The ballroom doors loomed behind them, gilded and heavy, muffling the waltz that swirled just beyond. Laughter rang like crystal against glass inside, but out here—on the moon-drenched terrace—everything was still. Stars glittered above the gardens, veiled by wisps of night fog, and the air carried the scent of lilacs and warm stone. The lanterns flickered along the hedges, painting soft light across the cobbled path and the hem of her garment as it moved faintly in the breeze.

Anton stood near the doors, coat undone at the collar, his glass of wine long forgotten on the stone railing. The Queen had told him to enjoy himself—to take one night off. Yet here he was, back at his post. Back beside her. Because how could he enjoy anything else... when she was out here instead?

They hadn't said a word. They rarely did. But gods, they didn't need to. Their silence drew him like gravity. He let his gaze trace her—too long, too hungrily. The dip of her waist beneath the fabric. The gentle slope of her neck, kissed by moonlight. Every line and shadow stirred something low in him, something he had buried beneath armor and oath.

"You always slip away from the noise," he said, his voice low and velvet-edged. "I wonder... is it the music you avoid? Or the people?"

She glanced at him, a faint smile playing at her lips.

"Maybe I'm hiding," she offered.

His lips curved slightly. "Then I should warn you—I'm terrible at pretending I can't see you.""You're drunk," she murmured.

"Only a little," Anton admitted. "But enough to say what I shouldn't."

He took a step closer, his boots silent on the stone. The distance between them narrowed until he could feel her warmth through the cool night air.

"You don't speak often," he murmured, "and maybe that's a mercy... because if you did—if you said my name the way I hear it in my head—"

He stopped himself. Just barely. What would she say, he wondered. If she knew how often I think about her mouth, not for conversation—but for silence between kisses. For gasping, not speaking. He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.

"I'm trained to ignore temptation," he said quietly, "but you make me forget how to breathe."

His hand lifted, slow, uncertain. Fingers grazed the inside of her wrist—a featherlight touch—and even that made something sharp bloom in his chest.

"I shouldn't want this," he whispered, more to himself than to her. "But I'd give anything for one selfish moment."

She turned, finally facing him in full.

And in that single shared breath—the space between longing and action—he stepped into her.

His hand slipped to her lower back. His other cupped the side of her jaw, gloved fingers trembling slightly as they rested just beneath her ear. His eyes searched hers, dark and hungry.

"Say something," he breathed. "Or stop me."

Because if she didn't— Gods help him—

He wouldn't stop himself. She didn't speak. She didn't stop him.

And that silence—that silence—was the undoing of every command drilled into him since he was a boy in the academy.

Anton stood there, breath mingling with hers, heart thudding beneath his uniform like a war drum no one else could hear. His fingers remained at her jaw, brushing the curve of her cheekbone. Her skin was warm. Real.

And too close. Too damn close.

He should step back. He knew that. But something inside him—something traitorous—held still.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the way the night curved around them like a secret. Or maybe it was how easy it had become to imagine what it would feel like to forget everything else.

To press her against the stone railing. To taste her sigh as he traced her throat with his mouth. To hear her whisper his name—not in duty, but in desperation. To drag the layers of silk and velvet from her body and feel her bare beneath his palms. He swallowed hard, jaw tight.

Gods, what am I thinking...?

He'd never let his mind go this far before. Not while sober. Not while on duty.

But now, with her watching him like that—so still, so near—he could see it too clearly. He would take her apart slowly, reverently, one stolen kiss at a time. He would pin her wrists above her head with one hand and whisper the things he's sworn to bury with the other. He would kneel before her like a sinner before an altar and worship every inch she gave him.

Anton drew a sharp breath, stepping back half a pace—just enough to stop himself from doing something irrevocable.

His hand fell from her face like a blade being sheathed.

He ran a hand over his mouth, the illusion trembling at the edges.

"This isn't me," he muttered, half to himself, half to her. "I don't lose control. I don't want like this."

But even now—his body still burned. His mind reeled.

His gaze drifted back to hers.

"I need you to go," he said, voice raw and low. "Before I forget who I am."