????????? - ???? ??????? ?? [???]

       WARNING: SLIGHT SMUT!!

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

       Night had long since descended upon Argos, draping the manor in a hush of moonlight and the faint scent of sea salt carried on the breeze. The gentle creak of the front gate marked their return—Hyacintha, Baldwin, and Amara stepping through the quiet halls with the soft rustle of fabric and laughter still lingering from the fair. Amara, already yawning, bid them both goodnight and padded toward her wing, her parents soon following into sleep's embrace.

  Hyacintha turned to Baldwin, fingers still curled around the fabric of his Grecian robe, the candlelight catching the silver of his mask. “Come,” she whispered, swaying his hand as if to dance with it, “sleep here tonight—with me.”

  He paused, his gaze steady beneath the mask, the lines of hesitation carved into the stillness between them. “This was your father’s house,” he said quietly, “his memory still breathes in the walls. I wouldn’t—”

  “But he wouldn’t mind,” she insisted, tugging him gently with all the weight of her fondness. “You’ve slept beside me countless times before, Your Grace. Tonight is no different.” her smile was soft as a lullaby, earnest as spring.

  A reluctant sigh left him, but he gave a quiet nod.

  With triumph lighting her face, Hyacintha pulled a worn, leather-bound book from the shelf, its pages frayed from years of being turned by loving hands. “Read to me?” she asked. “He always did when I was little—right there on the couch.”

  Baldwin followed her to the low chaise beside the hearth, the book resting on his knees. Before he could settle, Hyacintha had nestled herself on his lap like a child of old memories, curling against him with the same innocent delight she’d always carried.

  “I used to do this too,” she said as she adjusted herself, “he said I was small as a bird and twice as loud.”

  A low chuckle rose from Baldwin’s chest. But his breath caught faintly as the scent of her shampoo—jasmine and honey—rose with her nearness, the warmth of her frame pressing delicately against his. He began to read, voice steady and rich, even as her weight shifted subtly with each turn of the page, her movements unconsciously testing the edges of his restraint.

  She shifted once more—playfully, absently—caught in a moment of innocent excitement at the story, and then paused. Something firm beneath her. Not part of the couch. Not a book.

  Hyacintha tilted her head, lips parting with confusion as she looked up at him. “What … is that?”

  His jaw tensed, knuckles white against the edge of the book. “Don’t move, little dove.”

  Her eyes widened, innocence clashing with the sudden seriousness of his tone. But instead of recoiling, she stilled against him, gaze searching. “Did I hurt you?”

  A breath, sharp and ragged, slipped from him. “No … but if you keep squirming like that, I may not be able to protect you from what you’ve stirred.”

  Silence. And then color bloomed over her cheeks, blooming like roses at spring’s first light. Her fingers gripped the book, her whole frame frozen in the moment’s gravity.

  “I—” she stammered, the words caught between curiosity and the slow awakening of understanding. “I didn’t know … I didn’t mean—”

  “I know.”

  Baldwin closed the book, set it aside with a calm too carefully placed. He tugged off his mask completely, revealing the ravaged features beneath. His gloved hand rose to cup her cheek, thumb stroking lightly beneath her eye. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”