Tristan stared at Ivy as she walked in.
She had clearly bathed—her skin warm and faintly flushed from the heat. Her hair was still damp at the ends, brushed back to reveal the sharp, delicate angles of her face. Without makeup, she looked younger, but not in that helpless, fragile way noblewomen strived for. No—she looked fresh. Calm. Sure of herself.
Most women he knew wouldn't dare show up barefaced to their husband's bed on the wedding night. But Ivy? She stood there in a thin nightgown that was practically nothing and a half-open robe like it didn't matter. As if to say: take me or leave me, either way, I'll be fine.
"You trying to bore a hole in me with your eyes or something, husband?" she asked, one brow arched.
Tristan cleared his throat, his lips twitching. "I didn't expect you to actually come."
Ivy made her way to the table set with food, plucked a grape, and popped it into her mouth. "Why not?" she said, peeling a banana slowly, her voice lazy. "We are married, after all."
"We literally just met."
She walked toward him in slow, deliberate steps. The robe slipped off one shoulder, revealing the lace of her nightdress. "So?" she said, voice soft as velvet. "You heard the Crown Prince. The marriage can still be annulled… as long as we don't consummate it."
Her fingers trailed along the back of a chair as she stepped closer. "And your dear brother who just so happens to be the king would love that. He wanted Ravenshield blood in the family—but not through you, apparently."
Tristan's jaw tightened. "Well, my brother can't do anything about it now can he?"
Ivy hummed, like she didn't quite agree. "You say that…" she leaned forward, plucking a single rose petal off the bed and rolling it between her fingers, "…but I think you know better."
She stopped in front of him. He was seated at the edge of the bed, but she leaned down, fingers grazing his shoulder, and whispered near his ear, "Unless… of course… you're not attracted to me?"
Tristan's voice was low. "Ivy."
It wasn't like him to be affected by a woman's touch, especially on he just met.
"Mm. That doesn't sound like a no." She leaned forward, brushing her lips just shy of his. "They told me not to eat before the wedding night. Some tradition thing. But I'm starving, husband." Her hand slipped beneath the collar of his shirt. "Will you let me eat, husband?."
Tristan sucked in a quiet breath. What was wrong with him?
"You don't have to do this," he said.
"Of course, I don't. But I want to..." she replied, fingers trailing down his chest.
She straddled his lap with a quiet grace, her hands working at his shirt's buttons. "Unless you want me to stop…"
His hands caught her waist—gentle but firm.
"Ivy," he said again, a little breathless now, "this isn't how I imagined tonight going."
"Oh?" she whispered, lips close. "And how did you imagine it, Your Highness?"
He didn't answer.
So she kissed him.
Soft at first, teasing. Then deeper—daring. Her hands tangled in his shirt, her body pressed against his.
He let her.
He let her pull him back onto the bed, let her mouth explore his—but then—
His grip tightened at her waist.
He sat up, lifted her gently off his lap, and set her beside him.
"We can't."
Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "Can't? Or won't?"
She glanced at the evidence of his arousal, then back at him. "Why stop if you clearly want it?"
Tristan's tone was dry. "This is just a normal reaction."
Ivy leaned back on the bed, arm tucked under her head. "Fine. I'll behave. For now."
He got up and walked toward the window, cigar in hand. once at the window he lit it.
Behind him, Ivy muttered, "You know, you're really hard to seduce for someone so pretty."
He paused. did she just call him pretty. He turned to look at her.
She sighed dramatically. "Next time, then."
Then, suddenly: "But we'll still need to set the scene."
Tristan's expression turned wary. "What scene?"
"The one that says we did it." She said it like it's normal then she called for Anya.
Moments later, Anya entered and immediately froze. Ivy's robe was slipping off her shoulder, and Tristan's shirt hung open. Both looked… disheveled.
Anya blushed furiously. "Oh… My Lady, you're quick."
Ivy smirked. "Bring me some eggs and milk."
Anya blinked. "You're… craving that? Now?"
Ivy chuckled. "Raw eggs, please."
Anya looked alarmed. "I… I don't think I want to know."
Ivy chuckled, "Make sure no one sees you. Okay?" Anya gave her a thumbs up the left.
Once she left, Tristan gave Ivy a sideways look. "What do you need those for?"
"You'll see." she smiled mischievously.
Anya returned with the goods, glancing at them like she was walking in on a crime scene, then left again.
Tristan groaned. "I don't even want to know what she thinks we're doing with that."
"She was giving you the strangest look," Ivy said, laughing.
Then she got to work.
She cracked the eggs into a bowl, separated the yolks, added just enough milk to make the whites cloudy.
"Tell me this doesn't look like the real thing."
He blinked. "The real wh—"
"Semen," she said cheerfully.
Tristan nearly choked.
"Why do you know how to make this?"
"Better if you don't ask," she said, grinning.
He stared. It actually looked… convincing. Too convincing. Why does she know how to make it? No, better question, why does she know what the real thing looks like.
Then she jumped on the bed.
"What are you doing now?"
"Messing it up, obviously." She rolled and twisted, making the sheets look thoroughly ravished.
Satisfied, she stopped.
"How soundproof is this room?" she asked.
"Pretty good," he answered, confused.
"Shame. Would've loved to hear you moan, you know, just to make it convincing."
"What?"
"Anyway—let's work up a sweat. we need to look the part, don't you think?"
"Doing what?"
"Exercise. Unless you've got a better way to break a sweat with me, husband." She said her tone suggesting.
They did normal work out. By the end of it, they were both panting.
Tristan was impressed by how long it took her to work up a sweat. Most noble ladies would have been sweating by just the first five minutes.
Ivy, on the other hand, was frustrated by her body's limits. This body wasn't built like Ivy Reed's had been. A measly thirty-minute workout had her panting like she had run a marathon.
Still, she wiped the sweat from her forehead. "Perfect. Time to add the final touch."
She poured the egg mixture across the bed and admired her work like it was a masterpiece.
Tristan eyed the mess, then eyed her. "Why go through all this? No one's going to see—"
She smirked. "Who said no one would see?"
He frowned, 'What do you mean?" she smiled, "You don't expect us to sleep on that, do you? Of course not. We're not done setting the scene."
Then she turned to him—and ripped his shirt open. Buttons scattered to the floor.
She paused, eyes slowly trailing down his chest. Her fingers reached out, touched his muscles, lingering on his abs.
He flinched. "What are you—"
"Nothing," she said, not even pretending to hide her smile.
I'm going to sleep with this man one way or another, she thought.
Then—rip.
Her dress split at the chest.
Tristan turned away so fast it was a miracle he didn't pull something. "What are you—?!"
"Oh, come on. Get used to seeing me naked. We're married."
He was speechless. She wasn't wrong, but at the same time not quite right. Most noble women are known for their modesty even before their husbands. The only time their husbands get to see them naked is when love making.
She pointed at his pants. "Undo them."
He blinked at her. Not sure if he heard her right.
"Unless you want me to."
With a sigh, he undid the belt and the button but left the zipper.
She smirked, pleased. "Now, for the finishing touch…"
She tiptoed up, pulled him down by the neck, and sucked hard at his throat, leaving dark marks behind.
Then she mussed his hair.
"Go outside. Ask for new sheets and a towel to clean me up."
He stared.
"What… is happening?"
Ivy only smiled.