The masquerade ball had concluded, yet the aroma of roses and candle wax remained suspended in the air. Isla Viremont stood on the balcony of the palace, her silk dress draping like water around her body. The sky was colored with dark hues of midnight blue, but she felt imprisoned—ensnared in a world of rules, duty, and a marriage she never desired.
Tonight, for once, she wished to breathe.
Heart racing, she slipped silently through the corridors unseen, exchanging the stifling beauty of nobility for the dark streets of Velentia. A hood covered her golden curls, and the chill of the night air sent shivers down her back. She had no destination in mind, only the urgent need to be free.
And then, fate stepped in.
A firm hand closed around her wrist as she swung into an alley. In one quick movement, she was thrust against a firm chest, the heat of a stranger's body against hers. She gasped, reflexively trying to pull away, but the hand around her wrist held fast—tough but gentle, as though the man grasping her did not mean her any harm.
"You shouldn't be here," a low voice whispered in her ear, making an odd shiver run down her spine.
Isla raised her eyes, her breath held. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing dark leathers that suggested danger. His jaw was angular, his lips parted as if he were as surprised as she was at their sudden closeness.
But his eyes were what did her in. Stormy and dark, like the ocean before a storm.
"Let me go," she whispered, though her heartbeat betrayed her, pounding wildly against his fingers.
He paused, his thumb sweeping across the delicate skin of her wrist—a quick touch that made her burn. "If I let you go, will you vow not to do anything stupid?"
"That depends," she breathed. "Are you stupid?"
He smiled slowly, and moonlight danced in the shadow of a dimple. "Some would say so."
She ought to have moved back. Ought to have ripped her eyes away. But something here—something about him—was perilously seductive.
"Who are you?" she finally managed.
He let out a breath, releasing her wrist but not the tug between them. "Tristan Blackwood," he replied. "Captain of the Royal Guard."
Her heart skipped a beat.
The king's most devoted warrior. The man bound by oath to defend the very laws that tied her destiny.
She ought to have been in terror.
And yet, she smiled.
"Then I am acting impulsively, after all."
And that was how the first strand of their illicit love was sewn into destiny.