She reached for the jade bracelet with the grace of a queen dressing for war—slipping it onto her wrist like it were armor. The green glinted against her skin, soft as moonlight on blood.
"I wager they know not," she murmured, voice velvet-laced and edged with steel, "that their prince is a bastard."
Her eyes met his through the mirror—unflinching, unbothered, unbowed.
"A royal heir," she continued, stroking his temple with slow, deliberate fingers, "slinking through the gutters to fuck a courtesan beneath the palace walls."
Maevor didn't speak.
He inhaled her scent like it was the last clean thing in a world built of ash. His arms tightened around her waist, possessive, silent. The ruby in his skull pulsed faintly, as if it too recognized her truth.
"Do what thou wilt," she whispered, combing through the strands of silver he'd once threaded through her fingers. "But I like it here."
She paused.
Felt the shift in him—the tension, the hunger, the quiet rage that always simmered beneath his skin.
"The whores here," she said, voice low, "have loose mouths. And Madame Ilvara… she'll go mad from it."
Maevor's grin was slow. Dangerous.
"Let her."
He pressed his lips to her shoulder, teeth grazing skin.
"Let them all choke on their gossip. Let them whisper crowned her in madness."
His voice dropped to a growl.
"I'll give them something worth screaming about."
He turned her then, gently but with force, until she faced him fully. His hand slid to her throat—not to harm, but to hold. To claim.
"Thou art not a secret," he said, eyes burning. "Thou art a prophecy."
She stared at him like he was a storm she'd already survived.
Her hand came to rest on his chest, fingers trailing down the ridges of old scars and fresh sin, until they found the knot at his cloak. She tugged it loose with a hush of silk and breath.
"Oh my," she whispered, voice dipped in mockery, "it seems the prince wants for a courtesan…"
Maevor didn't flinch.
He let her undo him—slowly, deliberately—like she was peeling back the layers of a god who bled for her alone. His armor clinked as she loosened it, piece by piece, until the black scales fell away and revealed the heat beneath.
"Don't speak that again," he growled, but his voice was already unraveling.
She smiled, wicked and soft, as her hand slid beneath the edge of his armor, tracing the lines of his stomach, lower still, until he clenched his jaw.
"Let's see," she murmured, "about me being not a secret but a prophecy…"
Her fingers danced like flame, teasing the edge of his control.
"You," she said, voice velvet-wrapped steel, "just focus on your royal blood and politics. A courtesan won't want to be dragged into that mess, no?"
She tipped her head, lips brushing his—soft, slow, devastating.
Maevor's breath hitched.
His hands found her hips, pulled her closer, until her thighs brushed the heat of him through his leathers. The ruby in his skull glowed faintly, pulsing with want.
"Thou speakest as if I would let thee go," he whispered against her mouth. "As if I would not burn the court to ash just to keep thee beside me."
She kissed him again, deeper this time, and he tasted defiance on her tongue.
"Then burn it," she said.