the dim room, her navy eyes looked almost black.

“Stay,” she whispered. “Until I fall asleep again.”

Every instinct in me answered with such force that I had to hold the response behind my teeth until it was fit to give her.

Then I said, “Of course I’ll stay. I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

Something moved across her face at that. Pain, perhaps. Disbelief. Or only exhaustion too deep to interpret. She released my forearm, but only to curl her hand against my chest again.

I shifted slowly, giving her time to object, and settled back against the pillows with her held beside me rather than beneath me. She chose the final distance herself, inch by inch, until her face rested against my ribs and one arm lay across my abdomen. Her body remained tense for several breaths. Then the tension began to drain, not all at once, but in small, reluctant surrenders.

I kept one arm around her shoulders. No more than she had asked. No less than she needed. The room went fully quiet. Outside the curtains, morning strengthened. I could see it only in the faint whitening at the edges, thin lines of day trying and failing to enter. The wards held. Her breath brushed my shirt. Uneven at first. Then slower.

I counted the changes. Inhale. Pause. Exhale. A tremor. Another breath. Less tremor. Her fingers loosened where they held the linen. Her cheek grew heavier against me. Sleep returned carefully.

I meant to remain awake. That had been my intention. I would sit with her until she slept, then call Millie, then leave before Grace woke and regretted having asked. I would do the disciplined thing. The honorable thing. I would prove, quietly, that comfort did not have to become a claim. Instead, the night took its due. I closed my eyes.

Sleep came without ceremony. Not the guarded rest I had practiced for centuries, one ear tuned to threat, one hand never far from a weapon. This was deeper. Rarer. A fall rather than a choice. I slept with my arm around my mate and no crown between my body and the bed.

When I surfaced, the room had changed. Not much.

The curtains still held the sun at bay, but light had gathered more insistently at the edges, silver-white instead of gray. The air had cooled further, or perhaps sleep had made my skin more aware of the absence of fire. Somewhere beyond the door, the palace remained in its daytime hush.