The storm outside mirrored the chaos in Lyra's chest. Rain lashed against the palace windows, each drop like the hammering of her heartbeat. She sat at the edge of Adrian's bed, her hair damp, her wrists bandaged from Clara's cruel trap. The faint flicker of candlelight painted the room in shadows, and in those shadows, Adrian stood—tall, restless, his shirt half open as though he had been pacing for hours.
"Lie down," he ordered, his voice rough, not with authority but something far more fragile.
"I'm not broken," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Don't look at me like I am."
He strode forward, kneeling in front of her, and for the first time in days, Lyra saw no crown, no cold façade—only a man. His hands reached for hers, gentle despite their strength. "You could have died," he muttered, anger and fear threading his tone. "And I let it happen. I should have seen it coming. Clara…" His jaw clenched. "I should have protected you."
Her breath caught. She had expected distance. He had called her a no one, discarded her as if she were nothing. And yet, here he was, trembling, raw. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "You made it clear what I am to you."
Adrian flinched as though the memory cut him deeper than any blade. His gaze lifted, and there was no armor left in his eyes. "I lied."
The words hung between them, heavy and dangerous.
Before she could stop herself, Lyra's fingers brushed his cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. His skin was warm, his stubble rough against her touch. "Then tell me," she breathed, "what am I really?"
Adrian's breath shook. He leaned closer, his lips inches from hers. "Mine."
The word broke her. Shattered her. Burned her.
His mouth crashed against hers before she could even exhale. The kiss was not gentle—it was desperate, claiming, punishing himself as much as it punished her. She gasped into him, her hands clawing at his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no air left between them.
Adrian lifted her, carrying her to the bed with a strength that made her heart ache. He laid her down as though she were both fragile glass and wildfire, his body hovering above hers. Candlelight caught in his eyes, fierce and tormented.
"I don't deserve you," he whispered, pressing a trail of fevered kisses down her throat, across her collarbone. "But I can't let you go. Not anymore."
Lyra's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him to her. "Then don't," she begged. "Don't let me go."
The storm outside raged harder as if the heavens themselves bore witness to their surrender. Clothes fell away, barriers crumbled, and for the first time, the weight of titles and crowns meant nothing. It was only them—two souls colliding, breaking, mending in the fire of need and the ache of love unspoken.
Every touch was a confession. Every kiss, an apology. Every breath, a vow.
Adrian's lips trailed down her body, worship and hunger tangled in every movement. She arched beneath him, her cries swallowed by the storm, by his mouth, by the fever of their union.
"Say my name," he demanded against her skin, his voice breaking.
"Adrian," she gasped, over and over, until it was no longer a name but a prayer.
And when he finally joined with her, when every wall he had built shattered, Lyra felt herself unravel and come alive all at once. The pain, the pleasure, the fire—it consumed them, tied them, bound them. In that moment, she was no longer a no one. She was his.
When it was over, when the storm outside softened into silence, Adrian lay beside her, his hand entwined with hers. He pressed his forehead to hers, breathless, shaken.
"I'll burn the world before I let anyone take you from me again," he vowed.
Lyra closed her eyes, the weight of his words both terrifying and beautiful. Because she knew the world would come for them. Clara, the crown, the lies—they were only beginning.
But for this night, in this bed, she was his.
And he was hers.
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Watch out for Book 2