Their conversations had dwindled to almost nothing, aside from the single text he’d sent to let her know about her father’s dinner and the full moon celebration. She had been so caught up in the spell—and the kiss—she’d forgotten to tell him she already knew about dinner. Not about the celebration, but still. Now it felt like Lochlan was taking every opportunity to prove how maddeningly suitable a husband he was, always knowing the right thing to say, the right thing to do.
It wasn’t helping her case.
Not at all.
She’d wanted so badly to prove her father wrong about Lochlan. But how could she do that when he was making it impossible for her to believe her own reservations and doubts? Her grip on the glass tightened. She was in so much trouble.
Just as she finished her drink—two gulps, entirely undignified—the butler returned with her father.
“I apologize for my tardiness,” Wulfric announced, arms spread in a theatrical gesture. “Dinner is ready.”
Lochlan rose, his movements easy and fluid. Nia shot up from her chair, hastily following as her father strode ahead, clearly pleased to be the center of attention.
The formal dining room was grand in the most suffocating way, with its vaulted ceiling and looming portraits of long-dead ancestors staring down disapprovingly. The butler pulled out a chair for her father at the head of the table, while Lochlan, to her surprise, stepped in smoothly to pull out the chair at the opposite end—for her.
Nia hesitated, her gaze darting to him. His expression was calm and perfectly neutral. Huffing softly under her breath, she sat, the rustle of her skirt breaking the tense silence.
As she adjusted in her seat, Lochlan stepped closer, his hands brushing the back of the chair as he scooted her in. His fingers moved to her ponytail, freeing it in one gentle motion from where it had caught between her back and the chair.
The touch was fleeting, but goosebumps erupted down her neck and shoulders, trailing all the way to her fingertips. Her thighs clenched involuntarily as heat bloomed low in her stomach, entirely unwelcome and distracting.
She turned, her eyes narrowing, but he gave nothing away. No heated gaze, no glint of amusement, no conspiratorial smile—nothing to suggest he’d done it on purpose or had any idea the effect it had on her. It was infuriating how unaffected he seemed, and even more infuriating how little it took to upset her composure.
The butler returned, carrying the first course.
“How did the Feeding Families Harvest go yesterday?” her father asked, his gaze pinning Nia as salads were placed before them.
Her fork froze halfway between her plate and her mouth. Of course he knew about the harvest—it had been all over the media. But hearing him ask about something so directly tied to her work made her stomach twist uncomfortably.
“Fine,” she said quickly, before her voice could betray her emotions.
“It was incredible,” Lochlan added. “Over fifty-three hundred pounds of fruits, vegetables, and tubers were distributed to food pantries across the area. Ivy told me over a hundred volunteers showed up to help.”
Nia stabbed at her salad, pushing the greens around without eating. Ivy had been in charge of the east side of Stella Rune, where Lochlan had been stationed. Nia hadn’t worked up the nerve to tell him she wanted him on her side.
She hadn’t been able to find the courage to bring up the kiss, either.
“I’m pleased,” Wulfric said, his tone approving. “You should be proud, Pyronia.”
Her full first name sounded so strange, now—almost like it belonged to another person.
“It was all Ivy,” Nia replied, her voice clipped as she shoved a too-large bite of salad into her mouth.
Lochlan shifted, and his knee brushed hers beneath the table. The contact was brief, almost incidental, but it sent a jolt through her that she couldn’t ignore.
Her throat tightened.
She knew it was an accident, that he didn’t even realize what he’d done. But her body betrayed her, heat pooling low and sudden as memories of him—pressed between her legs, his lips claiming hers—rushed to the forefront of her mind.
She took a quick sip of water, desperate to cool the flush creeping up her neck.
The plates were cleared, leaving behind an awkward silence that clung to the room like a damp fog. Wulfric seemed entirely comfortable in it, feeding off the tension he’d created by forcing this marriage. Nia shifted in her seat, her appetite fading under the weight of his amusement.
Finally, the main course arrived. But before she could reach for her fork, Lochlan took her plate. If they were in the privacy of his home, this would have been normal—something she liked—but here, under her father’s watchful gaze, it felt like a spotlight had been trained on them. She didn’t want Wulfric to see just how attentive Lochlan usually was.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice sharp.
“What I al—” Lochlan began, but before he could finish, she grabbed the plate back.
