He’d only just returned home and gone straight to his study to calm himself before checking on Sarani. Rhystan stared at the tumbler in his hand. He’d come so close to losing everything he held dear—his remaining family and the only woman he’d ever let himself care for. Maybe cared for still. Hell. With a frustrated growl, he flung the glass into the hearth.

“That was Venetian crystal, Your Grace.” The low voice slid into his veins like honey. His gaze followed the sound to find Sarani curled up in a chair near the bookshelves that was thrown into shadows, observing him over the rim of the twin to the goblet he’d carelessly smashed.

“What are you doing?”

“Thinking.” She held up her glass. “Imbibing.”

Rhystan frowned. She was still dressed in the torn, bloodstained gown she’d had on earlier. His frown turned into a scowl. Hadn’t he instructed his valet to tend to her? A soothing bath would have been the least of it. “Harlowe didn’t run you a bath?”

Watching him, she let out a sigh. “Before you strip the hide off your very kind valet, I dismissed him.”

He approached her cautiously. “Are you all right?”

“Not particularly,” she said. “But this is helping. You really do have the finest whisky. Where’s it from? Scotland?” He nodded, and she smiled, lifting the glass for a sip and then licking the bow of her top lip to collect the moisture there. The provocative swipe made his breath hitch. “Tastes like you.”

Was she sotted?

“My lady—”

“Sarani,” she whispered. “Call me by my name, Rhystan. I’m so sick of pretending to be someone I’m not.” She made a wry smile. “If I’m being honest, you’re the only one I’ve ever been able to be myself with. Then and now. As the princess and as the pretender. I’m so bloody tired of trying to fit in and follow all these ludicrous rules that make no sense. I don’t belong here.” She let out a sound that was painful. “I don’t fit anywhere.”

“You fit with me.”

“You’re a person, not a place.”

Rhystan closed the gap between them and dropped to his knees in front of the armchair. “Belonging isn’t always defined by earthly margins.” He tapped his heart and then his temple. “It can be here and here. Home is where you make it.”

Her soft laugh rasped over his senses. “The Duke of Embry, so poetically mawkish… Who would have thought it?”

“Tell a soul and I’ll deny it to the grave.”