A tremble in her hand. Zechariah’s hand lifted from hers. He glanced to her, though it was a look of calculation rather than regret. She was just a girl, caught up in games over her head. His hand started to draw back.

A knee pressed into his, and his arm halted its retreat. Of course she was easy. She was a Ward, she was already pregnant, and she was hardly even of age to marry. His lips peeled back in a smirk as his hand glanced over hers once more. He guided her fingers through one repetition, cologne thick with the shift of his arm.

“Yes,” he murmured with a rumble of underlying laughter, eyes alight with mischief. “Just like that, Alice.”

Then he drew his hand back and put some distance between them, though his knee was still nearly close enough to touch.

“Three of those, on your own.”