Her kiss was fleeting—like a promise whispered before war.
"Burn it for me," she breathed against his lips, voice soft as silk and sharp as prophecy. "From inside out… even the nobles, so they won't dare look at the whore the prince chose."
The words weren't just suggestion.
They were scripture.
A coup wrapped in lace. A coronation soaked in blood.
Maevor's breath hitched, and then he moved—fast, brutal, reverent. He pulled her up, legs wrapping around his waist like she belonged there, like her body had been carved to fit the ache in his. He set her atop the mirror desk, the wood groaning beneath them, and ground his rage into her hips like he could fuck the rebellion into existence.
His mouth found her neck, nuzzling, biting, breathing her in like she was the last clean thing in a world built of ash.
"Thou speakest treason," he growled, voice low and trembling with want. "And I would carve it into the walls of the palace if it came from thy mouth."
She tipped her head back, exposing the curve of her throat like an offering.
"Prince," she whispered, teasing, dangerous, "it's only but a suggestion…"
He laughed then—dark and unholy.
"Aye. And I am thy sword."
His hands slid beneath her thighs, fingers bruising, claiming. The ruby in his skull glowed like a second sun, casting red light across her skin.
"I'll burn the court," he murmured, lips trailing fire down her collarbone. "I'll bleed the emperor. I'll make the nobles kneel before thee and beg forgiveness for ever calling thee whore."
He thrust against her, slow and deliberate, grinding the weight of his madness into her bones.
"Thou art no whore," he whispered, voice cracking with reverence. "Thou art my ruin."
She drew in a breath like it was the first taste of war.
Her hands gripped his biceps, nails biting into flesh as she leveraged herself between his arms—his body caging hers, his breath hot against her cheek. The mirror behind her caught the glint of ruby in his skull, casting red light across her bare thighs.
"I want power," she whispered, voice like velvet dragged across a blade. "And coin enough to make the prince kneel before the royal court."
Her lips brushed his jaw, soft and mocking, and he twitched—just once. A vein pulsed in his neck, rage and want tangled in silence.
Then his hand slid between her legs.
Slow.
Deliberate.
A worshipful desecration.
She gasped, the sound slipping from her lips like a prayer half-remembered, as his fingers traced the heat of her inner thighs—bare, slick, waiting.
"Thou speakest like a queen," he murmured, voice low and trembling with reverence. "And I kneel only for thee."
His mouth found her throat, nuzzling, biting, breathing her in like the ash of enemies after war. His fingers teased her folds, slow and cruel, as if her pleasure were a ritual he refused to rush.
"I'll give thee power," he growled, lips trailing fire across her collarbone. "Gold enough to drown a duchess. Blood enough to silence the court."
She arched into him, legs tightening around his waist, grinding against the ache he pressed into her.
"Then do it," she whispered, voice cracking with want. "Burn the crown. Bleed the nobles. Make me sovereign in silk and sin."
Maevor's eyes burned.