The morning after still haunts me—Shangjiao's scent lingering on my skin, the ghost of his touch branding every inch of my body. I should feel ashamed, crawling back to my quarters like a thief in the night, but all I can think about is how his hands felt on me, how he called my name like a prayer through the haze of his heat.

I shiver as I touch the healing bite mark on my neck, hidden beneath my collar. Not a claim, not yet, but more than brotherly affection. More than the careful distance he usually maintains.

The herbal tea in my hands grows cold as I stare at the door, knowing I'll have to face him eventually. Our relationship has always danced on a knife's edge—he the composed older brother, me the brilliant but volatile younger sibling with a talent for poisons. Last night shattered that delicate balance.

A knock at the door startles me. Speak of the devil.

I school my features into calm indifference as I open it, but my resolve wavers when I see him standing there—tall, imposing, as always, but with something raw in his eyes that matches the chaos in my chest. Behind him, I notice the delicate figure of a woman in traditional dress—the latest potential bride being paraded through the palace.

My blood turns to ice.