Page 34 of Dark as the Cursed Abyss

Chloe’s breath caught. Farah lifted a hand, brushing a loose strand of silver hair from Chloe’s face, her fingers lingering just a moment too long against her temple. The touch was soft. But it unraveled something inside her all the same.

Before Chloe could respond—before she could think—Farah kissed her. It was not gentle. Not tentative. Not forced. It was heat and frustration and something sharp enough to border on anger, all wrapped into a single, consuming moment that stole the breath from Chloe’s lungs.

Chloe reacted instantly, her hands finding Farah’s waist, pulling her closer as if she might disappear otherwise. The world tilted, the sounds of the festival fading into nothing but distant echoes beneath the rush of blood in her ears.

Farah tasted like wine and smoke and something darker, something that lingered beneath the surface and refused to be named. When they broke apart, it was only by inches. Only enough to breathe. Only enough for Chloe to realize she was already lost, even if it was just for this moment.

“Come with me,” Chloe whispered.

She didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t trust herself to. She took Farah’s hand and led her away from the firelight, away from the dancers and the drums and the watchful eyes hidden behind masks. The forest swallowed them quickly, shadows deepening between the trees until the glow of the bonfire was nothing more than a distant pulse of orange through the branches.

The air grew colder, quieter. More dangerous. Perfect. Chloe pressed Farah back against the trunk of a snow-dusted pine, her breath visible between them, mingling in the space they shared. For a moment, neither of them moved. As if both understood the weight of what came next.

Then Farah’s hands were on her again—sure, insistent—and Chloe forgot how to think entirely. The kiss that followed was slower, deeper, unraveling in layers instead of striking all at once. Chloe’s fingers threaded into Farah’s hair, tilting her head just enough to deepen the kiss, to feel every shift of breath, every quiet whimper that slipped past her lips.

It was different here—away from the eyes of the court, from the weight of the Mysteries pressing in at every turn. Here, it felt almost real.

Chloe’s hands moved, tracing the lines of Farah’s body as if committing them to memory, as if afraid that something—fate, duty, the trials ahead—might take this from her too. Because it would. It always did.

Farah’s breath hitched softly, her grip tightening, pulling Chloe closer still until there was no space left between them, no room for doubt or hesitation or fear. Only heat. Only want. Only this. And for once, Chloe let herself have it, knowing it might cost her everything.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Farah

For a long moment, Farah did not open her eyes. She lingered in that fragile space between sleep and waking, where the world remained soft and indistinct. The air was warm—far warmer than it should have been in the dead of winter—and something against the palm of her hand rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.

Awareness came gradually after that. The weight of another body beside her. The faint scent of pine and clean linen threaded with something unmistakably Chloe. The warmth tickled up her palm where their skin met beneath tangled blankets. Farah’s breath caught, and when she finally opened her eyes, the pale morning light filtered through frost-kissed windows, spilling across the bed in silver bands. It illuminated everything—the disarray of the night before, the discarded clothing, the quiet, undeniable evidence of something she had not allowed herself in years.

Chloe.

Farah shifted just enough to see her. The Nexian princess lay on her back, silver hair spread across the pillow like moonlight. Her features, so often composed and carefully guarded, were softened by sleep. There was no tension in her brow, no sharpness in her expression. And Farah—Farah felt something dangerously close to peace settle low in her chest. Happiness. Not the fleeting satisfaction of survival or victory, not the sharp thrill of lust, but something quieter, something that refused to be dismissed.

Her gaze moved without permission, tracing the curve of Chloe’s lips, the faint rise of her cheek, the slow rhythm of her breathing. She should move. She should put distance between them before Chloe woke, before this moment had the chance to become something more than what it was meant to be. But she didn’t. Instead, she allowed herself one more heartbeat, then another, clinging to the stillness as if it might vanish the moment she acknowledged it fully.

Because the truth pressed too insistently at the edges of her mind to ignore. She had promised herself she would never feel this again. Not after Celene. Not after watching her father destroy everything she loved. Love was a liability. A weapon. Something that could be used against her, against anyone she dared to care for. And yet, her fingers shifted slightly against the sheets, brushing dangerously close to Chloe’s hand. Last night had not been a mistake. That was the most unsettling part. It had not been reckless or born purely from the chaos of the Mysteries. It had felt right.

A sharp knock shattered the quiet, and Farah stilled instantly, every instinct snapping back into place. Chloe stirred beside her, brow furrowing as she shifted, her arm brushing lightly against Farah’s waist. Another knock followed, louder this time.

“Princess,” came Markos’ voice from the other side of the door, steady but edged with urgency. “There is a matter that requires your attention.”

Farah pulled away first, the warmth vanishing too quickly. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, gathering her clothing with practiced efficiency, each movement precise despite the lingering weight in her chest. By the time Chloe pushed herself upright, blinking sleep from her eyes, Farah had already begun fastening her breeches.

“Come in,” Chloe called, her voice rough with sleep.

The door opened, and Markos stepped inside, his presence immediately filling the space. His gaze flicked once taking in the room, the proximity of their things. If he had thoughts on it, he did not voice them. Instead, he held out a sealed letter. “For you.”

Chloe took it, her fingers brushing the wax seal before recognition flashed across her features.

“Dimitris,” she murmured. “Two letters in the matter of weeks cannot be good.”

Something in Farah’s chest tightened as Chloe broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. At first, her hands remained steady, her eyes scanning quickly—but then that steadiness began to fracture. Farah saw it in the smallest shifts. The hitch in her breath, the tightening of her jaw, the way her fingers curled into the paper, crumpling its edges.

“What is it?” Farah asked, her voice quieter now, stripped of its usual edge.

Chloe didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes moved faster across the page, rereading as if the words might change upon a second glance.

“They’ve attacked,” she said finally, the words barely above a whisper.