The palace corridors were never truly empty.

Rhea knew that.

And yet—this time felt different.

The air was thick, heavy with something she couldn't name. Something that raised the fine hairs on her skin, made her breath hitch, made the warmth of the torches feel too intense.

She had barely stepped past the last pillar, barely shaken off Dushasana's lingering smirk, when—

A hand caught her wrist.

Not rough. Not forceful.

But firm. Unyielding. Certain.

Her pulse spiked.

Before she could react, she was pulled back—spun, turned, pressed against the cold stone wall.

And suddenly, she was not alone.

The scent of sandalwood and steel washed over her, drowning out every other thought.

Heat. A body. Too close.

Rhea sucked in a breath, her mind catching up a second too late.

Because standing before her, towering, cloaked in shadow, was a man she did not recognize.

But his grip.

His heat.

His presence.

They felt dangerously familiar.

The torches flickered, casting golden light against the folds of his deep hood, leaving his face hidden—not like a spy, not like a coward, but like a man who chose not to be known.

He didn't move away.

Didn't speak.

And neither did she.

Not at first.

Because her body reacted before her mind could process.

The warmth of his palm against her wrist. The way his fingers fit around her skin—not crushing, not hurting, but knowing.

Like he had touched her before.

Like he had done this before.

A slow, curling heat spread through her spine, tightening, unfamiliar, unwanted—and yet she did not pull away.

His grip loosened, just slightly, his thumb brushing against her pulse.

She exhaled, sharp. "If you don't remove your hand in the next breath, I will break it."

A low chuckle.

Deep. Velvet smooth.

Amused.

"Will you?" he murmured.

His voice was dangerous.

Not in the way of a blade or a soldier. But in the way of a fire you stepped too close to, knowing it would burn you alive.

Rhea forced herself to focus. "Who are you?"

He tilted his head slightly, as if considering her question. Then—slowly, deliberately—he leaned in.

Not touching. Not quite.

But close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath near her jaw, the heat of his body radiating against hers.

Her breath caught.

"Someone who finds your return... interesting."

Rhea's jaw clenched. She hated the way her pulse reacted to the low timbre of his voice, the way it slithered down her spine like something alive.

"You don't belong here," she said.

His fingers brushed against the inside of her wrist—a ghost of a touch.

"Neither do you."

A slow, traitorous shiver curled through her body.

His scent—woodsmoke, steel, something richer underneath. It was messing with her mind.

She fought to keep her voice steady. "What do you want?"

A pause. A slow, deliberate hesitation—as if he wanted her to lean in, to demand more.

Then—his free hand brushed against her hip.

Barely.

A whisper of contact.

A touch that should not have sent fire through her veins—but it did.

She stiffened.

He felt it.

And the bastard chuckled.

"You already know," he murmured.

Her fingers curled into fists. "Do I?"

"Mm." A slow hum. He shifted closer—just enough that she could feel the barest graze of his lips at her temple. Not a kiss. A test.

Her breath caught. Damn him.

Damn him for knowing exactly what he was doing.

Rhea's pulse hammered against her ribs. "If you think this game will make me—"

"Think?" His voice dipped lower. Silk and smoke. "Who said I was thinking?"

Her breath hitched.

He was playing. Teasing. Testing.

She knew the game. She had played it before.

But not like this. Not with him.

Her nails dug into her palm. "You have three seconds to step away from me."

The fingers at her wrist tightened.

Not enough to hold her in place—just enough to remind her that he could.

His breath brushed her ear. "Then count, little warrior."

Her stomach twisted.

Little warrior.

Not a title. Not an insult.

A familiarity.

Her pulse spiked. "One."

He didn't move.

"Two."

A pause.

Then—his thumb traced her skin.

And he laughed. Low, deep, satisfied.

"Three," he whispered.

And then—he was gone.

Not stepped back. Gone.

The weight of his presence vanished as suddenly as it had come, leaving behind only the faint scent of sandalwood and steel.

Rhea stayed still.

Her breath was uneven.

Her skin still burned.

And her mind—her mind was running too fast.

Because she had been right.

He was familiar.

But she didn't know from where.

She inhaled sharply, forcing herself to move, forcing herself to push forward.

Because there were bigger battles to fight.

And this—**whatever this was—**would have to wait.

For now.