The Queen was still on her knees, cum-drenched and breathless, the velvet beneath her soaked through with sweat and seed. Her crown had tilted sideways somewhere during her descent, half-hanging in her pale white hair like a relic of a bygone era. She looked up at Allen with glassy eyes, mouth parted, utterly wrecked—and yet, glowing.
But Allen didn't look at her again.
His eyes were on the ornate silver doors to the side of the throne, tall and carved with the royal family's crest: a flame wrapped around a lily. He could hear movement behind it—hushed whispers, the rustle of silk, the panicked shuffle of feet trying to decide between flight or submission. The princesses were in there. They'd heard every moan. Every slap. Every dripping, filthy declaration from their once-imperial mother.
