Chapter 9 The Touch She Regrets
The upper cells were quiet—too quiet.
Lyrathia had intended it that way when she designed them centuries ago. Prisoners held there could not hear the screams echoing through the lower dungeon, nor the clanging of chains or the sound of bones cracking under torture. The upper cells were meant for individuals who required silence to break… or silence to protect.
Tonight, however, the silence was becoming her enemy.
The torchlight painted the stone corridor in orange-gold washes, flickering like the heartbeat she did not possess. Lyrathia walked without sound, long cloak brushing the floor behind her like a living shadow. The guards stationed at the end of the corridor straightened when she approached, expressions immediately tightening with concern.
“Your Majesty,” one began, “we were not told—”
“You were not meant to be told,” she cut in, voice cold enough to frost steel. “Open the door.”
The guards exchanged worried glances. She didn’t blame them. Queens didn’t visit prisoners twice in the same night. And certainly not this prisoner.
Lyrathia could feel her own unrest beneath the smooth surface of her composure, like a serpent coiling deeper inside her, moving in ways she’d forgotten were possible. She despised it. She should not be here. She should have waited until dawn—until her advisors were present—until her own cursed emotions had settled back into their icy grave.
But the memory of his eyes on her, of the way her hand had trembled when she released him, of the challenge in his voice—
It pulled at her like a spell.
Except it wasn’t her being bewitched.
It was her losing control.
Unacceptable, she told herself. Absolutely unthinkable.
The cell door unlatched with a groaning sigh. Heat rolled out from the torches embedded in the walls—warmer than the lower levels, intentionally so. She had ordered it herself hours earlier, but now she felt the warmth like a physical hand sliding along her skin.
She stepped inside.
Kael was seated on the stone bench, manacles glowing faintly red from his earlier struggle with the silver. His breath rose and fell steadily. He looked… tired, she realized. Exhausted. Mortal.
And yet not.
He lifted his gaze the moment she entered, and for a heartbeat—one she did not have—Lyrathia felt something thick and hot coil low in her abdomen.
“You,” Kael said quietly, “should not be here.”
His voice held no arrogance this time. No defiance. Just certainty.
“I decide where I belong,” she answered, tone sharper than she intended. “And I have questions you didn’t answer.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “You have plenty of questions, Queen. I’m not sure you’ll like any of the answers.”
She stepped closer. Too close.
His eyes flickered—again, not with fear. She almost wished he would fear her. Fear she understood. Fear she could control.
But this? This strange calm he wore like armor? It only stirred the cursed warmth beneath her ribs.
“I tested the silver,” she said. “It burns you. Mortals don’t react that way.”
He shrugged slightly. “Maybe I’m not the kind of mortal you’re used to.”
“And what kind is that?” she pressed.
Kael held her gaze. “One who kneels?”
Her breath snagged in her throat.
He’d said it deliberately. To provoke her. To remind her that he would not bow even here, even chained, even before a queen whose power shook the foundations of her kingdom.
She hated the way it drew her in.
Her voice cooled into a warning. “Watch your tongue.”
“Or what?” he asked, stepping forward with the chains clinking heavily. “Will you order me beaten? Drained? Broken?”
She didn’t move as he approached. They stood only a breath’s width apart now, separated only by the glowing chain between his wrists.
“No,” she whispered. “Worse.”
Kael’s pulse jumped—subtle, but she heard it.
Felt it.
He swallowed. “What could be worse?”
Her hand rose before she could stop it.
She touched him.
Fingers brushed his cheek first—a simple, stupid, unforgivable mistake. The moment her skin met his, heat flooded through her hand, up her arm, into her throat, her chest, her stomach. Pleasure hit her so fast her knees nearly buckled.
She felt warmth.
Real warmth.
Like fire beneath her skin.
And then something deeper.
A trembling.
A weakness she hadn’t felt in centuries.
Lyrathia jerked back—but not fast enough.
His skin lingered in her senses like an aftertaste, like stolen wine slipping down her throat. She stared at her own hand, horrified at the slight tremor that wouldn’t stop.
Kael was staring too.
“What… was that?” he whispered.
The question was genuine. Not mocking. Not defiant.
Curious.
Concerned.
The wrongness of that only made everything worse.
Lyrathia stepped back, grip tightening around her own wrist.
“That should not have—”
She swallowed. “You are not supposed to affect me.”
Kael tilted his head. “Affect you how?”
Rage rose—pure, icy, familiar.
That was better. That she could handle.
“You presume too much,” she snapped. “I came to test my control. Nothing more.”
“You lost it,” he said gently.
The softness of his tone nearly undid her.
“I did no such—”
She moved fast—so fast even he flinched. One hand slammed into the wall beside his head, stone cracking under her palm.
He inhaled sharply, eyes wide now, pulse pounding.
Good.
Fear was reasonable.
Fear grounded her.
But the chain between his wrists brushed her hip—and she felt the warmth again. Stronger. A pulse of sensation that shot through her like lightning.
She staggered back as if burned.
“No.”
Her voice came out low, feral.
“No. This cannot be happening.”
Kael watched her with something like awe, confusion, and a flicker of something darker—something mirroring her own hunger.
“Queen,” he said quietly, “what are you afraid of?”
She bared her fangs, fury sharpening every word.
“Of nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
Her entire body went rigid.
She had killed countless men for lesser insolence. But she could not touch him again—not without losing more of herself. Not without risking… something she could not name.
She turned away.
“Do not speak,” she ordered. “Do not look at me. Do not even breathe unless you must.”
She strode toward the door, but his voice stopped her cold.
“Lyrathia.”
Her name.
No title.
No fear.
And gods help her—she felt that same treacherous spark ignite inside her again.
She didn’t turn around.
“You will not address me so,” she hissed.
“Then tell me what that was,” he said softly. “When you touched me.”
She pressed a shaking hand to the wall, nails carving into stone.
She didn’t know.
She didn’t understand.
She couldn’t allow herself to speculate.
“I made a mistake,” she said. “One I will not repeat.”
She pulled the door open with enough force that the hinges screeched.
Before stepping out, she whispered—more to herself than to him—
“I should never have touched you.”
Kael’s voice followed her, quiet, dark, and certain:
“You will again.”
Her breath faltered.
She slammed the door behind her so hard the torches flickered.
The warmth on her palm remained long after she fled down the corridor, burning her like a memory she desperately wished she could forget.
But she knew the truth.
She wouldn’t forget.
And she would touch him again.