The royal palace loomed above the city like a beast carved of stone and gold. Jean marched between the guards in silence, his boots thudding across marble floors veined with crimson as though the building itself bled. Servants shrank from his path; nobles turned their faces away, whispering behind jeweled hands. Even here, far from the arena, the stink of blood seemed to cling to him and all over his body .
The guards led him through a pair of towering bronze doors inlaid with fire-shaped patterns. Beyond, the throne hall spread wide, columns rising like pillars of bone, torches burning with violet flame.
And upon the throne of black iron sat Queen Sarah
She was young by royal standards—perhaps thirty—but her presence was a weapon sharper than any sword. Hair the color of night spilled over her shoulders, her crown was a circlet of silver serpents, and her gown of crimson silk clung to her body like a lover's grip. Her eyes were ice, watching him with a predator's patience as though she had already stripped him bare and weighed his worth.
Jean strode forward, unbowed, until he stood at the foot of her dais. The guards behind him shifted nervously, but Jean's expression never changed.
"Your Majesty," he said, voice low and rough, "you dragged me from my bed. Speak your purpose for summoning me to the palace."
The Queen's lips curved, not quite a smile. "Still as blunt as the rumors say. Good. I have no use for men who kneel easily, I don't fancy them."
She rose from the throne and descended the steps, her gown whispering like fire across stone. When she stopped before him, she was close enough for him to smell her perfume—spiced wine and roses—and to see the faint gleam of amusement in her eyes.
"You fight like a god," Sarah said softly. "And you fuck like a beast on bed. Half the noblewomen of this city are limping today because of you."
Jean smirked. "I don't hear them complaining."
"No," she said. "They are not. But I am not one of them, Jean Carlos. I am Queen. And I have an empire to protect."
Her hand rose, trailing a finger along his scarred chest, smearing a line of dried blood. "I need a man who will spill as much seed as he spills blood. A man who can crush my enemies and satisfy me in the same breath."
Jean caught her wrist, gripping tight. "And if I refuse?"
Her smile sharpened like a knife. "Then I have a hundred soldiers waiting outside this hall who will carve you to pieces, who can destroy you. And when your head hangs on the gates, I will find another beast to break."
The tension coiled between them, hot and dangerous. Then Jean's grip loosened, and his laugh rolled through the hall like thunder.
"You've got teeth,My Queen. I like that."
Her eyes gleamed. "Then kneel. Not to my crown. To me."
Jean's smirk widened. He didn't kneel. He stepped forward, forcing her back until her body pressed against the cold column behind her. He leaned down, his mouth near her ear.
"I don't kneel," he growled. "But I'll make you."
Sarah's breath quickened, but her gaze never faltered. She tilted her head, lips brushing his jaw, and whispered, "Prove it, then. Prove you're more than just another brute with a sword, prove that you are more than just a killing machine on the arena."
Jean's hand slid down her side, gripping her hip hard enough to make her gasp.
"Gladly," he said.
The throne hall was vast, but in that moment it felt like a cage, filled with nothing but their heat.
The hall was empty save for them, yet the air burned like a battlefield. Jean pressed the Queen harder against the column, his body towering over hers. Her perfume clung to his senses, stirring hunger deeper than bloodlust.
"You think to command me?" he growled, his lips at her throat. "You're just another body waiting to be broken."
Sarah's nails raked across his chest, leaving red trails over old scars. She bared her teeth in something between a smile and a snarl. "Break me, then. If you can."
Her defiance sent heat surging through his veins. Most women quivered when he pressed them; this one pushed back, sharp and merciless. His cock hardened against her belly, and he shoved her higher against the pillar until her feet barely touched the ground.
"You want a beast?" Jean asked the Queen. "I'll give you one."
He tore the silk of her gown, ripping it from shoulder to thigh. The fabric fell away, baring pale skin, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her hips. She gasped, not from fear but from the thrill of being stripped like prey.
Her hand shot between them, seizing his cock through the leather of his breeches. Her nails dug into him as she hissed, "You'll spill for me, gladiator. On my throne, at my feet."
Jean laughed darkly, unbuckling his belt with one hand and yanking her hair back with the other. "No, Queen. You'll spill for me. Again and again, until you beg me to stop."
Their mouths crashed together—half kiss, half battle. Teeth clashed, tongues fought, breath mingled in growls and moans. He spun her, bending her over the steps of her throne. The iron seat loomed above them like a witness, sharp edges catching torchlight.
"On your knees?" Jean mocked, yanking her ass high. "Or on your throne? Which will it be?"
"Both," Sarah gasped, her voice dripping with challenge. "If you can last long enough on me ."
Jean's breeches hit the floor. He gripped her hips and thrust into her with a force that made her cry out, the sound echoing across the vast chamber. The clash of flesh was as loud as steel, each stroke a battle won.
"Louder," he demanded, slamming her harder. "Let your guards hear how their Queen begs."
"Fuck you," she hissed, her fingers clawing the stone step. Yet her body betrayed her, shuddering, dripping, squeezing him tight with every violent thrust.
Jean's laugh was savage. He bent low, teeth at her ear. "You are already begging."
Sarah's moans spilled free, sharp and ragged, but still she fought him with words. "Is this all you are? Cock and steel? A beast with no leash?"
Jean pulled out, spun her again, and shoved her onto her throne. She sprawled naked upon it, hair tangled, crown askew, breasts heaving. He climbed the steps after her, pinning her wrists against the cold iron, his cock poised at her slick entrance.
"Not a beast," he growled, driving into her so deep she screamed. "A King."