The tavern crouched at the edge of the merchant district, its crooked sign swaying in the night breeze, a worn painting of a fox holding a goblet. Inside, the air was thick with smoke, perfume, and laughter far too hollow to be sincere. The Crimson Fox had long served as a sanctuary for men with coin and burdens. The painter was no stranger here. If he must forget and override the fiery princess, it will be in this tavern.
He slipped inside, ignoring the drunken revelers and dice tables. A serving girl offered him mead with a toothy smile. He waved her off and headed for the narrow staircase tucked behind the bar.
Upstairs, the hallway was dim, the floor muffled by old rugs, and the door at the end marked with a sliver of red silk opened before he even knocked.
"Late again," the woman purred, stepping aside to let him in.
She was tall, her skin the color of spiced honey, her body draped in soft crimson robes that did little to hide her curves. A gold chain looped around her ankle, glinting in the candlelight. Her name was Mira, and she knew how to make men forget themselves.
But tonight, he wasn't here to forget. He was here to override.
She studied him as he entered, brow arched. "You smell like old paper and guilt. Bad night, love?"
He said nothing, just removed his cloak and hung it on the wall hook. The room was warm, sweet with incense and the faint musk of prior indulgences. She approached, fingers trailing the curve of his jaw.
"You look haunted," she said softly. "That's good for me. Haunted men make passionate lovers."
He let her touch him, let her press her lips to his neck. But his hands didn't respond. His body remained stone. Mira drew back slightly, searching his eyes.
"Trouble with the court ladies?" she teased. "Or are you finally falling in love?"
His jaw clenched.
Love. The word coiled in his gut like a serpent.
"Strip," he ordered. The word came out sharp, angry.
Mira obeyed, her robes slipping to the floor. She stepped toward him, bare, unashamed, and beautiful. Her breasts were high, her hips full. She had been enough before. More than enough.
But not now.
He grasped her waist and pulled her to the bed. She straddled him, her fingers running down his chest. But when she leaned in to kiss him, he turned his head.
"What is it?" she asked, voice low. "You're hard as stone some nights. Tonight you're colder than one."
He growled under his breath. "Just shut up and move."
She tried. Her lips explored his neck again, her body pressed against his, but it was no use. His arousal flickered and died like a candle snuffed too soon. Every time she touched him, Eliza's face rose in his mind. Not Mira's honey-dark eyes, but those wide green ones, filled with startled desire. Not this practiced caress, but the accidental, unfiltered way Eliza's bare chest had slid against his.
He rolled Mira off roughly.
"Gods," she snapped, offended. "You come to my room, bark like a dog, and can't even raise the flag?"
He stood, running a hand over his face.
"Leave," he muttered.
"Leave?" she echoed, rising from the bed in a slow, sultry fury. "You came crawling here like a wounded wolf. Now you can't even pretend I'm the girl you want?"
His head snapped toward her.
"What did you say?"
"I see the way you look lately. Like a man touched by a ghost. You're not here," she accused, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. "Your body might be, but the rest of you's somewhere else. Some noble girl, I bet. Some prim, delicate flower you can't have."
He laughed bitterly. "She's not delicate."
"Oh?" Mira said, lifting a brow. "That's the dangerous kind."
He didn't reply. Just grabbed his coat and stormed out.
Down the stairs. Out into the street. The wind slapped him like a scorned lover.
Eliza.
He could still feel her on his skin. The shape of her breasts, the heat of her gasp when they pressed against him. The wetness he'd imagined between her thighs. Her breath had caught like a prayer. Her shame had looked like temptation.
He cursed under his breath.
This had to end.
He would kill the king.
And leave.
Before she took more than his nights.
Before she took his resolve.
Before she made him forget what he came here to do.