How many nights had she been infuriated by just the presence of this girl, by the gleam in her eyes, the lovely curve of her face, the powerful way she carried herself? How much hatred had come pulsing alongside this maddening tangle of desire that made her want to forget about her frustrations and know every inch of her instead? It had always been there, and it had made all of this so much harder—because even when Ranka had hated Aramis, she’d respected her more than she cared to admit. Had known Aramis respected her in return. They had seen a challenge in each other, a strength to be admired, a sharpness to be feared, and it had drawn them both in, like two opposing storms, destined to collide.

Aramis’s hands slid down Ranka’s neck and knotted in her hair. Her lips were eager, wanting, and it made Ranka’s legs buckle, the way Aramis pulled her closer, the way the curves of their hips fitted so neatly together. The princess pushed her harder against the wall, their bodies molding against each other, hands and mouths exploring and seeking with an urgency, as if they were making up for lost time. Aramis kissed her, and Ranka kissed her back, and in that moment nothing else mattered.

Behind them, someone cleared their throat.

Aramis broke away. Her pupils were blown wide with desire, her lips swollen, and she looked at the guard, plainly struggling to catch her breath. Ranka couldn’t help herself—she leaned down and pressed her lips to Aramis’s collarbone. Just to convince the guard, she told herself, her hands sliding over the smooth skin of the princess’s ribs. She kissed a trail down Aramis’s neck and tried not to notice the way the princess’s fingernails dug into her shoulders.

Aramis shuddered, and a small gasp left her.

“Hormones,” the guard snorted, but he was smiling. “Oh, fine. I remember that age. I’ll give you ten minutes.”

“Make it fifteen,” Ranka mumbled. Before she could lose her nerve, she tightened her grip on Aramis’s waist and kissed her again. The guard chuckled and moved away. Aramis made a noise in her throat, and reluctantly, they broke apart, her hands still on Ranka’s shoulders, Ranka’s hands still gripping the bare skin of her hips. They untangled, and Aramis half staggered backward, and Ranka’s skin was cold where Aramis had been touching her before.

“I’m sorry,” Ranka blurted. “If it was too much, I didn’t know if—”

“Don’t apologize. It was my idea, and we did need to be… convincing.” She paused, and a tiny smile flitted across her lips as she looked pointedly at the floor and tucked a curl behind her ear. “And it was hardly torture.”

“I’ve been tortured before,” Ranka confirmed uselessly. “That was not it.”

Aramis grinned.