Iris nodded. Jasvian carefully took her right arm, turning it gently to assess the damage. His fingers were warm as he cradled her forearm in one hand, using the other to apply the salve to each individual cut.
“Why were you asleep downstairs?” she asked quietly, not wanting to startle him as he worked.
He paused for a moment before continuing. “My grandmother was preparing to return home and mentioned that you were still here, working on your display for the Solstice Ball. I offered to stay so that you would not be left here on your own. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
Iris shook her head as she swallowed. “It’s fine,” she said, her voice somewhat hoarse. “I mean … thank you. For staying.”
“Of course.” His thumb brushed over a slightly deeper cut at her wrist, and she felt a tingling warmth as his magic flowed through the contact. The skin knitted together before her eyes, leaving only the faintest pink line. He continued working in silence for several minutes, carefully addressing each cut on her arms. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, his focus absolute as he tended to her wounds.
When he finished with her arms, he hesitated, then moved his attention to the cuts on her neck. She turned her head to the side, trying to keep her breathing steady as his fingers ghosted over the sensitive skin there.
When his attention moved to her face, he cleared his throat and said, “I owe you an apology.” He kept his gaze fixed on his work, deliberately avoiding her eyes as he continued applying the salve to the cuts along her jawline and cheek. “What I said to you that first night at the Opening Ball was … unconscionable. The things I said about your bloodline, your magic. I was wrong. So terribly wrong.” His fingers moved to a cut near her temple.“If I could take back every word, every moment of hurt I caused you, I would do so without hesitation.”
Iris held perfectly still, afraid that any movement or word uttered might break the spell of this unexpected moment between them. With his gaze focused on his task, she took the opportunity to study his face openly for the first time—the strong line of his jaw now softened with concern, his storm-gray eyes holding a calm stillness, the usual stern set of his mouth replaced by an expression of gentle concentration. This was not the same Lord Jasvian Rowanwood she had met at the start of the Bloom Season.
“I must apologize too,” she whispered. “The things I said to you the night we met—I spoke from anger and hurt, not truth. I judged you without knowing a single thing about the man beneath the title.” She swallowed, feeling the gentle pressure of his fingers as they moved to another cut. “I was every bit as prejudiced as I accused you of being.”
“Perhaps we both needed time to see beyond our first impressions,” he said softly. “Though in my case, I fear my prejudice was far less excusable.” He paused then, the pad of his thumb resting against the curve of her cheek, as his eyes traveled her face.
“There,” he murmured, drawing back slightly. “That should prevent any scarring.” Yet his hand remained at her cheek, his thumb making one final, unnecessary pass over now-healed skin. He lowered his hand slowly, turning his attention back to her arms, ostensibly to check his work, but his fingers continued to trace delicate patterns over her skin, following the paths where cuts had been only moments before. The salve had done its work; there was no reason for him to continue this careful exploration of her wrists, the soft underside of her forearm, the sensitive skin at the bend of her elbow.
Yet neither of them moved to break contact. His touch was feather-light, almost worshipful in its gentleness. Each slow stroke of his thumb over her skin sent shivers cascading through Iris’s body, awakening sensations she had never experienced before. The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with something powerful and unspoken. Her breathing grew shallow, her pulse quickening beneath his touch.
At the quiet intake of breath that she could no longer contain, his eyes rose to meet hers, sending a tremor of awareness rushing through her body. And for one breathless moment, the rest of the world ceased to exist. There was only this—his hands on her skin, his eyes holding hers, the silent acknowledgment of something neither of them dared to name.
Then the door to the study flew open with a bang.
“Iris!” Lady Rivenna stood in the doorway, her silver hair loose around her shoulders, a cloak hastily thrown over her nightdress. Her sharp gaze took in the scene before her—Iris and Jasvian kneeling amid scattered papers, his hands still cradling her arms—before moving to assess the destruction around the room. “What happened? The tea house woke me. I felt its distress from across Bloomhaven.”
The charged atmosphere dissipated instantly. Jasvian released Iris’s arms and rose to his feet in one fluid motion, stepping back to put a respectable distance between them while also extending a hand toward her. “There was an incident,” he explained, his voice returning to its usual formal cadence. “Lady Iris’s magic became temporarily unstable. I was downstairs and sensed her loss of control. I was able to assist.”
Assist.That was certainly one way to put it.
She reached for Jasvian’s offered hand, letting him pull her to her feet. The moment she was steady, he released her and stepped back, widening the space between them once more. The sudden absence of his touch left her feeling unmoored, standingthere awkwardly, all too aware of her disheveled state and the lingering tension that still hummed between them.
“I see.” Lady Rivenna’s gaze moved between the two of them before landing on the small jar of salve still sitting on the floor. “You were hurt?” she asked, concern coloring her tone again.
“Not badly,” Iris hastened to assure her. “And I apologize for the damage, Lady Rivenna. I was attempting to create something elaborate that appears to have been a little beyond my control. I will do everything I can to restore?—”
Lady Rivenna waved away her apologies. “The tea house has withstood far worse in its time.” She stepped fully into the room, her keen eyes assessing Iris’s condition. “You appear physically recovered, at least.”
“Yes, I—” Iris glanced at Jasvian, who was now staring fixedly at a point somewhere over his grandmother’s left shoulder. “Lord Jasvian’s assistance was invaluable.”
“I’m sure it was,” Lady Rivenna murmured, her tone laden with meaning. “Well, since I am here and clearly neither of you is in imminent danger, perhaps it’s time we all retired for what remains of the night.” She turned to Jasvian. “You should return to Rowanwood House.”
“Of course,” he agreed stiffly. “I shall take my leave.”
Iris’s heart sank at the formal distance that had returned to his voice. Just moments ago, his hands had moved over her skin with such tender care that she’d nearly forgotten to breathe. Now he was once again the proper Lord Jasvian Rowanwood, standing tall and composed as if nothing extraordinary had passed between them.
“Lady Iris can remain here tonight as planned,” Lady Rivenna said. “I shall stay as well. My quarters upstairs can be rearranged for two with a few simple magical adjustments.”
Iris blinked. “There are … quarters upstairs?” she asked haltingly. And then: “There isanother levelabove this one?”
Lady Rivenna gave her a look of incredulous bemusement. “Of course. Where were you planning to sleep tonight?”
“I—” Iris broke off, looking around the study. “The armchair?”
“Good gracious, my dear. Perhaps it’s fortunate the room erupted in chaos. At least now you’ve been saved from the terrible fate of attempting to sleep in that armchair. And how is it possible you’ve been here for weeks without noticing there’s another floor to this building?”
