Chapter Text
Turns out, imprisonment when you’re a Crow has its perks—at least, if you’re the grandson of the former First Talon. And cousin of the new First Talon.
Which is how Illario found himself confined to his room at the Dellamorte Villa, much as he’d kept Caterina confined to her quarters.
A fitting punishment, really. Illario had nothing to pass the time except to stare at the walls and think. Viago kept Crows posted at the balcony outside his room, should he decide death was preferable to this—ensuring he had to live with what he’d done.
Hours turned into days turned into weeks. It was one day when Illario was staring at a particularly fascinating crack in the wall that he heard Viago’s voice outside his room, along with Teia’s.
And then—her voice. The one he’d been trying not to think about.
“Let me speak with him.”
The words filtered through the door, and Illario's spine straightened involuntarily, every muscle tensing. What was she doing here?
“Just a few minutes,” he heard her say. “Please.”
The door swung open before he could even rise from the bed, the hinges creaking in the sudden silence that followed. And there she was.
Selena—no, Rook now, though the name still felt wrong in his mind—stepped across the threshold with that same confident grace he remembered. But everything else had changed. Her jaw was set, her eyes that familiar gold but now cold, so cold.
“You can close the door,” she told Teia without even glancing back, her gaze fixed upon him.
Teia hesitated at the threshold, her hand still on the doorframe. “Are you sure?"
“I’m sure.” Her golden eyes never wavered from Illario’s face, pinning him in place. “He’s not stupid enough to try anything.”
Just stupid enough to throw everything away.
Teia looked over at Illario, eyes narrowed. “After everything Rook’s done for Treviso, if you lay even one finger on her, Maker help me…” The threat hung unfinished in the air, but Illario felt the weight of it like a hand around his throat. The message was unmistakable.
Of course Rook had endeared herself to the Crows. Of course they'd fight for her, threaten for her, die for her if she asked. She endeared herself to everyone who crossed her path—it was just what she did. That devastating effect she had, warm and bright like standing in sunlight after years in the shadows. A light he'd basked in, then forced himself to turn away from.
And they all loved her for it.
Just like he had.
The door clicked shut, and suddenly the room felt much smaller. Or maybe it was that Rook filled the space, a presence he couldn’t ignore even if he wanted to.
Illario remained seated on the edge of his bed, unsure if standing would seem too aggressive or staying seated too dismissive. Not that it mattered, in the end. His body made the choice for him, frozen between wanting to take her into his arms and knowing he had no right. “Selena—”
“Don’t,” she cut in. “You don’t get to call me that anymore.”
He simply nodded; he supposed it was only fair, given everything.
Rook stayed near the door, arms crossed over her chest. For a long moment, she just looked at him, and he forced himself to meet her gaze even though it felt like the sun itself was burning into him.
“I need to know something,” she finally said. “And I need you to tell me the truth for once in your absolutely miserable life.”
Illario swallowed, unwilling to show the words had an effect. “Then ask.”
“Was I a part of it?” The question came out with more bite than he expected, barely contained fury caged behind her teeth. “Your plan with Zara, with the Venatori—was I involved? Did you…” She took a breath, steadying herself. “Did you use me to help them?”
Now that brought him to his feet. “No—”
“Don’t lie to me!” Rook’s hands fell to her side, clenched into fists. “I’ve spent weeks trying to figure it out. The timing, the location, how convenient it all was. A Shadow Dragon, right when you’re making deals with blood mages?” A laugh, bitter and broken, escaped her. “Tell me I wasn’t part of your scheme. Tell me I wasn’t that stupid.”
“You weren’t,” he said quickly, stomach twisting, desperately needing her to believe at least this much. The only truth he had left to give her. “Selena—Rook—you were never part of that. I never would have—”
“Then what was it all for?” she cut him off. “If not me, then why? Why any of it?”
“Zara was a means to an end,” he replied, heart racing. “The Venatori, their reach in Tevinter—I thought I could use them. Rid Treviso of the Antaam once Lucanis was gone and I held the title… I—I told myself that made it worth it.”
She stared him for a minute, dumbfounded. “Oh yes, your noble intention of having Lucanis killed so you could take the mantle of First Talon. Very heroic,” she deadpanned.
Illario said nothing. There was nothing to say to that. She was right, and they both knew it, and any defense he mounted would only confirm what she already thought of him.
Something shifted in her expression then—the cold anger giving way to whatever she’d been holding back since she walked through the door.
Illario took a step towards her and she visibly recoiled, turning away from him.
The movement was a dagger straight to his heart. She’d never pulled away from him like that. Even that first night, when she’d initially accused him of being a slaver, she’d leaned into him.
“Illario.” Her voice cracked on his name. “I need you to tell me it didn’t mean anything.”
Immediately, he understood with brutal clarity what she was really asking. She needed him to lie. Needed him to make this easier, to give her permission to hate him cleanly, to walk away without the weight of knowing she'd meant something to someone who'd still chosen to destroy everything.
If he told her it had all been an act—just another seduction, another mark, another body in a long line of forgettable bodies—she could leave this room and never look back. Could move on without wondering what might have been if he'd just been brave enough, honest enough, good enough to choose her.
“It meant everything," he said quietly, the words scraping out of his throat, honest and damning.
She turned to face him then, and the devastation in her expression nearly broke him. Her golden eyes—those eyes that had once looked at him like sunrise, like hope, like home—were wet with tears that caught the dim light like shattered glass.
“Then how could you—" She shoved him, hard enough that he stumbled back a step, and the physical contact felt like absolution and condemnation all at once. “How could you do this? To Lucanis, to me, to—"
She shoved him again, harder this time, and he stumbled backward. His legs hit the edge of the bed and he fell, reaching out instinctively to catch himself—and caught her instead, his hands finding her waist, pulling her down with him.
She landed straddling him, hands pinning his shoulders to the mattress. For a heartbeat they both froze, the position sickeningly familiar, a cruel echo of every time she'd been above him like this in Minrathous. How many times had she straddled him with desire darkening her eyes? How many times had he looked up at her with want instead of regret, with hunger instead of shame?
But her eyes weren't warm now. Weren't soft with desire or bright with laughter or hazy with pleasure. They were hard and wet with tears, and her hands pressed down with enough force to keep him there, to make sure he couldn't escape this, couldn't run from what he'd done.
Three months since that night in the alley, and Illario still couldn’t get her out of his head.
His second meeting with Zara was over, although Illario had the feeling she was perhaps expecting something more. The thought sent a shudder through him as he departed, the distinct unease of blood magic hard to shake.
Yet he knew he couldn't afford a distraction like Selena. It had been one night. Just one night, and he'd told her as much—told himself as much—and yet he remembered the look in her eyes when he'd said he wasn't a good man. The certainty in her voice when she'd disagreed.
Perhaps, maybe, he could still—
Then he found himself wandering the streets of Minrathous, his feet following a path of their own, heading toward a tavern he should have forgotten.
He should turn around. Head back to Antiva. It was foolish—reckless, even—to nurture a connection he had no business forging. But then the detached, practical part of his mind offered up its justification: a lover tucked away in Minrathous would make the perfect cover, should any Crow think to follow up on his activities.
Yes, that’s it. That’s exactly why he’s setting foot in this tavern once more, why he—
The moment he stepped inside, that same crystalline, sultry voice wove through the smoke and noise.
Selena was on stage again, holding the crowd captive with a song about distant places, about love and belonging, even when far away.
The irony wasn’t lost on Illario.
Her dress tonight was different, though no less stunning, turquoise fabric catching the light as she moved. Illario made his way to the bar, deliberately choosing the same seat he’d occupied that first night. The same spot where she’d appeared beside him and demanded he buy her a drink. Where this all started.
He ordered an ale and settled in to wait, watching her perform. Just as he raised his glass to take a drink, her eyes swept across the crowd and landed on his.
Illario didn’t quite know what to make of the look that flashed across her face. Surprise? Recognition?
Those full lips then curved into a the barest hint of a smile, and she held his gaze as she continued to sing.
As if the words were meant for him, and only him.
But they couldn’t be. People didn’t just do nice things for Illario. It’d be foolish to think this was an exception.
Yet his pulse quickened anyway, betraying the lie he was telling himself.
Selena held his eyes for another moment before turning her attention back to the rest of the crowd, finishing the song, the final note not even faded before the tavern filled with applause and calls for another song. She simply smiled, bowing gracefully, and stepped down from the small stage.
Illario watched her navigate through the crowd, his heart leaping at the thought that she was coming straight to him.
Instead, she was immediately intercepted by a group of patrons—regulars, by the look of it, who clearly adored her. One handed her a white rose despite her protests while another gushed about her beautiful her voice was.
She handled them all with warmth and grace, smiling and laughing, touching arms in thanks, making each person feel seen.
Illario took a long drink of his ale, and tried not to feel like an idiot. Of course she wasn’t coming over. That look during the song had been nothing. He was reading way too much into it, seeing what he wanted to see. Who was he to feel disappointed anyways? He had no right to want her attention when he'd come here under false pretenses, when he was already tangled up with Zara and plans he couldn't untangle himself from. Besides, she’d probably forgotten all about—
“Same seat and everything. How sentimental.”
He turned to find her sliding onto the stool beside him, that same knowing smile playing upon her lips. Up close, he could see she was slightly flushed, probably from performing, and that a few strands of dark hair had escaped the pins holding it back.
That’s when he knew there was no excuse good enough for this. For wanting to be near her again, for the way his chest loosened just at the sound of her voice. “I’m a creature of habit,” Illario said, trying for casual and failing spectacularly.
“Mmm.” Her golden eyes studied him, dancing with amusement. “Is that what brings you back to Minrathous? Habit?”
“Business,” he replied, a half-truth at best. “I had matters to attend to in the city.”
“Of course.” She motioned to the bartender for a drink—an interesting change Illario couldn’t help but note. “And these matters just happened to bring you by this particular tavern. On a night I was performing.”
“Pure coincidence.” He hadn’t known for certain, but he had hoped, like a fool. As if he were someone who deserved to hope for anything beyond the path he'd already chosen.
“Right.” The surly bartender set a glass of ale in front of her. She took a slow, luxurious sip, her eyes never leaving Illario’s.
A challenge, then.
“You know,” she continued, “if you wanted to see me again, you could have just said so.”
“Funny,” Illario said, leaning closer. “You were the one singing about Treviso. Almost like you were thinking about someone from Antiva.”
Her smile widened, pleased he’d caught that. “I sung about a lot of places. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Hmm.” He studied her, noting the way her eyes sparkled with mirth. “And yet you happened to look right at this seat while doing so. Were you hoping for a certain patron from months ago to wander back in?”
She took another sip of ale, the picture of innocence. “Well, I certainly didn’t mind the view.”
They stared at each other for a moment, the noise of the tavern fading to background murmur. Illario reached out, the movement almost unconscious, his fingers finding one of those loose strands of dark hair that had escaped her pins. He tucked it behind her ear with a gentleness that surprised even him and felt the exact moment her breath caught—a small hitch that sent satisfaction curling through his chest.
“Yet you didn't allow me the privilege of buying you a drink."
She leaned into his touch for just a heartbeat, her eyes fluttering closed, before catching herself and pulling back with a smirk that didn't quite hide the flush spreading across her cheeks. “I'm a modern woman," she said, raising her glass in mock salute. “I can purchase my own beverages."
“Very modern, indeed." His hand dropped to rest on the bar between them, palm flat against the worn wood, close enough that their fingers were almost touching. “So what do I have to do to earn your company tonight? Since clearly my devastating charm and good looks aren’t enough.”
That brought a bright laugh out of her. “Your charm is adequate at best.”
Illario pressed his free hand to his heart. “Adequate. She wounds me.”
“Your ego seems to be doing fine just without my help.” Selena shifted slightly closer on her stool, her knee brushing against his thigh.
His eyes dropped to the narrow space that she'd just closed, then traveled deliberately down to where the slit in her dress revealed smooth, tanned skin. When he looked back up, heat simmered in his gaze. “And yet, you're the one who moved closer."
“I’m getting comfortable,” she said, completely shameless. “This might take a while.”
He arched an eyebrow at that. “Oh? And what exactly might take a while?”
“Deciding if you’re worth my time.” She reached for her glass, fingers brushing against his hands on the bar. “Three months is a long time to make someone wait.”
His answer should’ve been that he wasn't worth a moment of her time, let alone whatever this was becoming. But Illario had never been good at doing what he should. “I could say the same.”
“Could you?” Selena responded with an absolutely beguiling smile. “And here I thought you just happened to have business in Minrathous.”
“I did. I do.” He took a sip of his ale, trying to sound casual. “Ongoing negotiations and all that.”
“Mmm, very important business then,” she said with a slight flip of her hair. “The kind that keeps a man away for weeks and then conveniently brings him back to the same tavern, same seat, same night I’m performing.”
“Coincidence,” he insisted once more.
“Is it?” She tilted her head, those perceptive golden eyes studying him.
He could maintain the facade, should double down on his lie—
“That, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
The words slipped out without any second thought and he immediately wanted to take them back, this was not how he operated, not how he usually did anything and yet with her—
Selena simply smirked, infuriatingly knowing, like she’d been waiting for that confession. “There it is.”
His chest tightened. “There what is?”
“The truth.” She set her glass down and turned to face him more fully. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”
Annoyance and admiration hit him at once: at being played and at how effortlessly she’d done it. “You’re dangerous.”
“So I’ve been told.” A blush crept up her cheeks, though her eyes never left his. “For what it’s worth, you’re quite hard to forget.”
And just like that, the game changed again.
She finished the last of her ale, setting the glass down with a quiet finality. Her fingers lingered on the handle for a moment before she looked up at him, something softer in her expression. “There’s a hookah lounge not too far from here.”
The tavern suddenly felt too small to contain whatever this was between them. Illario stood, offering his arm to her. “Lead the way,” he found himself saying yet again.
The hookah lounge was nothing like the tavern—quieter, warmer, the air still thick with smoke but more fragrant. Selena led him through the main room with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where she was going, nodding to a server who handed her tobacco before weaving between clusters of cushioned seats towards the back.
Eyes followed them as they moved through the room—or rather, followed him. He caught it in his periphery, the way heads turned, the particular attention that had trailed him his entire adult life. Usually he was aware of it, catalogued it, used it when useful.
Tonight he didn't care.
Selena moved ahead of him, entirely unbothered by the looks he was drawing—or perhaps simply uninterested in competing for attention she'd never needed. She paused at a curtained booth and pulled the light fabric aside.
“My favorite seat,” she said simply, as if that explained everything.
Inside, it was like they were in their own world. There were low cushions and a lantern already burning, the hookah waiting in the center. Illario settled across from Selena, watching as she arranged herself with that calm grace, legs tucked beneath her, turquoise fabric pooling around her, completely at home.
She lit the coals herself, coaxing the hookah to life with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times, and passed him the mouthpiece without ceremony.
He accepted it, and something about the ease of the gesture simultaneously comforted and unsettled him.
For a moment neither of them spoke. The curtain muffled the sounds of the lounge beyond, and the silence between them was different from the charged sparring of the tavern. Softer. More dangerous, somehow.
Selena watched the smoke curl as he exhaled, her expression thoughtful in a way that made the back of Illario’s neck prickle. Like she was turning something over, deciding when to set it down in front of him.
Illario said nothing, watching her carefully, waiting to see where this was going as he quietly offered her the mouthpiece.
Selena took it and set it down between them, folding her hands in her lap, relaxed, like they were simply discussing the weather. “So, Illario... I’m not asking you to confirm anything about what you actually do.”
The silence stretched.
“I just… wanted to let you know.” Her eyes held his, steady and clear. “If that’s what you meant that night, when you said you weren’t a good man… It doesn’t change anything. For me.”
Warm, immediate relief flooded through Illario. She thought she knew. The dagger he wore at his hip, his careful positioning, the vague talk of security—that was the extent of his secret, as far as she was concerned. That he was a Crow, the thing he’d been warning her about.
It was enough. It had to be enough.
“Most people don’t stay,” he said quietly, “when they figure it out.”
She laughed at that. “Good thing I’m not most people.”
No, Illario thought, looking at her across the low light and curling smoke. She really wasn’t.
Selena reached for the mouthpiece, her knee shifting to rest against his as she leaned forward. She didn’t pull back, and neither did he.
“So,” she said, exhaling slowly, eyes soft with what might’ve been genuine curiosity. “The family business. Any progress? With your cousin?”
The gentle tone of her voice made the question land worse somehow.
“Ongoing negotiations,” Illario responded, the same deflection he always reached for, though it sat differently in his mouth now.
“Uh-huh.” She tilted her head, studying him with those perceptive golden eyes. “Still convinced there’s only one way to make him understand?”
He took the mouthpiece, fingers closing over hers for just a moment before she released it. “Let’s just say the wheels are already in motion.”
She looked slightly disappointed. “And is that what you truly want?”
The question caught him off guard. He looked at her for a long moment, the smoke curling between them. “What made you ask that?”
“Because you said your future was more set in stone than you’d like.” She smirked. “I paid attention.”
His heart swelled at that—that she actually remembered, that she had carried that detail, kept it with her for three months.
“And you?” he asked, turning the question back on her. “Was your future set in stone?”
She made a soft, considering sound. “In a manner of speaking,” she said with the particular ease of someone who had made peace with her own story. “My father was Tevinter military. He found me on a battlefield as a newborn, though no on ever established quite how I got there. He kept me anyway, raised me as his own.”
Illario looked at her. “That doesn’t trouble you? Not knowing?”
“Why would it?” She met his gaze. “He chose me. And every day after that, he kept choosing me. That’s not nothing.” Her fingers fiddled with the tassels on the cushions. “Growing up the way I did, around soldiers and people who understood what it cost to make hard choices… I learned early that the weight of what you do doesn’t disappear, no matter the reasons you had for it. It stays with you. You just decide how to move forward.”
“That’s why you stayed,” he said slowly. “That’s what you meant—about it not changing anything.”
Selena nodded. “We didn’t choose what we were born into, but we’ve had to live with what it’s made us carry.”
The silence that followed was different from all the others; no underlying tension, no bated breath, just the kind of silence that only existed between two people who had stopped performing for each other.
“No,” Illario said finally. “None of us choose it.”
He was quiet for a moment, turning the mouthpiece over in his hands. “My cousin,” he said, against his better judgement. “He didn’t choose it either. The title, the responsibility—it was put on him because he was the best of us, and nobody stopped to ask if that was what he wanted.” He sighed before continuing, keeping his voice even. “He deserves better than what’s been put on him. He never wanted any of it. Has never wanted anything except—”
He stopped and took a long drag from the hookah. “It doesn’t matter.”
Selena said nothing, simply watching him, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she’d just seen something he hadn’t meant to show her. “You love him.”
Illario didn’t respond, but he didn’t deny it either.
And in the amber light of the curtained booth, with the smoke curling between them and the chatter of the city humming distantly beyond, Selena looked at him like he’d just confirmed something she’d been suspecting all along.
He felt it wash over him. Felt himself want to be whatever she was seeing. And he had absolutely no idea what to do with that.
She shifted closer on the cushions as she wrapped her fingers around his, still on the mouthpiece. “And now?” she asked softly.
The question hung in the air between them. Her knee pressed warm against his thigh, her shoulder almost touching his. Vanilla and bergamot mixed with the smell of tobacco, the same as that first night, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of how small the booth was. How private.
“Now,” Illario said, his voice dropping low, “I find myself less certain about a great many things.”
Her eyes dropped briefly to his mouth, then back up. “Such as?”
He reached out, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, the same way he had at the bar. Except this time, his touch lingered.
“Whether one night was ever going to be enough.”
Selena’s eyes fluttered closed at his touch, leaning into his hand, but this time she didn’t pull back, didn’t catch herself. When she opened her eyes again, something had shifted in them, and the last of the distance between them closed.
The kiss was nothing like their first in that alley—quieter, slower, the urgency replaced by something that felt almost like relief. His hand slid from her hair to her jaw, tilting her face up, and she made a soft sound against his mouth that shot straight through him.
Her hand found his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt—
The curtain wrenched open.
“Selena, you have to hear what Marcus just—”
The man stopped dead.
Illario pulled back, every Crow instinct snapping into place, his other hand immediately flying to the dagger at his hips as his eyes fixed on the intruder. Young, broad-shouldered, dark eyes moving between them with an expression that cycled through surprise then recognition before settling into neutrality.
He knew her favorite booth.
The man crossed his arms, utterly at ease. His eyes slid to Illario with a particular brand of disinterest that was somehow more insulting than outright hostility.
“My apologies,” he said, not sounding remotely apologetic. “Marcus’s story can wait.” His gaze drifted back to Selena, one eyebrow arching. “Didn’t realize you had company. Again.”
“Tarquin.” Selena’s voice carried a warning.
“I’m just saying.” He dropped into the cushions across from them with the comfort of someone who had sat there a hundred times before, helping himself to the hookah without invitation. “You could have told us you were busy. We’ve been looking for you for an hour.”
“You’ve found me,” Selena gritted through her teeth. “And now you can go.”
“Mmm.” Tarquin exhaled a long stream of smoke, dark eyes drifting to Illario with that same lazy appraisal. “Nice dagger, by the way.”
Selena closed her eyes briefly. Then she reached for her wrap, shaking it out with a decisive energy. “We’re leaving.” She stood up, smoothing her dress. “Don’t wait up.”
“Never do,” Tarquin said pleasantly, already making himself at home.
The night air was cool after the warmth of the lounge, the streets of Minrathous quieter now, the city settling into its late hours. Selena paused just outside the door, adjusting her wrap around her shoulders. Then she glanced up at Illario.
“The streets aren’t safe this late,” she said. “Walk me home?”
It wasn’t a question, not really. Illario recognized that by now—the same directness she’d used that first night, giving him a choice that wasn’t much of a choice at all. “Of course.”
She smiled and set off, heels clicking against the cobblestones. He fell into step beside her naturally, their arms brushing every few steps, neither of them moving away.
They walked in silence for a moment, the soft pitter-patter of rain enveloping them.
“Again,” Illario finally said.
Selena glanced up at him. “Sorry?”
“He said he didn’t realize you had company.” He kept his voice steady, eyes forward. “Again.”
She blinked, then there was a wicked gleam in her eyes. “Are you jealous?”
“I’m observant,” Illario replied. “It’s a professional habit.”
She laughed then, bright and warm, like she was entirely unbothered by this exchange. “Tarquin is like an annoying older brother with terrible timing.” Her hand found his as they walked, fingers threading through his loosely, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
He knew that, deep down. He also knew he had no right to be jealous. It didn’t help.
Illario stopped in his tracks.
Selena made it two more steps before she realized, turning to look back at him with a questioning tilt of her head. Whatever she saw in his expression made the question die on her lips.
He closed the distance between them in one stride, one hand finding her waist as he backed her against a wall, and then he was kissing her—not like the booth, nothing like the booth. This was the alley again, that same desperate hunger, except now it was tangled up with something uglier and more honest. An irrational, white-knuckled need to crowd out every other person who knew her favorite booth, who had looked at her like they had any right to.
She made a sound of surprise against his mouth that dissolved almost immediately into a moan, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer to her.
When he finally broke the kiss, breath ragged, his forearm braced against the wall beside her head, she looked up at him with dark eyes and absolutely no intention of pretending she hadn’t enjoyed that.
“Maybe,” he growled, “I should’ve just taken you back there.” His thumb traced a slow path along her jaw, brushing against her lower lip. “Given your friend something worth remembering.”
Her breath caught, just for a moment, before her chin tilted up, eyes glittering. “Rather bold for a man who met me just three months ago.”
“And yet here we are.” His eyes dropped to her mouth. “In a dark alley. Again.”
“Funny how that keeps happening. However…” Her hands smoothed up his chest, before curling around his lapels. “I have a perfectly good apartment two streets over.”
Illario couldn’t bring himself to argue with that.
Her building was narrow and tall, tucked between two larger ones, a potted plant beside the door that had seen better days. She produced a key from somewhere in the folds of her wrap.
The door swung open. Warm light spilled out from inside—she’d left a lamp burning, casting the small entryway in gold. Illario could see the edge of a rug, the corner of a bookshelf overflowing with titles he couldn’t quite make out.
Selena stepped inside and turned to face him, one hand resting on the doorframe. She looked at him the way she had that first night in the alley—like the choice was his, and she already knew what he’d choose.
“Well,” she said. “Are you coming in?”
Illario looked at her standing in the warm light. Thought about Lucanis, Zara, his plans, the way one might acknowledge a storm on the horizon before deciding to stay out anyways.
Then he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
She was on him the moment the door clicked shut.
Her hands found his lapels again, backing him against the door, her mouth finding his with no hesitation—just Selena taking what she wanted with both hands. He kissed her back with three months of badly suppressed wanting, his hands finding her waist, her back, pulling her closer.
His jacket hit the floor somewhere near the door.
Her wrap followed in the hallway.
By the time they reached the bedroom, he’d lost his shirt and she’d lost whatever pins had been holding her hair up, dark waves spilling over her shoulders, and he’d never wanted anything the way he wanted her in that moment—which should have terrified him, and almost did.
Almost.
The rest of their clothes landed in scattered piles around the bed—her dress sliding to the floor in a whisper of fabric, his trousers kicked away, undergarments tossed aside without care or ceremony. When she pushed him back onto the mattress, he let himself fall, watching her settle above him with that triumphant gleam in her eyes.
She thought she'd won. Thought she had control.
He was perfectly content to let her believe it.
“There," she said, breathless and flushed, skin already shining with sweat despite them barely having started. “That's better."
“Is it?" He sat up, bringing them face to face, chest to chest, close enough to share breath. “Because I think we're exactly where we both want to be."
Selena rose up on her knees then, positioning herself above him, and their eyes locked as she sank down slowly, taking him in inch by torturous inch.
“Fuck," she breathed, her head falling back as she took him completely, her whole body trembling.
When she started to move, it was deliberate. She found her angle, ground down in a way that made her gasp—sharp and needy—and did it again. And again. Taking what she wanted, using him for her own pleasure with shameless abandon that made his blood burn.
Illario couldn't resist, couldn't have stopped himself if he'd wanted to. His mouth found one peaked nipple as she moved, tongue circling the sensitive flesh before he took it between his lips. She gasped, her rhythm faltering for just a moment before she ground down harder, chasing the dual sensation.
“That's it," he murmured against her skin, switching to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention. “Take what you need."
And oh, she did. Her hips rolled in tight circles, grinding against him in a rhythm that had little sounds of pleasure escaping her lips with each movement. His hands roamed her body—one gripping her hip to guide her movements, to control the rhythm even as she thought she led, the other cupping her breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak his mouth had just left.
But just when she'd find her rhythm, when her breathing would grow ragged with approaching release, when he could feel her starting to tighten around him, he'd shift his angle, thrust up into her while biting down gently, disrupting her control and making her cry out—a sound she had to muffle against his shoulder to keep from being heard.
“You're—" she started, but he captured her nipple again, sucking hard, and she lost the words entirely, lost everything but sensation.
“I'm what?" he asked, releasing her with a soft pop before trailing his mouth across to give equal attention to the other side, his tongue tracing patterns across her fevered skin.
“Infuriating," she managed, but even as she said it, she was adjusting, finding a new angle, grinding down hard enough to make them both groan. Her breath caught, held, released in a shaky exhale as she chased her pleasure, as she took what she needed from him.
His mouth found her skin again—the swell of her breast, the valley between, her collarbone, her throat. Tasting salt and sweetness, feeling her pulse racing beneath his lips like a wild thing. His hands never stopped moving, exploring every curve, every dip, memorizing the feel of her, the way her body responded to his touch.
But she couldn't maintain the bravado, couldn't keep up the pretense of control. Her movements were becoming less controlled, more desperate, more honest. She ground against him with increasing urgency, her breath coming in gasps that drove him wild, that made him want to flip her over and take control, to make her scream his name.
But he didn't. He let her have this, let her think she was in control, even as his hands guided her, even as his hips thrust up to meet her, even as he orchestrated every moment of her pleasure.
She was beautiful. Devastating. His.
The possessive thought should have worried him, should have sent alarm bells ringing through his mind. But he was too far gone to care, too lost in her to think about consequences or complications or the betrayal he was planning. One hand slid up her spine to tangle in her hair, pulling her down for another kiss while his other hand stayed on her hip, controlling the rhythm. When she ground down particularly hard, he thrust up to meet her, and the combination made her break the kiss with a sharp cry that she had to muffle against his shoulder.
“Illario," she gasped, and hearing his name like that—desperate and wanting and broken—nearly destroyed his control.
“I've got you," he murmured, but she shook her head, her hair falling around them.
“I’m so close," she panted, and ground down again, her rhythm becoming erratic as she chased release, as pleasure built and built and built. “Almost—just—"
That's when he shifted their position slightly, using his grip on her hip to drive deeper, angling his hips just so, hitting that spot that made her—
Her back arched, his name tearing from her throat in a cry that would have been loud enough to wake anyone sleeping if she hadn't buried her face in his shoulder at the last second. He felt every pulse, every tremor, watched her face as pleasure crashed through her in waves, and it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen—better than any sunset, any work of art, any perfect kill.
She collapsed against him, still trembling, still clenching around him in aftershocks, and only then did he let himself follow. His control finally shattered, and he pulled her down hard against him, burying himself deep as his own release hit with enough force to white out his vision, narrowing his focus to just her.
For a long moment after, they stayed tangled together, breathing hard, hearts racing in sync, neither willing to move. His arms were wrapped around her, holding her against his chest like he could somehow keep her there forever. Her fingers traced idle patterns on his skin—thoughtless, gentle touches that felt more intimate than anything they'd just done.
It was with a gentle reluctance that they both eventually moved, Illario lying back on the bed. Selena lay beside him, her head on his chest, one hand resting over his heart like she was checking to make sure it was still there, her hair spilling across his shoulder in dark waves.
Illario stared at the ceiling and tried to remember the last time he had felt like this.
He couldn't.
He found his hand moving, almost without his permission, to her hair. Fingers threading through it slowly, absently, the way you might touch something you were afraid of losing.
She kissed him slowly.
Not like before—nothing like the door, or the alley, or the hungry urgency of getting here. This was something else entirely. Unhurried and soft, her hand cradling his jaw like he was something worth being careful with. Like they had all the time in the world and she intended to use it.
He kissed her back the same way, because somehow she made that possible—made slowness possible, made stillness possible, made him forget entirely that he was a man with places to be and things to destroy and a cousin whose name he'd handed to a blood mage.
She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes soft in the low light, lips curved into something small and private that he understood instinctively wasn't something she showed everyone.
He thought about the port. About Antiva. About all the very sensible reasons a man in his position had no business still being in this bed.
His hand found her waist and drew her closer.
He had absolutely no intention of leaving.
Then the tears hit his face, hot and wet, and he kissed her anyway.
Deeper, slower, his hand coming up to cradle the back of her head the way he had in that alley, in that apartment, in every version of this he'd been fool enough to believe he deserved. If he could just hold this moment still—if he could keep her here, keep them both here, suspended between what had been and what he'd made of it—
She pulled back.
He let her go.
The amber lamplight was gone. The room was wrong—too sparse, too bare, nothing like her apartment with its crowded bookshelves and burned-low lamp. The sheets beneath him were clean and unfamiliar.
Minrathous was a lifetime away.
Rook sat back, and he looked up into eyes that were red-rimmed and wet, her expression crumpled with something that had no clean name.
“I told you," he said quietly. “I told you I wasn't a good man."
She looked down at him for a long moment, eyes darkening like a storm.
“There's a difference," she said, her voice low and certain, “between not being a good man and being completely fucking evil."
Rook scrambled off him then, smoothing her clothes with unsteady hands. “Maker," she breathed, half to herself. “What was I thinking, I have to—"
The door opened.
Viago stepped inside, his eyes moving from Rook to Illario on the bed and back again with the carefully neutral expression of a man who had learned long ago not to ask certain questions. “We were getting worried," he said, his voice even, directed entirely at Rook. “It's been plenty of time. Have you said everything you needed to?"
The room went very quiet.
Illario didn't move. Couldn’t speak. Just watched her from where he lay, carefully, desperately, hoping it wasn't the last time he'd get to look at her like this. The set of her shoulders. The way she'd pressed the back of her hand briefly to her mouth before letting it fall. The single moment where she almost looked back at him before stopping herself.
Then she did look back.
Just once. Those golden eyes finding his across the small, bare room—unreadable, exhausted, something in them that might have been goodbye.
“Yes," she said.
The door clicked shut behind her, and Illario stared at the ceiling and said nothing at all.