“Sorry,” a voice behind them said. “Hand check.”

Ranka froze in her tracks. Behind them, the guard waved a mage-light over the hands of a couple.

“Ranka,” Aramis said, tugging her forward. “Come on.”

Ranka couldn’t move.

“Hand check.” The guard was ten feet behind them now.

They’ll burn me.

She needed to move—but suddenly she was back in Belren, watching as villagers brought forth ropes and matches, smoke burning her throat and a familiar scream ringing in her ears.

They’ll burn me alive.

“Hand check.” Five feet.

“Useless witch,” Aramis breathed.

Aramis shoved Ranka against the wall. She slipped Ranka’s hands under her shirt again and wound her arms around Ranka’s neck, pulling her down so their lips hovered only a hair’s breadth apart, her movements confident and quick, as though she’d done this before. The princess held her there in the mimickry of a lover’s embrace, every line of her body taut with tension, her pupils dark with something Ranka was too scared to name.

Ranka had never been so conscious of someone’s skin against hers in her life. Her heart beat so loudly it hurt. Aramis’s fingers brushed her jaw, cradling Ranka’s face in her palm.

“Hey,” Aramis whispered. “Look at me, Ranka. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Ranka croaked. Her legs wobbled.

“I won’t let them hurt you, okay? Follow my lead.”

The guard stopped beside them. “Sorry, lovebirds. Let me see your hands.”

Aramis pushed herself up onto her toes and pressed her lips to Ranka’s.

And Ranka froze.

Aramis’s hands cradled Ranka’s face, thumb trailing the line of Ranka’s jaw, not an ounce of demand in her touch. Ranka’s heart pounded so hard it hurt, but Aramis didn’t push further, nor did she pull away. She just waited, every part of her shielding Ranka from the guard, from the humans below who would surely burn her if they knew who or what she was.

I won’t let them hurt you.

Ranka’s panic thawed. Aramis would not force her, would not judge her. Even now, their lips pressed against each other’s, both girls unmoving, Aramis was giving her more understanding than Ranka had gotten from any of the girls before her.

Safe, she realized. What I am—who I am—is safe with her.

Ranka pulled Aramis against her, and kissed her for real.

Heat and light, touch and breath, give and take. It felt like eternity and only a moment all at once. Everything else fell away—the pressure of the Skra, the confines of the Bloodwinn treaty, the weight she’d long carried, knowing she’d have to marry someone she could never want.

She was just Ranka. Just one witch, and she was enough.