The queen's thighs still ached.
Hours had passed since her husband took her in their marital bed—rough, graceless, exhausted from war but eager to reclaim what he thought was his. His seed clung inside her, cooling slowly, mixing with Damien's mark in a cruel cocktail of ownership.
And still, the crown pulsed.
Low, constant, like a heartbeat echoing in her cunt.
Seraphina sat in the sunlight-drenched salon alongside the noble wives, every one of them dressed in their finest silk and their most careful smiles. A servant poured tea. Birds chirped outside the open windows. It was all maddeningly peaceful—on the surface.
Beneath it? Terror.
Rosalind stirred honey into her cup with a lazy elegance, perched on the edge of a loveseat like a courtesan playing at innocence.
"Isn't today exciting?" she asked no one in particular.
No one answered.
