Lira woke to the trill of birds, their song filtering through the open window, where pale morning light spilled across the wooden floor in long, golden stripes.
The tavern was quiet, its pulse softened by dawn, the air carrying faint traces of woodsmoke and warm bread from the hearth below.
She shifted, but the silk ropes held, their bite softened overnight, now loose around her wrists and chest.
Her arms tingled with numbness, her body throbbing with the memory of last night's tension, her thighs still warm with unspent need.
She wasn't alone.
Kio sat across from her, in the high-backed chair where he'd bound Rin days before, its wood scarred from use.
He cradled a steaming mug in both hands, his dark eyes watching her, calm and steady, like a tide lapping at the shore.
His collar was open, his sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms taut with quiet strength.
"You didn't untie me," Lira said, her voice rough, frayed from sleep and strain.
"You didn't ask," he replied, his tone soft but unyielding, a gentle challenge.
Her lips twitched, a spark of her snark returning. "You always this precise?"
"Only with those who hide," he said, his voice gentle, cutting through her defenses.
Lira sighed, her head rolling back against the bedframe, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders.
"I didn't lie," she muttered.
"You did," Kio said, his tone warm but firm. "Not with words."
He stood, setting the mug on a nearby table, its faint clink echoing in the quiet.
He crossed the space between them, kneeling before her, his fingers moving with care to undo each knot.
His hands massaged circulation back into her arms, her shoulders, checking for marks with a touch that was steady but tender, warming her skin without straying to the ache between her thighs, where her shortcloth clung, damp with unfulfilled desire.
"You didn't have to stay," she said, her voice softer now, her emerald eyes flickering with vulnerability.
"I always stay," he replied, his fingers lingering just long enough to ground her.
"Thought you didn't coddle," she shot back, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.
"I don't," he said, his eyes meeting hers, a quiet promise in their depths.
When the ropes fell away, Kio helped her sit upright, her body stiff but yielding under his touch.
He draped a woolen blanket over her shoulders, its weight a soft embrace, and placed a plate in her lap—sliced apples, a wedge of bread, a smear of honey glistening in the morning light.
Lira stared at the food, her throat tightening.
"You trying to confuse me?" she asked, her voice half-snark, half-surrender.
Kio raised an eyebrow, his lips curving faintly.
"You said what you needed to say," he replied. "You earned breakfast."
Her breath caught, the words striking deeper than the ropes had.
She looked at the bread, then at him, her emerald eyes searching his face.
"Do you want me?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, raw and unguarded.
Kio didn't answer immediately. His gaze held hers, steady, unyielding, a weight that pressed against her heart.
"I will," he said softly, "when you're ready to give everything."
The words landed harder than silk, heavier than fire, stirring the ache she'd carried all night.
Lira blinked, her eyes darting away, and tore off a piece of bread, chewing silently to anchor herself.
The tavern's morning hum—birds outside, a faint creak of floorboards below—wrapped around her, a fragile haven.
Kio stood, collecting his mug, his movements unhurried. "Come find me when you're hungry again," he said, his voice low, heavy with meaning as he moved toward the door.
Lira didn't ask if he meant for food.
They both knew he didn't.
She sat in the quiet, the blanket warm against her skin, her body still burning with the need he'd left unanswered, her heart a little less guarded than before.