"Lord Veylan."
His name on her lips sent a spark through his veins. He inclined his head, matching her measured tone. "Lady Myhra."
A beat. Then—
"Oh, my apologies," he murmured, the words smooth as the silk of his cravat. Veylan's fingers lingered on the stem of a blood rose as he offered it to Myhra as his correction, the thorns biting into his skin just enough to draw a single bead of crimson. His lips curved in that practiced, disarming smile that made courtiers swoon. "It's Commander Myhra now, isn't it?"
The title rolled off his tongue with deliberate slowness, as if savoring the taste. His gaze flickered over her, lingering on the silver insignia at her collar, the absence of the cadet braids she'd once worn.
