The morning had long shaken off its chill, sunlight spilling gold over the dew-laced field as their horses began the slow ride out of camp. Ilaria rode on her own, her chin high, her cloak fluttering behind her like the very picture of independence.
Except… her reins were not entirely her own.
Levan's gloved hand held the end of them, the reins looped loosely between his fingers as if he had no intention of truly guiding her horse and yet, somehow, he was. Every subtle pull, every measured pace of his mount, set the rhythm for hers.
It was not that she could not ride. In fact, she could, perfectly well even. But the quiet possessiveness of that tether made her pulse trip in her throat.
She tried not to look at him. Truly, she did. But as the morning light caught the dark strands of his hair and the faint gleam of the crest at his shoulder, her thoughts suddenly were a mess of things that had nothing to do with beasts or travel.
