Rhea locked the door behind her.

It wasn't necessary—her chambers were not the kind of place people wandered into unannounced—but tonight, she did not want surprises.

Not after what had just happened.

She exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders as she pulled the pins from her hair. The weight of the day settled against her spine, pressing in, but her mind refused to still.

No one had seen him.

No guards. No passing attendants. No whispers of a cloaked figure moving through the palace.

And yet—he had been there.

She touched her wrist absently, as if the ghost of his grip still lingered.

Sandalwood. Steel. Heat.

Rhea clenched her jaw and forced herself to move. She crossed the room, grabbing the jug of cool water by the table, pouring some into a brass cup.

Her hands were steady. Her breath was even.

But her mind—her mind was still tangled in him.

Who was he?

And more importantly—why did he feel like someone she should remember?

The thought should have unsettled her. It did.

But something about it also thrilled her.

A dangerous curiosity, curling at the edges of her thoughts, refusing to be ignored.

She took a sip of water, letting the cold slide down her throat—only to stop.

Because something was wrong.

Something shifted.

A feeling. A prickle down her spine.

A presence.

She was not alone.

Rhea's grip on the cup tightened.

Her gaze flicked to the corner of the room—where the light did not reach.

The air felt... heavier.

Slowly, deliberately, she set the cup down.

Then—without turning around—

She spoke.

"Whoever you are," she said, voice steady, "you're playing a very dangerous game."

For a moment, silence.

Then—a breath.

Low. Amused.

Deep.

And then—a voice.

"Good," the stranger murmured. "I do love danger."

She did not flinch.

The stranger's presence was not a shadow, not a figment of her restless thoughts—it was real. It was heat in the air, the weight of an unseen gaze pressing against her skin.

And it was close.

Too close.

A slow, measured exhale ghosted against the nape of her neck, the kind of breath that should not have been possible unless he was near enough to touch her.

Near enough to feel the warmth of her skin beneath his own.

A prickle ran down her spine.

She did not turn. Not yet.

"Interesting," she murmured instead, letting the silence stretch between them. "I don't recall inviting anyone into my chambers tonight."

The stranger chuckled. Soft. Deep. Infuriatingly unbothered.

"No," he agreed. "But you locked the door. And that, Rhea, is far more tempting than an invitation."

Her pulse spiked.

Not out of fear.

But because his voice felt like something dangerous wrapped in silk—smooth, dark, a blade hidden beneath a whisper.

He was playing.

And she was not in the mood for games.

She finally turned. Sharp, sudden.

But he was already there.

Leaning against the carved pillar, arms folded, watching her like he had all the time in the world.

The hood of his cloak still obscured most of his face, but the golden torchlight flickered over the edge of a sharp jawline, the shadow of a smirk.

Rhea's breath caught before she could stop it.

Because—up close, he was...

Broad. Tall. Heat radiating off him like a slow-burning fire.

His scent curled around her senses—sandalwood, steel, the faintest trace of something richer, something that made her chest feel too tight.

Still, she refused to step back.

Instead, she tilted her chin, unimpressed. "You like breaking into women's rooms, then?"

A low hum. He pushed off the pillar, stepping toward her. "Only when they're interesting."

Rhea refused to move, even as he came closer, even as he stopped just a breath away.

The space between them was too small.

Or maybe—just charged enough.

He reached out, and she barely had time to react before his fingers skimmed along the side of her face.

A touch so light, so deliberate, it sent a slow shiver trailing down her spine.

"Long night?" he murmured, his thumb brushing the edge of her jaw.

She could feel the callouses on his fingers.

Warrior's hands.

Her lips parted—but not in answer.

In awareness.

Whoever he was, he was not just a shadow in the dark.

Not just an intruder.

He was someone who had fought before.

And someone who was dangerously comfortable being close to her.

Rhea caught his wrist before he could trace lower. Firm. Unyielding.

His smirk deepened.

"Careful," she warned, her voice quieter now. "You don't know me."

A slow tilt of his head.

His fingers curled, not breaking free from her grip, but holding her right back.

"Don't I?"

Rhea's stomach tightened.

Something about his voice—the way he said it, the weight behind the words—felt too familiar.

Like an echo of something she had forgotten.

Or something she had ignored.

And damn him, he knew it.

His other hand moved then, catching a loose strand of hair near her temple.

A feather-light touch. A choice, not a necessity.

A deliberate test.

Rhea's breath hitched.

Not because of the touch.

But because her body reacted before her mind could stop it.

Heat coiled low in her stomach, sharp and unwelcome.

She was too aware of the space between them.

Of how little it would take for him to eliminate it.

And he knew. Of course he knew.

His fingers traced the strand of hair for just a second longer—then let it slip from his hold.

Like letting go of something that had never truly belonged to him.

The moment stretched. Too quiet. Too charged.

Then, finally, he stepped back.

A slow retreat.

Unhurried. Unrushed.

As if he had already gotten what he wanted.

Rhea exhaled sharply, hating how her skin still burned.

Hating that for the first time in years, someone had caught her off guard.

Her fingers twitched at her sides.

She could lunge now. She could pin him to the wall and demand answers.

She could throw a dagger, could make him regret walking so easily into her space.

She could—

But he was already moving.

Already stepping into the shadows.

Disappearing into the dim torchlight as though he had never been there at all.

Only his voice remained.

Soft. Amused.

"Sweet dreams, little warrior."

And then—he was gone.

Rhea's chest rose and fell in sharp exhales.

She was not breathing heavily.

She was not affected.

She was not.

Her fingers curled into fists.

Her own voice echoed in her mind.

Don't I?

Don't I?

Don't I?

Damn him.

Damn him for knowing something she didn't.

And damn her for wanting to know.