Days went by, but neither duty nor time blunted the recollection of Tristan's lips against hers. Isla glided through the palace like a specter in silk, her smiles polished and empty. Her thoughts were no longer with etiquette or courtly wit—they were with him.
The way his voice lowered when he spoke her name.
The fire in his eyes.
The lunacy that they were descending into.
Their trysts were clandestine rituals, sewn into the pattern of her days like shining threads. Under the cover of darkness, when palace walls slept, she would slip out—sometimes to the alley, sometimes to the river's edge where there were lanterns adrift like stars. And he would be there. Waiting.
Sometimes they spoke.
Other times, words were not needed.
And sometimes, as tonight, they danced on the precipice between foresight and abandon.
Tristan's back was pressed against the stone wall of the city's old chapel, his arms around her waist as she stood between his legs, her fingers brushing over the crest pinned to his chest—the one that marked him as a servant of the crown.
"You shouldn't wear this when you're with me," she whispered teasingly.
He cocked an eyebrow. "You'd like me to strip in front of you down the middle of the street?"
Her face warmed. "Perhaps."
He grinned, his low, warm sound drawing her forward until her hands pressed flat on his chest.
"You enjoy danger too much, princess."
"You keep referring to me like that," she breathed, angling her head. "But around you, I'm not a princess. I'm Isla."
His expression softened, a flicker of something tender crossing his face. He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her temple, then her cheek, before brushing his lips over hers with a gentleness that made her knees weak.
"Isla," he whispered against her mouth. "You're not just anything. You're everything."
She clutched his tunic, pulling him in tighter. His hands moved into her hair, his lips increasing the demand. The way he held her—like she was a dream he did not dare shatter—made her hurt in ways she could not define.
But just as his hand trailed along her spine, a loud whistle pierced the air.
Her heart dropped.
Tristan's entire body stilled.
They both huddled instinctively into the shadows, Isla pushed hard against him as the sound of footsteps approached. Torches held by the guards flashed across the cobbled street. Close. Too close.
Tristan's arm kept her near, covering her body with his. His other hand crept stealthily to the hilt of his sword.
Isla's heart pounded in her ears. She could sense every gasp he made, every quiver in his muscles. And still, even amidst the peril, she felt protected.
The guards marched by without slowing.
It wasn't until their footsteps receded that Tristan stirred. He moved back, breathing through clenched teeth. "We can't keep doing this."
Isla's heart fell. "Don't say that."
His hands trembled as he raked them through his hair. "If they'd seen us tonight… if word made it back to the court…" He gazed at her, tormented. "You'd be ruined. I'd be killed."
She moved forward, cradling his face. "Then let's run."
He blinked, shocked. "What?"
"Let's go. Tonight. We leave. No more secrets, no more lies—just you and me, someplace nobody knows our names."
Tristan looked at her as if she'd just held out the sun.
But after a moment, he drew her into his arms and buried his face in the crook of her neck.
"You don't know what you're asking," he whispered. "If we run, we lose everything."
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. "I'm already losing everything. Each day I spend here, pretending to be perfect daughter, perfect bride-to-be… I lose a part of myself." Her voice shook. "But you… with you… I feel real. I feel alive."
His lips were inches from hers, as though stuck in hesitation. "I want to say yes."
"Then say it."
"I just…" His voice broke. "I need time."
Isla nodded, her heart breaking. "I'll wait. But not forever."
He kissed her again, more slowly this time, holding on as if he were attempting to sear the moment into his very soul.
"I'll find you tomorrow," he whispered against her mouth.
"I'll be waiting," she told him.
And then, like two stars diverging, they disappeared into the night, each holding on to the hope that perhaps—just perhaps—their love might endure the war it was sure to ignite.