The early-morning gloom in the cabin sheathed her in lamplight and shadow, as if she were some elegant, graceful nymph stealing into his dreams. She was the one who’d taught him about such spirits—celestial dancing nymphs, much like Muses, Valkyries, naiads, and nature spirits from other types of lore—when he’d teased her about her obsession with swimming. He closed his eyes and let memory wash over him.

“You’re like a water sprite or a siren,” he’d told her once when she’d convinced him yet again to sneak out to visit her secret spot at the river.

“I’ll lure you to your death, shall I?” she’d teased back. “Like an apsara.”

“A what?”

“A heavenly water nymph, skilled in the arts of music and dancing”—she’d thrown him a sultry look over her shoulder that was so full of promise that his knees had buckled on the steep slope of the riverbank—“and seduction. Sent to lure sages from their purpose.”

“I’m already yours,” he’d croaked, mesmerized.

“Are you?”

“As long as I draw breath, you will be the only apsara to tempt this wastrel’s heart.”

She’d laughed and floated in the pool then, the voluminous white folds of the traditional garb fanning about her, looking much like the divine nymph she’d described, and Rhystan had never been more grateful for the isolation of their secret spot than he had at that moment.

The small waterfall had been a short hike away from where the villagers usually bathed and washed their clothing, but it was worth it for the seclusion. There she was free of the trappings of her station and could speak her mind. There he could kiss her fragrant skin without recrimination, judgment, or censure. It had been their secret adventure.

The first time he’d shown her the pool, climbing through the sweltering bush hadn’t deterred his fierce princess in the least. She was adept at sneaking out of the palace. She’d allowed her maid, Asha, to accompany her for propriety’s sake, though she’d refused a guard, insisting she could defend herself well enough should any need arise. And she could with those kukri blades of hers. Not that she’d needed them where Rhystan was concerned; he was already wholly at her mercy.

As the recollection dimmed, he licked dry lips. That was a more fitting name for her than the lukewarm Sara. His apsara sent to lure him from his purpose, from reason.

And now she had returned.

He ground his jaw. He was hardly the naive, lovestruck lad he’d been then, though he couldn’t deny the attraction that still burned like an unchecked flame between them. His heart was already beating a resounding staccato in his chest. And other parts of him… Well, he’d been at half-mast for so much of the voyage that it had become his natural state.