That night, he arrived late.
The House of Thorns hummed with moans and music as he stalked its halls, boots echoing, cloak dripping with rain. Outside, Vharzys roared from the palace wall. The guards flinched. They no longer asked who he was.
He was their best patron.
And their worst nightmare.
He saw him then—a merchant. Fat. Ringed beard. Soft hands. Reaching for her door.
Maevor grinned.
"Lose thy cock or thy courage," he drawled, spinning his dagger, "but not both, aye?"
The man stammered, dropped coin, and fled with piss darkening his silks. Maevor stepped over the pouch like filth and entered without knocking.
And there she lay.
Sybella.
A dream dipped in sin.
No words. No welcome. Just as he knew it would be.
He dropped the gifts—black wine laced with whisperroot. Earrings carved from the bone of his brother's pet owl. And a royal cloak, crest of the High Council, stolen from the palace.
"I want thee to wear that whilst thou ridest me," he said, voice low, grin feral. "Let the court know where their authority's been—inside thy cunt and mouth."
He sat beside her, parted her thighs with his knee, gazing at her like it was the first day all over again.
"I tried another girl this week," he murmured, lips trailing her leg. "Red hair. Pretty manners. Moaned like a songbird. Had to cover her face with a pillow just to imagine she was thee. Still didn't work. Couldn't finish. Felt like I was cheating on my own cock."
He laughed. The sound was all teeth.
"Every cunt tastes wrong now. Thine ruined me."
He leaned over her, lips ghosting her throat, dipping to her breasts.
"I should buy thee."
His voice softened, twisted with wonder.
"Not for a night. Forever. I'll pay thy mistress in gold or blood. I'll take thee from this velvet cage and place thee on a throne beside me."
He grinned wider.
"Canst thou imagine it? Thee, seated on the crown seat, naked beneath the pearls they make princesses wear, legs spread whilst I fuck thee before the court. Watch the noble whores faint. Watch my brother weep. Gods, I'd do it for the poetry alone."
His hand tangled in her hair, lips brushing hers.
"Thou didst not run. Didst not cry when I showed thee the worst of me. Thou took my madness and made it thine."
He kissed her—deep, dirty, reverent.
"Thou art no whore, love."
He kissed her again.
"Thou art a whole religion."
And tonight, he would not leave without her.