I swore I was just helping raise our daughter

Morning seeped into the suite with golden, lazy fingers, the sunlight painting shifting lines across the tangled sheets.

Lara woke to warmth real, skin-to-skin warmth, Sarisa's soft, even breaths stirring her hair, an arm draped over her chest, one slender thigh thrown possessively over her legs.

For a moment, Lara didn't move, didn't breathe. She was afraid the slightest shift would shatter whatever spell had been cast during the night.

It was all real. The taste of Sarisa still lingered on her lips, the ache of too-much pleasure delicious in her bones.

Lara blinked up at the carved canopy overhead, letting it sink in: She'd slept with Sarisa. Not just a quick, drunken tumble, but a night of teeth and hands and laughter and release—a night where all the old longing had been stripped bare.

Sarisa snuffled in her sleep, nuzzling into Lara's neck. She looked so young like this—unburdened, soft around the edges, her moon-silver hair tumbling wild.

Lara pressed her face into Sarisa's hair and breathed in the scent candle smoke, sea salt, and something sweet and purely Sarisa.

What now? The question hovered, heavy and unwelcome. Last night had been—gods, she'd never forget it.

But what did it mean? Should she say something, or pretend it hadn't happened? Did Sarisa want more, or was this just one wild night, a pressure valve released?

Lara didn't want to move. She wanted time to pause, to let them drift forever in the delicious hush of morning-after, where nothing and no one could intrude.

A sharp knock rattled the peace.

They both froze, limbs tangled, hearts suddenly pounding.

"Sarisa?" called a polite voice—one of the island's chamberlains, Lara thought. "Princess, breakfast is ready in the main hall."

Sarisa jerked upright, wild-eyed, the sheet falling to her waist. The room was flooded with pale sunlight now, illuminating every detail: the scattered clothes, the rumpled bed, the faint marks Lara had left on Sarisa's neck and chest.

"Oh gods," Sarisa muttered, dragging a hand through her hair. "We—last night—"

Lara propped herself up on one elbow, grinning sleepily. "Morning, Your Highness."

Sarisa looked at her, a thousand questions flickering in her eyes. For a heartbeat, Lara braced herself for regret, for coldness, for the quick construction of new walls. But then Sarisa shook her head, a slow, rueful smile tugging at her lips.

"General, you're a menace."

Lara reached up, tracing one of the golden tattoos curling around Sarisa's shoulder. "Not as much as you, apparently. I'll never look at diplomatic supplies the same way again."

Sarisa snorted, eyes softening. The moment threatened to tip into something sweet, but another knock at the door reminded them that the world still existed.

"I'll be just a minute!" Sarisa called, voice perfectly royal now, not a hint of the wildness that had echoed through the room just hours ago.

A faint, "Of course, Princess," and then footsteps faded down the hall.

Sarisa flopped back onto the pillows, covering her face with both hands. "We need to get up."

Lara nodded, pushing herself out of bed. The chill of the stone floor made her shiver, and she reached for her trousers, pulling them on before padding toward the bath.

Sarisa's dress was a puddle on the floor, her slip tangled with Lara's own shirt. They moved around each other in a dance both awkward and strangely intimate—brushing shoulders, handing over soap, turning on the taps.

Steam filled the marble-walled bathing room, swirling around their bare skin. Lara was conscious of every glance, every touch—a memory of the night before dancing at the edge of every moment.

For the first time in years, she felt nervous around Sarisa, as if they were teenagers sneaking kisses behind the palace garden wall.

Sarisa caught her watching and arched an eyebrow. "Are you going to stare, or do you want the hot water first?"

Lara snorted. "After last night? I think I earned the right to stare."

Sarisa rolled her eyes, but her mouth quirked in a smile. She slipped into the deep stone tub, sinking down until the water lapped at her collarbone, hair pinned messily atop her head.

Lara followed, stretching her legs out, her foot bumping Sarisa's under the water. The bath was large enough for three, but somehow, it felt crowded, the space between them electric with memory.

They washed in silence, scrubbing away the sweat and salt and any visible signs of the night.

Lara watched the sunlight play over Sarisa's bare shoulders, the way her tattoos seemed to glow with new energy. She wanted to say something—joking or gentle, she didn't know which—but the words caught in her throat.

Instead, Sarisa broke the quiet. "Should we talk about… last night?"

Lara froze, the bar of soap slipping from her hand. "I—uh—if you want to. We can also pretend it didn't happen, if that's better."

Sarisa sighed, leaning back against the cool stone, looking at the ceiling. "It's not that I regret it," she said softly. "But I don't know what it means. For us. For everything."

Lara found herself smiling, relief and something sharper threading through her. "Same here. But for the record—if you ever want a repeat performance, I'm available."

Sarisa laughed, the sound light and genuine. "Noted, General. But let's get through breakfast first."

They dressed quickly, Sarisa pulling on a pale blue gown, Lara settling back into her uniform, sword buckled at her hip. The room smelled of soap and sun, the aftermath of their night together hidden beneath layers of ceremony.

Lara checked herself in the mirror, smoothing her hair, her heart hammering with nerves she hadn't felt since her first battlefield. Sarisa caught her gaze in the glass, offering a fleeting, uncertain smile.

"We're late," she said. "Ready?"

"Always," Lara replied.

They left the suite together, walking shoulder-to-shoulder down the sunlit corridor. The castle was alive with morning noise—servants bustling, the call of gulls over the sea, distant laughter from the kitchens.

Lara was keenly aware of every glance, every whisper as they passed. Had anyone heard them last night? Did they look different—undone, or simply relieved?

Breakfast was laid in the open-air hall, long tables set with platters of tropical fruit, sweet breads, smoked fish, and steaming mugs of spiced tea.

The Southern queen and king sat at the head, the princess beside them—her eyes twinkling with mischief as Lara and Sarisa approached.

"Princess Sarisa, General Lara—so good of you to join us," the queen said, smiling.

Lara bowed, feeling Sarisa's hand brush her back as they took their seats. The princess, for her part, leaned in and whispered, "You both look… refreshed this morning."

Lara managed a casual grin. "A good bath will do that."

Sarisa coughed, the tips of her ears pink. Breakfast proceeded with the usual mixture of formality and friendly banter.

The Southern royalty outlined the day's schedule—tours of the harbor, a private meeting about trade, perhaps some entertainment in the gardens if time allowed.

Lara played her part, responding when asked, offering wry commentary, always keeping half an eye on Sarisa. Was she regretful? Relieved? Did she want more, or would this be their only night?