Chapter 1: The Silks

The early summer heat hung heavy over Eratari, a thick, humid weight that refused to break even as the sun began its slow descent. Outside, the city was shifting from the bustle of commerce to the lower, throaty hum of evening, but inside the room the air was still and close.

Sekya lay on the rumpled bed, one knee drawn slightly forward beneath the thin slip that clung to her damp skin. The pale, shimmering fabric traced the curve of her waist and the slope of her hip. Her frame was petite, almost fragile against the sprawling mattress, yet carried the full, soft curves of a woman rather than a girl. Her skin, a deep, warm brown, glowed in the amber half-light filtering through the wooden shutters. Thick waves of natural rose-gold hair spilled around her face, a curtain of pink touched by the dying fire of sunset.

Nothing about her position was accidental. Survival rarely was.

Footsteps paused at the doorway. A simple knock.

“Come in,” she said softly.

He opened the door, took in the sight and smiled. She felt the shift of air before anything else, warm and salt-heavy, brushing her bare shoulder like a greeting. The faint scrape of boots on wood. The uneven breath of a man trying and failing to steady himself at the sight of her.

Miran.

He always hesitated there, framed in the doorway as if crossing into her world required courage. And perhaps it did.

He stepped into the room, closing the door gently behind him. The mattress dipped with his weight as he sat beside her. His presence warmed the air. He smelled of the docks, of fish oil and sun, of salt drying on bronzed skin, but cleaner now, as though he had washed himself before coming. For her.

“You are late,” she murmured, voice low, softened by heat and comfort, and the calculated curve of her lips.

Miran laughed quietly, the sound warm and boyish, though shaped by exhaustion. “Took longer than expected to catch our quota,” he said. “I hurried.”

She did not look at him, not yet. She allowed him to look at her.

His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her face. His hand was rough from pulling ropes, but the touch gentled itself against her cheek as if he had rehearsed it. His warmth lingered a moment too long, enough that she could feel the restraint behind it. The wanting.

Miran was handsome, a true son of Eratari, but in a way that felt earned rather than given. His skin was bronze-darkened from relentless sun, streaked with pale scars from hooks and jagged scales. His eyes were brown with red flecks, warm and steady. His hair, a deep copper-red, was tied back loosely, still damp at the edges from washing. Broad shoulders filled his shirt, muscles shaped by real labour.

He was handsome in a way that felt safe.

And that was the danger.

Her voice softened. “You hurry for me?”

He swallowed, throat working. “For you, Sekya. Always.”

She shifted toward him, her lavender eyes locking with his simple brown ones in a gaze that stripped away all pretense, leaving only raw, unspoken need.

He moved closer, his frame casting a protective shadow over her, and their lips met in a kiss, tender yet insistent, each brush igniting sparks along her nerves. Miran’s mouth explored hers with a measured passion, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she parted for him, welcoming the deeper union. His hand, broad and steady, glided along the curve of her waist, the faint calluses on his fingers grazing her through the slip, sending ripples of warmth that settled deep in her core.

He hesitated at the edge of the fabric, his touch a silent query, and Sekya answered by lifting her hips slightly, her body arching in eloquent consent. A low sound escaped him, part reverence, part unraveling restraint, as his palm slipped beneath the silk to caress the smooth expanse of her thigh. His fingers ventured higher, mapping the sensitive terrain of her inner leg, brushing against the damp heat gathering at her center. She gasped softly into his mouth, the sensation coiling tighter within her, a sweet ache that mirrored the hardness pressing against her hip.

Their kiss grew hungrier, breaths intertwining as his body aligned with hers, the length of him nestling between her thighs through the barriers of cloth. Sekya’s hands roamed his back, nails lightly scoring the taut muscles there, urging him nearer. She felt the rapid beat of his heart against her chest, the subtle grind of his hips eliciting a shared tremor that made her toes curl. His lips left hers to trail down her neck, nipping gently at the pulse point, then lower to the valley between her breasts, where he pressed open-mouthed kisses that drew forth a quiet moan from her throat.