Camilla’s breath caught in her throat.

Cyrus’s fingers wrapped around her wrist, firm and warm despite the fever that flushed his skin. She froze, her gaze snapping up to meet his—his eyes now cracked open, dark and hooded with the weight of illness, yet sharp with something else. Something unreadable.

"What are you doing?" His voice was low, hoarse, but there was a teasing edge to it that made the back of her neck prickle.

“I…” she started, but the words refused to form. She looked down at her hand, still trapped in his grasp, just inches from his belt. The air between them grew dense, thick with heat that...