Page 74 of Of Iron and Moonlight

More than that, she wanted to see him—to assure herself he was truly unhurt. That the danger had passed as cleanly as he claimed.

She thought it likely he was still awake, bent over his work as he so often was deep into the night. So she wrapped a shawl about her shoulders and slipped down to the kitchens.

“Could I trouble you for a little tea?” Kora asked.

Nahel’s smile widened. “Your Grace, you know I have kept the kettle warm for you.”

Kora thanked her warmly, then accepted the familiar, steadying weight of the tray. She walked slowly, letting herself take in the castle’s nightly hush after the day’s clamor, and with each careful step her thoughts loosened.

Duncan’s door stood slightly ajar.

Lamplight from within spilled across the floorboards.

As did the sound of a woman’s laughter.

Kora halted.

The laughter came again, and this time her heart stumbled. She moved closer, guided less by choice than disbelief, until through the narrow opening she caught a flash of auburn hair and Seraphine’s unmistakable silhouette.

Seraphine stood before Duncan. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw. His hands rested at her waist. The space between them closed. Their shadows folded together, merging into one.

The air left Kora’s lungs in a quiet, broken tremor. For one agonizing heartbeat, she could not move. Shock held her between stillness and incredulity while her mind reached for some explanation that refused to form.

Then the kiss deepened, and she needed to see no more.

She fled down the corridor.

At the first turn she stopped. One hand clutched the tray, the other found the wall, grasping for anything that might keep her upright. She closed her eyes, aware only of how fiercely her pulse hammered in her throat. The castle’s quiet, so gentle moments earlier, had turned suffocating.

She wanted to cry, but no tears came. Only the ache widening in her chest.

Evenings in Duncan’s study. The way he had looked at her at Rhalen’s school. The care with which he had guided her hands when he taught her to ride. It had begun to feel like trust. Like warmth. Like something more. Now each memory felt like mockery.

She drew a breath that hurt and turned toward the stairwell.

Nahel looked up when she entered the kitchen. “Your Grace? What—”

“He was not awake,” Kora said softly, setting down the tray before the cook could finish.

Then she was back in the open stillness of her own chambers, one hand pressed to her chest, her legs locked as though they had forgotten how to carry her farther.

Perhaps his distance had never been only grief, or duty, or the weight he carried. Perhaps another woman had always occupied the space she believed was opening between them.

What should it matter?

Their marriage was a contract.

No promise of love, or even affection, had ever been made.

No, this was not betrayal. This was the world she had chosen with open eyes. Men strayed. Houses required heirs and diversions alike. The Seed of Duskmere was proof enough. She had known this. She had only forgotten, for a time, that tenderness was not what courtly society was built to nurture or preserve.

Let this be the reminder, she thought. Let this be the true beginning.

Her marriage was duty and convenience. The most important vow was the one she had made to herself: to matter. To leave Lemierre better than she found it.

She would endure his distance.

She would endure this.