“No, you’re not intruding. I do this each morning. You’re welcome to observe if you wish.”

He caught the focus of her gaze—directly on his bared chest and stomach. He’d not been named Cededa the Fair as a lark. Before the Waters changed him, women and men alike lauded him as a man blessed with august features. He’d been used to admiring gazes from both sexes, along with many come-hither stares. Imogen wore that same admiring expression, though she wore it for the man who no longer bore a resemblance to the humanity that had deserted him thousands of years earlier. The colorless Undying King had lit the appreciative spark in her eyes. This surprised and beguiled him almost as much as the knowledge of her terrible curse. His eyebrows rose in amusement when she blushed at being caught. Her chin rose and she refused to look away.

“I don't mean to stare,” she said in her sure, even tones. “But you are the most beautiful man I've ever beheld.”

Her bluntness rocked Cededa. Spoken plainly, with no lascivious undercurrents, her straightforward compliment created ripples across the still pond of his emotions, igniting an already growing fascination.

He’d misjudged her solely on her appearance, so much more subdued than Niamh’s. But this regal girl matched her mother in every way. Equal, only different. In his more debauched past, he might have indulged in some flirtatious response. No longer. He’d changed, and her statement was far too dignified in its delivery to deserve a provocative reply. He settled for a quiet “Thank you.”

She nodded. “You’re welcome, Sire.”

He noted her change of clothes—no different from yesterday, except her garb now was dull brown instead of faded black. She’d foregone the hat, but not the gloves. They concealed those magnificent hands, protective armor to shield others from her touch.

Her gaze flashed wariness when he closed the space between them, but unlike the previous night, she didn’t give ground. He didn’t reach for her, only stood close enough that he heard the hitch in her breathing.

“Do you want to touch me?”

The blush painting her cheekbones a rosy hue deepened and spread to her neck. The proud stare lowered, and her chin dipped. The flutter of her fingers across the folds of her dress revealed her disquiet as she mulled over his request.

The silence stretched between them until Cededa coaxed her to look at him with a finger under her chin. “Do you want to touch me, Imogen?”

She raised her eyes to his. “Yes, I do.”

Decision made, she peeled off the gloves and tucked them into a spot at her waist. Cededa drew a quick breath as she raised those fair, deadly hands. Imogen paused. He grasped one hand, shuddering as the remembered black lightning surged up his arm. The sensation intensified as he laid her palm against his chest. “There’s no danger to me, Imogen.”

She inhaled sharply, and Cededa fancied the heavy drum of her heartbeat vibrated through her palm. Her hand was hot against his skin, the delicate fingertips tracing the silvery patterns now etched along the slope of his shoulder and line of his collarbone. “You’re wearing the key,” she said.