Remember why you’re here, I told myself, but the tumult of emotion coursing through me drowned all logic. All rational thought.

The words of the King, of the petitioners, faded into a dull drone, my ears fixed on the beat of Marc’s heart. A thud thud that seemed faster than circumstances warranted.

You’re imagining things.

The sound of his breathing, which I swore had a ragged edge to it.

Wishful thinking.

But the naysayer in my thoughts did nothing to curb the throb of my own pulse, which seemed to grow more violent and chaotic with each inhale. Each exhale.

Whose magic changed first, I couldn’t have said, but I felt the nature of mine shift and alter to reflect my will, no longer a barrier, but a liquid flow swirling across my skin. Marc’s power poured into it like hot water added to a cooling bath, but infinitely more personal. Like will and thought and desire made tangible.

I bit my lip, terrified that everyone around us knew what we were doing, while at the same time not caring if they did. The world was a blur of light and color and sound, and as I let my eyelids drift shut, I imagined that when I opened them, we would be alone. That he would touch me.

And then he did.

Barely the faintest brush of his fingertips against my skin, but a spark seemed to run all the way through me and down to my toes. I gasped out a breath, then clenched my teeth, certain someone must have noticed, but no one stirred. Including Marc. He remained facing the front of the throne room, but his fingers trailed slowly up my wrist as though following the path of my rapidly pulsing blood, which grew hot beneath his touch. They traced back down again, brushing against my palm, and my hand instinctively linked with his.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But doing so seemed impossible with the soft ache growing in my belly, my skin so sensitive it felt nearly raw, my toes curling in the confines of my shoes. I wanted to drag him away, to find some empty corner of the palace where we could–

The doors to the throne room opened and a curling roil of power washed over the crowd. Marc dropped my hand like he’d been burned, turning with everyone else to watch Tristan stroll up the main aisle to take a place at the rear of the line of petitioners.

Immediately they began to fall over themselves to get out of his way, mutters of “Please go ahead, Your Highness,” reaching my ears even from a distance, and Tristan’s affable declarations of “You are too kind” loud enough to disturb whatever the King was saying to the current petitioner. The commoner in question turned round to find himself face to face with the crown prince, squeaked, “It’s really not important, Your Majesty,” then all but bolted to the rear of the crowd.

“Tristan.” The King shifted on the throne, his mouth drawing into a thin line.