“I’m sure some of it will hurt,” I cut him off. “About as badly as a scraped knee. They’re dusty old librarians, for Old God’s sake.”

“If anything, it will be a thorough cataloguing,” Fione adds, leafing through the precious green-backed book idly.

Lucien ignores her and pulls me flush to him, my waist against his, my forehead against his. Malachite makes a discontented noise and struggles to face his chair away in the small room, and Fione’s smile is the smallest saddened hint, but Lucien doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are on me, his gaze never wavering as he speaks, low, like I’m the only person in the room. In the world.

“If you need me, I’ll come for you.”

“You don’t—” My breath catches as he kisses a soft pond-skip from my cheek to the corners of my lips. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know,” he asserts, kissing the fullness of my lips. “But I want you to be fine with me.”

“You’ll—” His kiss this time feels like a slice, where the others were paper cuts. “You’ll have to let me go sometime.”

“Yeah, Luc,” Malachite grumbles self-righteously. “Who’s the one who’s ‘bad at sharing’ now?”

“Heard that, did you?” Lucien lilts.

Over the prince’s shoulders, I see Malachite tap his ears.

“I hear everything, dolt. And if I have to hear you two smacking over there for one more second—”

The door opens, framing three people in silver robes. Malachite kicks his shoes off the table and exhales.

“Oh thank spirits.” He jerks his head at us. “Do something about them.”

The silver robes enter wordlessly, and Fione closes the book and stands. I try to make what little space I can between us, but Lucien won’t let me go, his grip around my waist tight and high-strung. He’s worried. Worried like I’ve never seen him worried before. About me.

My unheart tries not to melt at the idea—worry is a natural part of caring about someone. He’s worried for me many times before this. But, still. Still, this feels different, deliberate, painted in absolutes and with two high-contrasting colors. He cares. About me. It’s a foolish thought, after everything, but he cares for me out of everyone in this world. He’s chosen me, out of all the Spring Brides, out of all the eligible, witty beauties of the world, and that makes my chest glow with buttery gold joy. As the silver robes take their places standing against the walls of the room, I lean up and whisper in his ear.

“You have strange tastes.”

He gives me a look, lips crinkling with a smile. “As do you.”