I stood over Phoebe in the armory with her sword on the stone at her feet, my voice a sharp command that held her still while her breath quickened against the denial I refused to lift. I felt the pull to claim what we both needed, though yielding would expose every fear I kept armored away.

But I denied her the release again, my words rough as I ordered her to wait, to feel the edge without crossing it, even as my own body ached from the tournament and the hunger we shared in secret. Her defiance met my control, turning every withheld moment into a weapon we wielded against each other.

The castle corridors at dusk held our secret close, our ancestral holdings and pride balanced on how long this denial could last before it shattered us both.