They departed for Halamshiral a week and a half later, after some errands, tiny matters around Skyhold which needed to be solved and after a whole lot of more dress fittings and dance lessons.
The sheer number of carriages, crates, and ornate trunks required for the journey made Grace shake her head in disbelief. Silk and steel made uneasy travel companions.
Dorian, of course, hadn't let her forget the bet since the night at the tavern. He brought it up at least twice a day, each time with a sly smile and raised brow. She suspected he was only trying to coax her into talking—her silences had stretched longer lately, and her temper shorter. She didn't miss the way he watched her, concerned beneath all that flamboyant charm.
"You, my dear, need to get thoroughly debauched," he had quipped just that morning, lounging sideways across a crate like a bored cat. "You're entirely too tense. It's either sex or murder, and you're not allowed to stab nobles at the ball."
She had rolled her eyes, but deep down, she knew he wasn't wrong. She felt worn thin—tired in her bones, short-fused, and stretched too tightly across the ever-growing weight of expectation. And she'd noticed something else: Dorian and Bull had become… close. Suspiciously close. She hadn't asked, and Dorian hadn't said, but there was a lightness to him now, a quiet joy that curled at the edges of his smirks.
Good for them, truly. But Maker, did it make something twist in her chest.
Grace sighed as she watched the procession ready itself, the wheels of the carriages creaking under the weight of expectations and polished armor.
These kinds of comforts—pleasure, intimacy, simple closeness—felt like things that lived at the far end of a road she wasn't allowed to walk. And even if she dared take the first step… what then? Even if she acted on the quiet pull that had been drawing her toward a certain commander more and more each day—what good could possibly come of it?
Her life was teetering on the edge of a blade. One wrong move, one miscalculated step, and she wouldn't live to see the end of the year. To let someone in now—to let him in—only to drag him down with her?
It felt selfish. Foolish.
And yet…
She couldn't help herself.
She glanced over her shoulder, her gaze lingering—unintentionally—on where Cullen rode a few paces behind. He was astride a sleek black stallion, speaking quietly with Cassandra, his silhouette steady and composed in the afternoon light.
At least he looked like the potions were working. His color had returned, the strain in his features eased, and there was a steadiness to him that hadn't been there before. He'd mentioned—casually, almost as an afterthought—that he'd been feeling unusually sleepy of late. Grace hadn't commented, though concern had stirred immediately. She didn't think the potion was the cause, but still, she'd reformulated the mixture just in case.
No complaints, no questions—just that quiet note in his usual measured tone. And still, she'd obsessed over it longer than she should have.
He seemed fine now. Strong. Focused.
She should've been reassured by that.
And yet, her eyes lingered for a breath too long.
She turned back in her saddle, the embroidered banners of the Inquisition fluttering ahead in the breeze, but her gaze lingered behind—on Cullen.
He rode just behind her, astride his black stallion, speaking quietly with Cassandra. There was a steadiness to him now, a quiet certainty that hadn't been there that much, especially before Haven. Something had changed in him after the mountain—something deeper than the healing potion she'd worked into his veins. He'd always been driven, determined—but now, he was softer, in ways only someone who paid close attention might notice.
And Grace noticed everything.
He was more present now. More careful. He still kept to his duties with that same unflinching discipline, but there was a gentleness beneath the armor—one that came through in small, unexpected ways. In the way he'd started checking on her after the debriefs, bringing a steaming mug of tea instead of sending a report. In the way his gloved hand would graze her arm just to ground her when she was fraying. In the way he saw her, not as the Inquisitor, but as a woman worn thin by the weight she carried.
She knew better than to read too much into kindness. Cullen was honorable to a fault. He would treat her gently even if he felt nothing. And yet…
There had been something in the way he looked at her lately. As though the idea of losing her had settled somewhere deep in him, still unspoken, still unacknowledged—but alive.
She sighed, her breath curling in the air. At least he looked well. The latest blend of potion seemed to be working, though she'd caught the way he'd rubbed at his temple a few nights ago, as if sleep still pressed too heavily on him. He hadn't complained, not even once. He only noted it, in that calm, careful voice of his—like he trusted her to fix it without needing to explain why it mattered. So she'd gone back to the drawing board. Again.
Because she wanted him well.
Because it mattered. Too much.
And that was the problem.
Maker, what would it even mean to admit it aloud—to tell him she looked for him in every room, that she kept track of his moods the way she tracked the sky before a storm? That she wanted, so selfishly, to be wanted by him?
But she was the Inquisitor. And women like her didn't get to want—not really. Not when the end of the world might be days or weeks away.
Still, the thought of him lingered like a whisper against her skin.
She wasn't sure how much longer she could carry it in silence.
"Careful, Gracie," came Dorian's familiar drawl as he pulled his horse up alongside hers, his grin as insufferable as ever. "If you stare any harder, you'll set him on fire."
Grace blinked, caught, and quickly shifted her gaze to the road ahead. "I was not staring."
"You were practically carving a love sonnet into his chest with your eyes. Really, Grace, the restraint is admirable—tragic, but admirable."
She gave him a sidelong look. "You're being dramatic."
"I'm always dramatic," he said with a smirk. "But that doesn't make me wrong. You're tense. Snappish. Restless. Frankly, it's becoming unbearable for the rest of us. You really need to do something about it."
She narrowed her eyes. "Do something about what?"
Dorian gave a long-suffering sigh, as if she were the slowest student in a very remedial class. "I have already told you. Sex, my dear. Intimacy. A good, toe-curling tumble, preferably with our very broody Commander who can't stop looking at you when he thinks no one's watching. You'll both be insufferable until it happens."
Grace's expression darkened. "And there we go again! You know, I'm starting to feel like your investment might not be just pure camaraderie between us. So how much money do you have on me right now?"
"Oh, no, no. That would be Varric, who started the betting pool. He's put his money on you cracking first. I believe Cassandra is rooting for Cullen. Josie says she'd rather not know anything about any of this, which of course means she knows everything. And Leliana—well, let's just say she's already collecting on side bets."
Grace groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "How lovely. I had no idea my sex life has become a public matter that fast."
"Come now, you adore us for it."
"I will end you," she whispered sharply, casting a quick glance over her shoulder.
Cullen was still a few paces back, riding silently beside Cassandra, his expression unreadable.
She turned back to Dorian and hissed, "He's right behind us."
Dorian's grin widened. "Yes, I noticed. Excellent posture, isn't it?"
"Shut. Up."
He raised his hands in mock surrender, clearly enjoying every second. "Fine, fine. No more talk of torrid secret affairs or romantic tragedy. I'll be the picture of decorum."
Grace gave him one last glare before facing forward again, heart pounding far too fast for her liking.
Behind her, she could still feel the weight of Cullen's presence like a second sun. Warm, steady—and entirely too close.
They rode west for the whole day, and by the time the sun began to sink below the horizon, the convoy had reached an Orlesian village just behind the border. The innkeeper, clearly eager to accommodate so many, practically beamed at the sight of them. Business had been slow lately, thanks to the ongoing crisis, red Templar attacks, and frequent veil rifts springing up like weeds—waiting to be dealt with.
The convoy had stopped several times along the way to deal with the rifts and the demons that came with them. Her leather armor was stained with demon gore, but Grace couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction. At least, in this chaos, she was doing something. She was making a difference, in her own way.
"Still venting your emotions on the battlefield, I see?" Cullen's voice cut through her thoughts, smooth and teasing, as she untacked Eluvia.
"Would you rather I vented them on other people, Commander?" she shot back, her tone sharper than she intended. Her body was giving her away, though—tensing slightly as she recalled her earlier conversation with Dorian. She had been a little too… honest about the tension that lingered between her and Cullen. It was still raw, and the reminder made her pulse spike.
"I remember suggesting a sparring partner," Cullen said with that familiar smirk, his lips pulling in a way that made her blood rush. "But if you're worried about being a public menace, I suppose I'll refrain from putting my soldiers at risk."
Grace narrowed her eyes at him, lips curling into a playful but strained smile. "And what would you suggest, then, Commander?" She crossed her arms, feigning indifference, though her heartbeat betrayed her.
"Why, I'd have to step in myself, of course," he replied smoothly, his gaze steady and amused. "I've seen you fight enough to know that assigning one of my soldiers to you would feel like a slight, frankly."
She met his gaze, incredulous. "And you think I wouldn't be able to take you down?"
His smirk deepened. "That remains to be seen, Inquisitor."
Grace found herself momentarily lost in his amber eyes, her breath catching. She quickly turned back to Eluvia, her fingers gripping the reins as though she needed something to steady herself.
The banter was so familiar, and yet every time they exchanged words like this, it chipped away at her resolve. She had become almost painfully aware of how her body reacted to him, how she felt herself drawn to him in ways she had no desire to acknowledge.
She hated how she felt like a cranky, lovesick teenager whenever he was near. It was ridiculous. She was a grown woman in her thirties, a leader of the Inquisition, yet here she was, struggling to allow herself to feel anything at all.
Dorian's teasing had only made it worse. Every time he opened his mouth, Grace was reminded of the tension, of the weight of her unspoken feelings for Cullen. And now, as the journey stretched on, part of her wondered if throwing herself at him might just solve the problem. At least the pestering would stop. But would it really help? Would it change anything?
What if he wasn't interested? What if everyone was reading too much into the little moments they shared, into the subtle, electric exchanges? The thought made her stomach churn. But the alternative—the thought of never knowing—felt even worse.
"Alright," Grace said curtly, taking the bridle and saddle from Eluvia and moving past Cullen with more force than necessary, as if the movement could distance her from the treacherous emotions stirring inside her. She almost wanted to run, to flee from the growing awareness of just how much she was feeling right now.
"I accept your offer, then," she continued, her voice steady but her heart thudding in her chest. "If you think you can improve my blocking and close combat against heavier forces, I'll let you show me. After we get back to Skyhold." She forced herself to keep her tone cool, but her body betrayed her—trembling with sudden anticipation. This meant time alone with him, at least in the training ring. And she wasn't sure whether she was more terrified or eager about that prospect.
"What, really?" Cullen asked, sounding almost surprised as he tilted his head, his smirk still there but softer, like he wasn't quite sure what to make of her sudden agreement. "Are you okay? You haven't even argued with me on that…" His voice had a teasing edge, but there was a hint of concern beneath it.
Grace turned back to face him, her breath steadying, and for a moment, she let herself enjoy the playful tension. "Maybe I'm not," she replied, a sly smile playing on her lips. She tilted her head, allowing her usual sharp, suggestive wit to return with the confidence she was still working to reclaim. "Maybe I'm just… in need of proper training."
Without giving him a chance to respond, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the tack room, her pulse still racing.
——-
Cullen tossed and turned in his bed, the shadows of the night only amplifying the restless thoughts swirling in his mind. His conversation with Grace lingered, her words echoing in his head. She had agreed to train with him. He couldn't deny the thrill that ran through him at the thought. It wasn't just about the training—though that was certainly appealing—but the prospect of spending time with her, getting closer without stepping beyond the boundaries he'd carefully set for himself.
The self-control he had prided himself on was starting to feel like a distant memory, especially with every fleeting thought of her. He couldn't help but replay the image of her, standing firm, surrounded by lightning and the chaos of battle. Fierce. Unwavering. She was a force to be reckoned with, and he found himself admiring that strength more than he was willing to admit.
It would be foolish to act on any of these feelings, he knew that. But the temptation to cross that line, just to be near her… it was hard to push away.
The warm air of central Orlais wrapped around them as they crossed the threshold of the Empress's Winter Palace, a stark contrast to the biting winds of the Frostback Mountains they had left behind.
The gardens were lush and in full bloom, the scent of roses and jasmine thick in the air, twining around them like an unseen invitation—or a trap. Everything about the palace gleamed with elegance and power, as if the very stones whispered the names of those who had walked these halls before, each one a player in the endless Orlesian game.
Josephine watched Grace carefully, her expression a mixture of concern and determination as she leaned in, speaking low enough to avoid attracting attention.They had been led into their assigned quarters in the small wing adjourned to the side building of the main palace.
"You must understand," she began, her voice calm but sharp with intent, "Even though they did great on hospitality, Gaspard's invitation is more than a mere courtesy. It's a carefully crafted move in his game of power."
Grace's gaze swept the halls, noting the admiring glances, the subtle whispers that echoed through the gilded space. She was well aware of how she was being perceived.
Josephine continued, "By making you his personal guest, he's not just showing favor. He's reminding the entire court of his strength, of the influence he wields. Gaspard is making a statement—he is not just a rival for the throne, but a force to be reckoned with."
"I'm a piece in his game, then," Grace said, her voice flat, her eyes still scanning the place as though looking for any sign of a challenge.
"Not just any piece, Grace," Josephine replied, her gaze sharp. "You are a valuable one. The Inquisition's power, the alliances we've built, your role in the Breach—it all gives you weight. Gaspard is using you to show the nobility that he is connected, that he has allies in high places."
Grace felt the weight of Josephine's words settle over her. She had always known that politics was never just about what was on the surface, but this felt different. Gaspard wasn't just trying to manipulate her—he was trying to reshape the very landscape of Orlais' future.
She met Josephine's gaze, her voice barely a whisper. "So, I'm not here because he respects the Inquisition. I'm here because I'm a weapon in his arsenal."
Josephine's lips curled into a tight smile. "In many ways, yes. But remember, my lady, that Gaspard does not control the pieces as he might wish. You have the power to make your own moves on this board, if you choose wisely."
Grace exhaled, her expression hardening with resolve. "Then let's make sure Gaspard's play doesn't end with me being his pawn."
As Grace took in the atmosphere of the palace, the soft murmur of voices and the rustling of servants' footsteps filled the halls.
Josephine led the group through the labyrinthine corridors, her heels clicking against the polished floors. One by one, the members of the Inquisition's envoy were shown to their rooms, each one tucked away in the far wing of the palace, near Grace's own quarters.
First, Varric was led to a large suite, followed by Cassandra, who cast a glance around, her face still a mask of distaste for the lavish surroundings. Cullen walked beside Grace, silent but observant, his sharp gaze flicking to every movement in the hall, every shadow that lingered too long. His posture was tense, his shoulders squared in that way they always were when he was trying to assess a battlefield—except this was no battlefield. Not in the traditional sense.
As the last servant stepped back, Josephine gave a polite nod and turned to Grace. "Your room, my lady, is just ahead."
Grace's footsteps slowed slightly as they neared the door. It wasn't until Josephine stopped in front of her own room that she noticed it—Cullen's room was directly next to hers. His door stood just a few feet away, a stone's throw in the grand scheme of the palace's sprawling wings.
Her heart skipped a beat, a familiar, uncomfortable heat creeping up her neck. She couldn't help but glance at the door, feeling an odd mix of anticipation and uncertainty settle within her.
Cullen, too, seemed to take notice. His brows lifted slightly, and for a brief moment, his gaze met hers—steady, unreadable, but not unaffected. Then, with a small, almost imperceptible shift of his weight, he nodded. "I'll make sure the guards are posted nearby," he murmured, his voice low, controlled.
As if that was the only thing that mattered.
Grace exhaled softly, schooling her expression before offering a nod in return. "Of course."
Josephine, either unaware or politely ignoring the tension between them, clasped her hands together with a satisfied smile. "Excellent. Get some rest, all of you. In the evening, the real Game begins."
With that, the group began to disperse, each retreating into their rooms. But as Grace stepped inside, she hesitated for just a second—just long enough to hear Cullen's door close softly beside her.
Grace took one last breath before turning back to the bed, where the gown lay carefully arranged, not paying much attention to Josie's and Leliana's chatter on the other side of the room. She stood over it for a long moment, her eyes tracing the lines of the deep midnight purple-blue fabric that seemed to shift with the faintest movement, like the storm clouds that gathered in the sky before the first flash of lightning.
The fine silver thread that adorned the bodice and sleeves shimmered, a delicate filigree that seemed almost like frost on glass. It was understated yet commanding, the epitome of quiet strength. Grace's fingers hovered over the soft fabric, feeling the coolness of the silk beneath her fingertips as she admired the craftsmanship. The gown was designed to blend in at first glance—elegance without excess. Yet, as always, there was more to it than met the eye.
She would be watched, judged, and perhaps even manipulated. The gown was not just for beauty; it was her armor in this game, a subtle statement of both grace and power.
The silver-threaded sigil of the Inquisition, sewn into the intricate silver designs, would make sure of that. It was a quiet symbol, but it carried weight—a reminder of who she was, even among the glittering nobility of Orlais.
Grace turned her attention to the delicate layers of sheer gossamer silk that cascaded from the shoulders, the flowing cape that moved as if alive, whispering like mist across the mountains. Beneath the layers of beauty and refinement, however, lay the truth of the gown's design.
Inhale, exhale. "Okay, let's do this." Grace swallowed the rising tide of nerves as Josephine and Leliana hovered around her, their practiced hands adjusting the delicate details of her ensemble.
The gown flowed around her as if it belonged to the wind itself, the fabric cool against her skin as she stepped into it. Josephine tugged the bodice into place, smoothing the silk over her torso with a critical eye.
"A perfect fit," Josephine murmured, satisfaction clear in her voice. "It moves beautifully."
Leliana, standing behind her, adjusted the clasp at her shoulder, letting the cape fall just so, the fabric catching the candlelight as it billowed behind her. "Formidable," she said approvingly. "They will see you, and they will know better than to underestimate you."
Grace studied herself in the mirror, taking in the way the gown hugged her body, its subtle shimmer catching the light. Despite its elegance, there was a strength to it—the Inquisition sigil a bold statement upon her chest, a reminder of why she was here. Beneath the flowing silk, the weight of her concealed armor rested against her skin. A quiet reassurance. A silent warning.
As Josephine fussed over the final folds of the gown, Leliana turned her attention to Grace's hair, her deft fingers weaving strands into an intricate arrangement.
"Something elegant, but not overly elaborate," she mused, securing a few loose curls in place before reaching for the finishing touches.
Grace exhaled softly, allowing herself to be still as Leliana adorned her with delicate silver accessories and Josephine traced a touch of color to her lips. Every detail was chosen to craft an image—not just of beauty, but of power. The court might admire her appearance, but the Inquisition would recognize what lay beneath.
"Perfect," Josephine declared at last, stepping back to admire their work.
Grace took one last deep breath, steadying herself. Her expression hardened into something resolute. Tonight would be a performance, but she was more than ready to play her part.
She turned for the door, her gown flowing behind her like a shadow of mist. The ball awaited, and the Game was about to begin.
The door to Grace's chambers swung open, and she stepped into the hall, the soft rustle of silk accompanying her movements.
Cullen had been standing a few paces away, speaking in low tones with Cassandra and Varric, while Dorian lounged nearby, adjusting his cuffs. The moment she emerged, however, the conversation faltered.
Cullen turned toward her—and his breath caught.
He had thought himself prepared—had known, in some distant part of his mind, that she would be dressed for the occasion. But he had not expected this.
The gown was devastating.
Deep midnight blue silk shimmered with every movement, sculpted to her frame in a way that was both effortless and unfair. The low neckline drew his gaze before he could stop himself, and Maker help him, his discipline abandoned him completely for the span of a heartbeat.
His eyes trailed over the elegant curve of her collarbone, the bare skin of her shoulders, before he forced himself to look up, Maker, only to find her watching him.
She arched a single brow.
A cough from his side broke the moment. Varric, arms crossed, was grinning. "Well, well, well," he drawled. "Looks like our Inquisitor's about to give all of Orlais something to talk about."
Dorian let out a low whistle. "Oh, they'll talk, amatus. They'll positively swoon. Grace, ma chérie, you are breathtaking." He stepped forward to examine her more closely, then flicked an appraising glance at Cullen. "And our dear commander appears to be experiencing… ah, some difficulties."
Cullen's jaw clenched. "I'm fine."
"You're staring," Dorian corrected, smirking.
"I'm assessing," Cullen said stiffly. "Making sure she can move freely."
Grace let out a soft laugh, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "Something wrong, Commander? Remember to address that during the training session, will you?"
Cassandra rolled her eyes and turned on her heel. "I'll be downstairs."
Josephine pressed her lips together, trying to stifle a smile. Leliana, ever the observer, simply hummed before setting out after Cassandra.
Varric clapped Cullen on the shoulder. "Good luck with that 'assessing,' Curly. Try not to forget how to speak."
Cullen shot him a glare, but it was pointless. His friends were thoroughly entertained.
He exhaled sharply, straightening. "We should go."
Grace nodded, her expression betraying a little disappointment as she turned toward the stairwell. Dorian offered his arm, which she took with a gracious smile, and Varric fell into step beside them, already making some quip about Orlesian intrigue as the seeker was too far already.
Cullen followed, his focus absolutely on the mission ahead. On security. On anything but the way her gown moved around her like mist, or the fact that every noble in that ballroom would soon see what he just had.
Maker help him. Tonight was going to be unbearable.
Before they reached the hall before the ballroom, she reluctantly let go of Dorian's arm. She walked at the front of their group, her steps steady despite the weight of a dozen unseen eyes watching. Behind her, Josephine carried herself with practiced poise, already prepared to weave through the tangled web of Orlesian politics with her usual grace.
Cassandra, however, had no patience for any of it. Her displeasure was as plain as the scowl on her face.
"I hate this place," she muttered under her breath.
"You hate all places with chandeliers," Varric replied, smirking as he took in the grand entrance hall. "And all people who wear masks for fun."
"Because it is ridiculous," Cassandra huffed, adjusting the vambrace on her arm. "How is one to have an honest conversation when no one shows their true face?"
"Ah, but that's the point, Seeker." Dorian, walking beside her, gave an exaggerated sigh. "An honest conversation in Halamshiral is the last thing anyone wants. If a noble actually tells you the truth, it's either a grave mistake or a trap."
Grace bit back a smile as Cassandra's expression darkened. Cullen just followed them silently assessing their surroundings.
The royal ball was in full swing, and the room was a glittering display of silks, jewels, and carefully measured smiles. Leliana, ever the spymaster, moved like a shadow in silk, her gaze flicking from noble to noble, no doubt reading their secrets in the way they held their wine glasses.
Gaspard stood close to the main door, his presence commanding, flanked by nobles who laughed a little too eagerly at his words.
When he spotted them, his expression lit with satisfaction. "Ah, Inquisitor," he called, voice carrying easily over the din. He spread his arms as though welcoming an old friend, though everyone in the room knew better. "I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost on the way in."
"Hardly," Grace replied smoothly, tilting her head with the ghost of a smile. "Though I do appreciate your concern, Your Grace."
His grin widened. "Concern? No, no, my dear Inquisitor. Merely anticipation. All of Orlais is watching tonight. Shall we give them a show?"
Grace met his gaze, her own unreadable, carefully glancing at Cullen, who seemed to be grinding his teeth, his jaw tense and clenched. His expression darkened a notch glanced towards the duke's hand resting on the small of her back as he turned towards the ballroom to make an entrance. Josephine cleaned her throat tersely and Cullen straightened again, exhaling and taking a step behind the pair.
The court was waiting. The chessboard was set.
And Gaspard had just made his first move.
——-
Ding… the bell tolled for the first time, signaling the beginning of the evening's elaborate program, before the peace talks officially commenced.
Grace and her party had just made an unexpected acquaintance in the Game—a dark-haired mage named Morrigan, who introduced herself as a courtly advisor to Her Grace, Empress Celene. To their surprise, Morrigan pointed them toward their first important lead in a looming assassination plot against the Empress.
As the puzzle pieces began to fall into place, Grace learned that elven servants were somehow involved, united under the Empress's former spymaster, Briala. After the brief exchange, Grace returned to the ballroom, quickly debriefing Leliana. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for Josephine and Cullen.
To her surprise, Cullen was surrounded by a group of Orlesian nobles, both men and women, their voices rising and falling in conversation around him. A sharp pang of jealousy gripped her heart. Was he truly comfortable enough to mingle? He wasn't obligated to keep to himself, of course, but was it really necessary to be caught up in such a crowd?
The announcer's voice rang out, welcoming the noble ballet from Val Royeaux to take the floor. The nobles scrambled for the best viewing spots along the railing, leaving Cullen momentarily alone. Grace's gaze locked with his as he scanned the room once more, and when their eyes met, it was as though the rest of the ballroom faded away. Her heart beat faster in her chest.
She moved toward him, her gown flowing like an approaching storm. She cleared her throat, nervous but trying to mask it. "So… you've attracted a crowd. Who are all these people?" she asked, her tone hesitant.
Cullen cleared his throat and stepped closer to her, lowering his voice for discretion. "Maker, I have no idea. They just won't leave me alone."
"Oh. Well, it's probably all part of the game," she said, trying to shrug it off.
"I'd prefer to do my job without distractions," he replied, his tone laced with frustration.
"Tell me about it," she scoffed softly, leaning ever so slightly into his arm, seeking a bit of comfort in the familiar closeness.
"Speaking of distractions—care to save me a dance later?" she asked, her voice steady but betraying a hint of nervousness as her heart raced.
"No, thank you," Cullen responded too quickly, a flush of embarrassment rising to his cheeks.
Grace's stomach sank. There's your answer, Ella. She swallowed the sting of disappointment and dropped her gaze to her hands. "Oh… I see. Sorry…"
"No, Maker's breath, that's not what I meant…" Cullen exhaled sharply, regret flashing across his features. "I've turned down so many already that it became an automatic response…" He sighed, clearly struggling with his words. "What I meant is… I'm not much for dancing. Templars don't attend balls."
Grace's lips twisted into a tight, forced smile, trying to mask the painful pang of rejection. There you go. Turned down again, Ella. Good job. "Well. I suppose mages didn't either. My mother, though…" She forced a grin, uneasy. "She always found a way to parade me around as her little enchanter daughter."
A quiet, awkward silence stretched between them. Neither spoke for a moment, and Grace could feel the weight of the situation hanging heavily in the air. Finally, she broke the silence, her voice awkward as she forced a nonchalant tone. "I'll leave you to your admirers, then…"
Cullen gave her a sad smile, his gaze lingering on her for a moment before he replied. "Oh, yes. Back to work."
———-
"Grace huffed, arms crossed tightly as she surveyed the Orlesian gardens. The steady hum of courtly gossip and the rustling of skirts was beginning to get on her nerves. Dorian, of course, had no problem with any of it—he was too busy enjoying himself.
"No, what I'm telling you, Dorian, is that he straight-up refused," she said, her Silent voice laced with frustration.
"Oh, come on, Gracie," Dorian teased, clearly relishing the chance to provoke her. "He must be nervous. Look at you. You're like a force of nature. It's no wonder he's a little intimidated, and with all those nobles salivating about at least a glimpse of you… Who could blame him?"
Grace shot him a glare. "Are you daft? Is this about the damn bets again?" She was fighting the urge to throw something at him or at least zap him with a little spark of lightning.
Dorian grinned, unbothered by her sharp tone. "I'm telling you, sweetheart, he's interested."
She snapped her attention back to the gardens, not really seeing anything. "You don't know that. Do you even know anything about him?!" The words were harsher than she intended, but the thought of Cullen being involved in whatever this was felt like territory Grace didn't want to explore, especially not here, not now.
Dorian's expression softened, though the playful gleam didn't fade from his eyes. "I know you, Gracie. And I know how you look when you're trying to convince yourself something doesn't matter. Don't sell yourself short. Maybe the Commander's just as confused as you are."
Her stomach twisted at the thought. The idea that Cullen might actually have some interest in her never really crossed her mind—not like that. But there had been hints. The way he'd spoken to her when they were alone, his concern when she was injured, the brief moments where his eyes lingered longer than they should have.
Grace exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples in a bid to distract herself. "I can't think about this now. We're here to prevent a crisis, not… whatever that is." She gestured vaguely toward the ball beyond the gardens. Cullen was somewhere in there, no doubt surrounded by Orlesian nobility, doing his duty as always. He wasn't even looking at her like that. And even if he was, the idea was asinine.
Dorian leaned in a little closer, lowering his voice. "Just don't ignore it, Grace. You know what you feel."
"I am not allowed to feel th-…," she snapped back quickly, trying to push the heat rising to her cheeks down into her stomach. "What I feel is the weight of the world on my shoulders, Dorian. You have no idea what it's like to—"
She stopped herself. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. She was the one who kept bottling things up, convinced that emotions could be set aside for later, that everything could wait until after they deal with… whatever this all was. After the world was safe.
Dorian studied her for a moment before sighing dramatically. "Alright, alright. Just know that I'll be here when you inevitably admit that you've got a lot of work to do when it comes to figuring out that handsome commander of yours."
Grace shook her head, not sure if she was relieved or irritated by Dorian's teasing. "Whatever, Dorian. But for now, I'm going to focus on the mission. I don't have more time for… this. And I wish to retain at least a smidge of dignity…"
"Of course you don't," Dorian said smoothly, stepping away. "But just know, I'll be waiting for the day when you finally let yourself feel something other than responsibility."
———-
Ding….ding… the bell tolled again, marking the nearing start of the peace talks.
The distant echoes of music and murmurs of the court filled the corridors as Grace rushed back to the ballroom, her footsteps steady, though her mind raced.
The weight of the evening's revelations still pressed heavily on her—what a show indeed.
Gaspard's ambitions were only a fraction of the treacherous schemes unfolding behind the scenes. The plot to assassinate Empress Celene wasn't just a political move orchestrated by Gaspard; it had been masterminded by his own sister, Duchess Florianne du Chalons, who had deeper ties to the Venatori than anyone had suspected. Grace sighed. Just how many things can one person set straight during one evening?
Grace's gown, midnight blue and shimmering with silver filigree, brushed against the stone floor as she passed through the palace's lavish hallways.
They had only just returned from the remote wing of the palace where Florianne's involvement in the conspiracy came into light.
Well… they revealed themselves rather brightly, when Florianne's lackeyes opened a Fade rift, while summoning a considerable amount of demons, thinking it would stop Grace and her team. The time had come to act, and it would be in full view of the court.
The peace talks were to begin soon, and Grace had one final task to complete before the night's proceedings. Her heart beat with anticipation, but she pushed aside the nerves that threatened to surface. She was ready. The plan had been set, and now, the pieces would fall into place.
When the Duchess was finally in cuffs and escorted away, Empress Celene gestured for Grace to approach, her regal composure softened by a genuine look of gratitude. "Inquisitor," she said, her voice a rare mixture of appreciation and respect, "I cannot thank you enough. You've saved me from a fate I couldn't have imagined."
Grace inclined her head, her expression cool but not without warmth. "It's not just me, Your Majesty. The Inquisition did."
"And we owe you," Celene replied. Her gaze softened further, a flicker of something personal shimmering in her eyes as she nodded toward a side balcony, away from the growing festivities. They walked in silence, the noise of the court fading behind them.
"I've been thinking," Celene began, her tone contemplative. "About Briala. Perhaps it's time I listen to my heart, as you suggested."
Grace smiled faintly, relieved to see the Empress acknowledging the truth of her feelings for her spymaster. "You truly deserve to follow your heart, Your Majesty. Briala is loyal, and you deserve someone who understands you."
Celene's gaze lingered on Grace for a moment longer, a silent understanding passing between them. "Thank you, Inquisitor. For everything. When the time comes, count on Orlais as your ally."
As the Empress left, Grace found herself momentarily lost in the distant swirl of music and voices, the weight of the evening's revelations still lingering. The Empress was safe, Morrigan had announced she'll be coming to Skyhold with them, and the traitor had been exposed—but none of that seemed to ease the ache in her chest as she briefly remembered the obvious relief and love between Briala and Celene. At least someone got their happy ending…
She leaned on the balcony railing, gazing out at the garden, trying to steady her breathing, but her pulse quickened nonetheless as she heard familiar footsteps approaching. She knew, without a doubt, that if she turned around, her eyes would lock with those warm amber ones. Cullen. The thought alone sent a jolt through her body.
Now if this isn't ironic…
She had barely seen him tonight, caught up in the whirlwind of the evening. He had been distant, surrounded by the court's nobility, deflecting flirtations from eager women and men alike, always with that calm, composed demeanor of his.
Then there was his refusal, which stung more than she wished to admit right now.
But there had also been moments when she caught his gaze, moments that lingered far longer than they should have. Moments that made her ache with something she couldn't quite name.
Then, a soft, deliberate "Ahem" broke through her thoughts. The air seemed to shift around her as she felt him approach, felt the heat of his presence. Her heart thudded in her chest.
"There you are," Cullen said quietly, his voice low, laced with something that made her pulse race. "Are you… okay? Everyone's been looking for you."
Grace let out a sigh, her lips curving into a wry smile. "Yes… I think I needed a moment to breathe," she said, trying to steady herself as she realized he had leaned against the railing beside her. Their arms brushed, just barely, and the touch sent a shiver down her spine. She glanced at him, and their eyes met—too much unsaid, too much shared in that brief look. "It was a lot. Again. Why am I still surprised?"
Cullen's hand reached out, resting on hers, and the weight of it was enough to make her heart skip. His voice was softer, more vulnerable than usual. "I get that… This whole evening kept me on edge too. I know it's foolish, but I've been worried for you tonight."
Her breath caught at the tenderness in his voice, the warmth of his hand, and she couldn't stop herself from turning toward him fully. He was standing there, gathering his courage, like he was on the edge of something monumental. The tension between them was palpable, thick, almost suffocating.
"I may never have a chance like this again," Cullen murmured, his voice quieter, almost hesitant as he took a small step back and gave a courtly bow. "May I have this dance, my lady?"
Surprise flooded Grace, unexpected and sudden. "Of course!" she mumbled, her voice a little breathless. "I thought you didn't dance…"
"Oh, I don't," he replied with a small, almost teasing smile, "but for you, I'll try."
He reached for her, and when his arms wrapped around her, a bolt of heat shot through her. They moved together in the slow rhythm of the music, their bodies barely brushing, but it felt like more than enough. Grace's heart fluttered, her thoughts scattered. She had never felt more alive, more aware of every tiny movement, every brush of skin. Every second of being in his arms was a danger, a temptation she knew she couldn't resist.
The silence between them was filled with unspoken words and the weight of what could be. But then Grace spoke, her voice teasing, though it came out softer than she intended. "So, how is your little fanclub?"
Cullen scoffed, the sound rich with irony. "Yes, the nobles…" He sighed, his voice lowering, turning velvety. "Well, if I wasn't clear enough… I don't particularly enjoy their attention. And anyway," he leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear, "yours is the only one worth having."
Her breath hitched at the closeness and his unexpected confession, and she instinctively stepped a little closer, inhaling his scent, that intoxicating mixture of leather and something undeniably him.
Is this really happening? Or I might have just hit my head somewhere and this is a delirious fantasy…
She tilted her head, hiding her face in the space underneath his collarbone, unable to stop herself from savoring the feel of him, the moment. Then she lifted her eyes to meet his, and everything else—the ball, the court, the entire world—faded away. It was just the two of them now.
Whatever this is? I don't care. I just want…
"Well," she said, her voice a little shaky but her smirk playful, "you surely have it now, Commander." She couldn't quite hide the nervous flutter in her chest, and she was grateful he was holding her, because she feared her knees might give out.
Cullen's lips quirked into a soft smile, his gaze intense and searching. "Yes," he murmured, as though the moment had stretched on far longer than either of them expected. "I suppose I do." He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then his voice lowered, soft and genuine. "Have I told you how beautiful you look tonight?"
Grace's heart skipped. "Because I would be a complete fool if I hadn't. You are…" He swallowed, his gaze steady but full of reverence as he gently squeezed her hand. "Astonishing."
A warmth spread across Grace's cheeks at his words, and despite the danger of it, she let herself be vulnerable for just a moment longer, allowing herself to lean closer, her eyes never leaving his.
"You don't look half bad yourself," she teased, glancing at his perfectly fitted uniform. It complemented her gown so well… they'd been tailored for one another after all. "It's nice seeing you without the armor for once. You certainly clean up nicely."
He chuckled softly, his eyes bright with something akin to disbelief, and for a moment, there was nothing but the quiet sound of their dance, the delicate music swirling around them. The tension, the yearning, began to thicken between them, fragile but undeniable. They were so close now, so aware of each other, that Grace thought for a moment that they might collapse into each other completely—if only for a single, perfect moment. It was worth every second.
As the final notes of the song echoed through the ballroom, Grace reluctantly stepped away from Cullen, the space between them suddenly feeling much too large. The air seemed to cool in her absence, and her pulse still raced with the memory of their closeness. She gave him a fleeting glance.
Cullen hesitated for half a breath before his fingers brushed lightly against hers—a touch so brief it might have been an accident.
"You ready to go back?" he murmured, his voice lower than before, as though he, too, was reluctant to let the moment end.
Grace exhaled sharply, a half-smile on her lips. "Not in the slightest. But we probably should."
She chuckled, and he huffed a quiet laugh in return, his expression softening. With a slight bow, he offered her his arm, and she took it without hesitation, her smile turning radiant.
——
Together, they rejoined the revelry, the pulse of the ball shifting into something faster, livelier. Nobles shed some of their rigid composure, their movements growing looser, laughter freer. Grace and Cullen danced again, moving easily in sync, a silent understanding between them. To Cullen's quiet satisfaction, none of the nobles dared to approach them now, as if they had finally understood what had been obvious from the start.
Good, he thought. The possessiveness of it should have alarmed him, but it didn't. She is mine, at least for tonight.
The weight of the evening had shifted. The charged undercurrent between them had been there since the balcony, growing with every step, every shared glance. Now it hummed between them, undeniable.
When the music slowed, Grace led him from the floor, weaving through the remaining guests toward a quieter corner where servers moved among the dwindling crowd with trays of wine. The air had changed. The carefully curated masks of Orlesian nobility were beginning to slip, dulled by alcohol and something more primal, something rawer. Laughter was louder, flirtations bolder, and Grace could feel the atmosphere pressing in on her shoulders.
Cullen remained close beside her, his presence grounding even as it sent sparks along her skin. One by one, their friends began to slip away—Dorian vanishing without a trace, Varric having long since excused himself, his laughter fading into the shadows of the palace. Cassandra and Josephine were next, leaving only Grace and Cullen standing amidst the fading revelry.
Silence settled between them—not awkward for once, but weighted.
Cullen turned to her, something unreadable in his gaze, his golden eyes still dark from the dance. He hesitated only a moment before speaking.
"Would you allow me the honor of walking you to your quarters?" His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it, something deeper.
Grace studied him for a moment, her heart beating too fast. "I'd like that."
The words left her softer than she intended, but she meant them. She cast a glance back at the ballroom, still pulsing with music and motion, before meeting his gaze again. "I think I've had enough of Orlesian chaos for one night."
His smile was small but warm as he offered his arm, and without another word, they stepped away from the last of the celebration. Their footsteps echoed through the grand halls, the palace lanterns casting soft pools of light along their path.
It was just the two of them now, walking side by side in silence that wasn't quite comfortable, but wasn't uneasy either. It remained expectant—like something unsaid hovered just beyond reach.
Grace stole another glance at him, lips twitching with amusement. "So," she began lightly, "how are you enjoying your night without all the armor?"
Cullen let out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. "Strange. I feel a bit… disarmed." Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Especially around you."
She arched an eyebrow. "Defenseless, are you? I never imagined the mighty Cullen Rutherford would admit such a thing in the presence of a mere mage."
"I've learned not to underestimate any woman," he said, voice rich with something that sent a shiver down her spine. "Especially not one who can vaporize her enemies with a thought."
Grace laughed softly, shaking her head. "Flattery, Commander? I never took you for one to resort to that. Would that be a part of your training too?"
"I don't," he said simply. "But I see no reason to deny the truth. And as for it being a part of the training… well that depends on many things."
Something flickered between them then—something dangerously close to a confession. But before she could dwell on it, he added, "Besides, I wasn't the only one surprising tonight."
She shot him a knowing look. "Oh? And what exactly did I do that was so unexpected?"
"You danced with me." His smile was small but real. "Twice. Even after I rudely refused earlier."
Grace smirked. "And I actually enjoyed it. Not the refusal though… Still, here I thought I was the one with a bigger lesson count."
His gaze lingered on her as they walked. "Maybe I just needed the right partner."
Her breath caught, her steps faltering for just a moment. But she recovered quickly, tilting her head in playful scrutiny. "Is that so?"
His lips twitched. "Mm. And I suspect I'll be held to impossibly high standards now."
"Well, naturally."
Cullen exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "It's been… a memorable night."
Her expression softened, teasing, giving way to a quieter response. "Memorable, yes."
Their steps slowed the pace as they reached a dimly lit alcove near her quarters, turning to face him fully. A wicked smirk tugged at her lips. "You're sure it's not just the dress talking, Commander? I'd hate to be the cause of any rash judgments. And I definitely won't be training in those."
His gaze swept over her—not in the way the Orlesians had done, assessing and appraising, but with something that made heat slowly rise in her core, something so intensive it was scary.
"If anything," he murmured, "I'm more certain than ever of my judgment."
Grace's breath caught at his words, and the playful banter between them suddenly felt all too real, all too charged.
She took a step closer, just enough to feel the warmth radiating from him again. They were close now, close enough that she saw each of the golden and amber streaks and flecks in his warm eyes.
"Well then," she said softly, "I must say, you've been quite the surprise yourself."
Cullen didn't move away. If anything, he leaned in ever so slightly, voice low. "Good or bad?"
"Good," she admitted. "Better than I expected."
Something in his expression shifted. His voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke again.
"I'll admit," he said, "I never imagined I'd be so… captivated by someone who makes even the simplest moments feel like something more."
Grace swallowed, the intensity of his words curling around her ribs like a vice. Their breath mingling in the cool night air. And for the first time, maybe encouraged by the chaos they've just endured, Cullen didn't look away.
Grace swallowed, a flutter of hope stirring in her chest. They were so close now, a flare of anticipation now thrumming in the space between them each passing second.
She could feel Cullen's warmth, the sheer presence of him like a tether, luring her impossibly closer with every breath. The air between them was electric, thick with all the restraint that had been stretched to its limits.
She was done pretending—done playing at propriety when every inch of her screamed for him.
Fuck reason. Her inner voice turned hazy and desperate. Fuck reason to the Black City and back. She was about to do the thing she knew best. To recklessly shove.
"You know, Cullen," she murmured, voice lower now, almost daring, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his uniform. "I've always thought of you as a man of discipline. But you're slipping. I can see the cracks."
Cullen exhaled sharply, the challenge in her words striking deep, his composure faltering at the edges. His amber gaze darkened, something raw flickering to life beneath the surface.
"Is that so?" he asked, voice dangerously soft. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, the touch barely there—but it sent a shiver through her all the same. "And what exactly do you think you see?"
Grace smirked, tilting her head just slightly, just enough to lean into the touch. "Oh, I think I've only scratched the surface."
A question and a challenge rose in her eyes as she pressed closer against him. "So, Commander, tell me… how far does that really go? What would it take for you to really lose control?"
The teasing lilt in her voice was meant to push him, and she saw the exact moment it worked. The fire in his eyes flared hotter, and something inside him—something he'd kept carefully restrained—finally cracked.
Without another word, Cullen moved, a deep hint of a growl leaving his lips.
His hand gripped her waist, pulling her against him with a force that stole her breath. Before she could react, he backed her up against the cold stone of the alcove, his body bracketing hers as his lips crashed onto hers, swallowing her silent surprised gasp.
It was fierce, hungry—raw, in a way that left no room for hesitation. He kissed her like a man starved, his lips demanding, hands moving as though he couldn't get close enough. A soft moan escaped her lips, her body melting into his, every nerve lighting up at the intensity of it.
Yes. Yes. Yes…
She was dizzy with the taste of him, the heat of him, the way his arms held her, pinning her to him in a way that felt as possessive as it did desperate.
Her fingers found their way into his hair, tugging him closer as she kissed him back with equal urgency, matching the raw intensity he brought to it. The teasing banter, the careful remarks—they were all forgotten now, buried beneath the storm that was raging between them.
Cullen groaned against her lips, the sound rough and barely restrained, and his hands slid down to her hips, fingers tightening as if grounding himself. He tore his lips from hers, his breath ragged as he pressed his forehead against hers.
"You have no idea what you do to me, Grace," he murmured, voice low and hoarse.
Grace, equally breathless, let her fingers trace along his jaw, her smirk softer now but no less teasing. "Maybe I do," she whispered, voice barely above a breath. "Maybe you do the same to me..."
His fingers flexed against her waist, a muscle in his jaw tightening. "Maker help me, if I had any sense left, I'd walk away now."
She leaned in, lips ghosting over his. "Then it's a good thing I never thought of you as particularly sensible when it comes to me."
He huffed a laugh—hoarse, incredulous—and before she could say another word, his lips were on hers again.
This kiss was different. Still desperate, still filled with that same hunger, but slower now—like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, the feel of her. His hands roamed over her waist, the curve of her back, pulling her flush against him, sliding up and up to caress he. She could feel the tension in his body, the walls crumbling further with every second.
They stood there, tucked in the quiet alcove, the world around them forgotten—just the two of them, frantic hands and dancing tongues, caught in the electric tension they'd both spent too long ignoring.
Cullen's hand found its way to the back of her neck, caressing her hair along the way he ended up cupping her cheek with such tenderness it made her heart clench. His voice a husky whisper As his thumb slid against her soft skin. "Grace…" he began, but his words were swallowed by the pull between them, their breaths mingling hastily.
"Shh… Let's not…" she murmured, her lips brushing against his in a barely-there touch, as if testing the ground.
And in that moment, the game of restraint and longing was finally done.
Grace felt her pulse race as Cullen's lips crashed into hers once more. There was nothing gentle about it; the kiss was raw, urgent, a release of all the tension that had been building between them. Her back hit the cold stone wall of the alcove again with a soft thud as Cullen pushed her into it, his hands gripping her waist and sliding lower, gripping her ass through her dress, holding her as if he never wanted to let her go.
The intensity of the kiss left her breathless, her hands gripping the fabric of his uniform as she pulled him closer, both groaning quietly as if the distance between them had been unbearable. His lips were hot against hers, desperate and commanding, and she met every kiss with the same fervor, deepening it, losing herself in the sensation of him, the heat of his body pressed against hers in contrast with the cold wall.
His hands roamed over her body, firm and unrelenting, tracing the curves of her waist and hips. She could feel the tension in him, the restraint, but it was slipping away, piece by piece. She tugged him impossibly closer, feeling his breath hitch again against her lips, feeling the power of the moment in every touch, every second.
Cullen's mouth moved down her neck, his breath hot against her skin. A silent moan escaped her lips at the feel of his mouth against the sensitive spot just beneath her ear, her body arching towards him instinctively. "Cullen," she breathed, her voice rough with desire. "Maker, please, don't stop."
He groaned at hearing his name on her lips, the sound vibrating against her skin, and his grip on her hips tightened. His body was taut, muscles coiled as if every instinct in him was telling him to give in.
Cullen wedged his thigh between her legs, his hands roamed to the curve of her ass yet again, then found their way to brush just underneath the swell of her breasts, fingers brushing the delicate bodice and the lacing as he pulled her even closer, groaning again. She could feel the pounding of his heart beneath his chest, mirroring her own frantic pulse.
As she tilted her head to the side, her lips seeking him once more, her body arched against him, using the stone wall as a leverage, seeking at least tiniest friction to ease the ache now pooling between her legs, molten and wet, the raw heat between them building to an almost unbearable intensity. She could feel the tension in his body, the remnants of restraint breaking with each brush of his lips, each barely noticeable grind of his hips against her. She felt his considerable length pressed against her lower belly. He was so hard it must've been painful. The thought left Grace gasping for air.
Cullen's hands tightened around her, pulling her flush against him, his lips never leaving hers.
Grace broke the kiss with a soft, breathless laugh, her heart hammering in her chest as she pressed a finger to his lips, urging him to stay silent. Her eyes met his for a moment, a deep, unspoken understanding passing between them. Without another word, she pushed lightly against his chest, guiding him toward her door, her hands moving with the grace of someone who knew exactly what she wanted.
The energy between them was charged, a storm that neither of them could fight. Cullen's breath was ragged as he backed away, each step deeper into the heat of the moment. His hands hovered near Grace, instinctively wanting to touch her again, but he stayed silent, his mind racing as he tried to steady his thoughts.
Her eyes were dark with yearning, and she couldn't pull her gaze away from him, the intensity between them overwhelming her.
Cullen let her guide him toward her door, his mind fogged with want, his pulse pounding in his ears. Every brush of her fingers against his uniform, every step closer to the threshold of her room, made restraint feel like a losing battle. When they stopped, standing in the dimly lit corridor with only the sound of their breath between them, he reached for her again.
This time, the kiss was different—softer, slower. As if he were trying to memorize the shape of her lips, the warmth of her, to make this moment last even as he fought against the pull to deepen it. Cullen pulled back ever so slightly, his lips barely an inch from hers, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.
His fingers trembled slightly where they rested at her waist now, sliding up and down in a reverent pace and he exhaled sharply, resting his forehead against hers.
"If I walk through that door, Grace" he murmured, his voice rough, barely above a whisper, "I'm afraid I won't be able to stay honourable. Not at all."
Grace's breath hitched, her hands tightening where they had curled against the front of his uniform. The yearning in his voice was a calling. She could still taste him on her lips, still feel the warmth of his body against hers, and for a moment, she almost told him to let go of whatever noble cause was holding him back.
But something in his eyes—dark with desire yet edged with reverence—stilled her.
She swallowed hard, pulling herself up on her tiptoes, pressing one last, lingering kiss to his lips—a slow, torturous drag of her mouth against his that had him exhaling a soft, shuddering breath against her lips.
"Goodnight, Commander," she whispered, her voice unsteady, breathy.
Cullen lingered just a heartbeat longer, then let out a long, slow breath and stepped away, running a hand through his hair as if to physically shake himself from the moment. He nodded, forcing himself to take a step toward his own door. "Goodnight, Inquisitor."
She hesitated before slipping inside her room, the door closing softly behind her.
Cullen stood there for a moment longer, staring at the closed door, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Then, with a sharp inhale, he turned and entered his own quarters alone, shutting the door with a quiet finality.
Alone in the suite, Cullen exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in sheer frustration.
It was going to be a long night.