I swore I was just helping raise our daughter

"You're sleeping on the floor."

Sarisa's voice, flat and unyielding, snapped across the suite the moment the door closed. She didn't even turn to face Lara, but there was no mistaking the ice in her tone, or the stubborn tilt of her chin.

Lara set her sword down beside the ornate trunk, quirking a brow as she turned. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me," Sarisa replied, peeling her shawl from her shoulders with the precision of a surgeon. "On the floor. Or the balcony, if you prefer. The bed is off-limits."

Lara spread her hands, feigning innocence. "Come on, you can't be serious. That thing's bigger than my old barracks. There's enough room for a dozen bodyguards—"

"But only one future queen," Sarisa cut in, shooting her a look sharp enough to peel paint. "One with standards."

Lara grinned, leaning on the bedpost. "This is about the dinner, isn't it?"

Sarisa rolled her eyes so hard Lara could practically hear it. "You mean your little performance with the Southern princess? The one where you promised to show her your sword techniques, and then implied you'd duel her under the stars—"

"You have to admit, she was cute," Lara said, smirking. "And relentless."

Sarisa whipped around, fire in her eyes. "You didn't have to flirt like your life depended on it."

"Hey," Lara said, holding up her hands, "when in foreign courts, do as the locals do. Besides, you were the one who said I needed to work on my diplomacy."

Sarisa crossed her arms, lips pressed into a thin, dangerous line. "You call that diplomacy?"

"Worked, didn't it? No one tried to poison us, and the princess seems far more interested in me than in embarrassing you."

Sarisa made a noise halfway between a sigh and a growl. "If you're looking for applause, you're in the wrong room."

Lara waggled her brows, dropping her voice to a sultry whisper. "I just wanted you to notice me, Your Highness."

The pillow that hit her in the chest was satisfyingly soft and aggressively flung.

"Floor. Now."

"Fine, fine," Lara said, hands raised in surrender. She bent to unbutton her jacket, pulling her shirt free from her trousers. The moonlight cast cool silver over her skin and, with deliberate laziness, she slid the shirt from her shoulders.

She didn't miss the way Sarisa's eyes flicked up—just for a second—before she huffed and spun around, pretending to root through the trunk for her own nightclothes.

Lara smirked and kicked off her boots, letting herself enjoy the feeling of being half undressed and mostly unbothered.

It was just the right side of reckless. She thumbed at her belt buckle, about to drop her trousers, when Sarisa snapped, "Wait!"

Lara froze, trousers half-open, heart thumping a little too fast. "What?"

Sarisa glared at her over her shoulder, color blooming high on her cheeks. "Don't just—strip like that. I'm not in the habit of watching my guards parade around in their underthings."

Lara bit back a laugh, though her pulse had doubled. "You've seen worse on the battlefield, Your Highness."

"Yes, but not on purpose," Sarisa shot back, snatching a silk slip from the trunk. "Go put something on, for the gods' sake. And get out—I need to change."

Lara grinned, saluted mockingly, and swept up a loose linen shirt and some drawstring pants. "As you wish, Your Majesty. Call if you need me to fend off any stray princesses."

She ducked out of the room, the door snicking closed behind her, and leaned against the wall in the dim hallway.

The air was heavy with the scent of orange blossoms, the castle gone mostly quiet for the night. Lara forced herself to breathe slow, ignoring the tightness in her chest.

What was wrong with her? She'd flirted with a princess at dinner, teased Sarisa on reflex, and now her skin burned with an ache she couldn't shake.

She'd meant what she said it was all show, all games but something about Sarisa's jealous glare, the little tremor in her voice, got under her skin in ways nothing else ever had.

She tried not to dwell on it, focusing instead on the soft night sounds the chirr of insects, the faint music drifting from the distant banquet hall.

After a minute or two, she heard her name—quiet, almost embarrassed.

"Lara? Can you—just come in for a second?"

She straightened, knocking lightly before stepping back into the suite.

Sarisa stood by the mirror, her hair unbound and tumbling over her bare shoulders, the midnight gown half-zipped and sagging just below her shoulder blades.

Her back was to Lara, pale and smooth, golden tattoos glowing faintly in the candlelight. The zipper, true to its design, had jammed halfway down.

"Stuck?" Lara asked, doing her best to keep her tone neutral.

Sarisa didn't turn around. "It's—yes. I can't get it past the middle. The fabric's caught." Her voice was flustered, tight. "Just… see if you can fix it? Please?"

Lara crossed the room, feeling suddenly too big, too rough in the delicate space. She paused a breath behind Sarisa, then reached out, fingers skimming the smooth slope of Sarisa's back, her skin warm and impossibly soft.

The zipper was wedged tight, a tiny gold tooth bent askew.

"Hold still," Lara murmured, bracing her free hand on Sarisa's shoulder.

Her other hand worked the zipper, careful and slow. Every time her knuckles brushed Sarisa's skin, Lara's heartbeat thudded louder.

The moment stretched—too long, too close. She could smell the faint jasmine perfume Sarisa favored, mixed with the sea and a hint of candle smoke.

She tried tugging gently. Nothing. She eased the fabric, her thumb gliding along Sarisa's spine, tracing the shape of her tattoos. The gown was not moving, and neither was Lara—her hands lingered, as if they had a mind of their own.

Sarisa's breath hitched. "Is it… really that stuck?"

"Really stuck," Lara whispered, voice hoarse. "I'm trying not to tear the fabric."

"Try harder," Sarisa murmured, but the edge was gone—replaced by something softer, breathier.

Lara leaned closer, the heat between them almost unbearable now. The golden tattoos pulsed beneath her fingers. She couldn't look away—couldn't even remember why she was supposed to keep her distance.

Why am I doing this? Lara wondered. Why do I want to touch her—kiss her—so badly it hurts?

Her lips were inches from Sarisa's bare back, breath warm against her skin. Time seemed to fold, stretching thin.

Without thinking, Lara bent and pressed her lips—soft, lingering between Sarisa's shoulder blades, just above the line of golden ink.

She tasted salt, perfume, the edge of something forbidden. For the span of a heartbeat, nothing else in the world existed.