The dungeons beneath the palace were colder than Lucien remembered.
Not in temperature.
But in presence.
The air was thick with silence, the kind that pressed against your skin and whispered of things long buried. The torches along the stone walls flickered as he passed, casting shadows that danced like ghosts.
He moved with purpose.
With fury.
With questions.
And at the end of the corridor, behind iron bars and layers of enchantment, sat the woman who had once tried to unmake the realm.
Seraphina.
---
She looked up as he approached, her silver hair falling in loose waves around her face, her wrists bound in runes that shimmered faintly in the dark.
"Well," she said, voice smooth as silk. "I was wondering when you'd come."
Lucien didn't respond.
He stopped just outside the cell, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
"You sent the letter," he said.
She smiled. "Did I?"
He pulled the charred edge of the parchment from his coat.
Held it up.
"The fire you buried still breathes," he read aloud. "Your words?"
Seraphina tilted her head. "Do they sound like mine?"
"They sound like a threat."
"They're a truth."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "Explain."
---
Seraphina stood slowly, the chains at her wrists clinking softly.
"I warned you," she said. "You thought killing my army would end me. But I was never just a general. I was an idea."
Lucien's voice was ice. "You were a tyrant."
"I was a mirror," she said. "I showed this realm what it truly is. Fragile. Divided. Ripe for collapse."
He stepped closer. "You lost."
She smiled. "Did I?"
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "What are you planning?"
"I'm not planning anything," she said. "But others are."
He stilled. "Who?"
She leaned forward, her voice a whisper. "You think I was the only one who wanted the crown to fall? I was just the first to strike."
Lucien's blood ran cold.
---
He turned to leave.
But her voice followed him.
"Tell your brother," she said, "that peace is a lovely illusion. But illusions don't last."
He didn't look back.
Didn't give her the satisfaction.
But as he climbed the stairs back into the light, the words echoed in his mind.
The fire you buried still breathes.
---
Back in the villa, Kael and Elara sat beneath the stars, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing idle circles on her arm.
"I don't want to go back yet," she whispered.
"Then we won't," he said.
She smiled. "You're the king."
He kissed her temple. "Not tonight. Tonight, I'm just yours."
The words hung in the warm night air, a promise that shifted the energy between them. The idle circles his fingers traced on her arm slowed, then stilled. His hand moved, instead, to cradle the side of her face, tilting it up towards his.
Elara's breath hitched. In the starlight, his eyes were dark pools of intent.
He didn't speak again. He didn't need to. His mouth found hers, not in the gentle kiss from before, but with a slow, deliberate hunger that made her toes curl against the cool stone of the villa's terrace. It was a kiss that claimed and offered all at once. Her hands came up, fingers tangling in the fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer until there was no space left between their bodies.
Kael's hands were everywhere. One slid down the column of her throat, his thumb brushing the frantic pulse there. The other slipped beneath the loose fabric of her dress, finding the warm, bare skin of her lower back. He pulled her flush against him, and she felt the hard ridge of his desire pressing into her stomach. A soft, wanting sound escaped her throat.
"Kael…"
His name was a plea and a permission.
He broke the kiss, his breath hot against her lips. "I need to see you," he murmured, his voice rough. "All of you."
In one smooth motion, he stood, pulling her up with him. He kept her anchored against his chest as his hands went to the simple ties at the shoulders of her dress. He worked them open with a frustrating, tantalizing slowness. The linen whispered over her skin, pooling at her feet like a shadow. The night air kissed her bare skin, raising goosebumps, but the heat of his gaze was a furnace.
She stood before him, illuminated only by starlight, completely exposed. His eyes travelled over her—the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the shadow between her thighs. The look was so visceral, so full of naked want, it felt like a physical touch.
"Gods, Lyria," he breathed, the words full of awe. "You are a vision."
He shed his own tunic with impatient haste, tossing it aside. His chest was broad, sculpted by war and rule, and her hands went to him immediately, splaying across the warm, firm muscle. She could feel the powerful beat of his heart under her palm.
He lowered them both back onto the lounger, his body covering hers. The weight of him was exquisite, a solid, welcome pressure. He kissed her again, deeper now, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as his hands began a thorough exploration.
He cupped her breast, his thumb swirling around her nipple until it tightened into a pebbled peak. A sharp jolt of pleasure shot straight to her core, and she arched into his touch. He bent his head, taking that sensitive peak into his mouth, his tongue laving, his teeth grazing just enough to make her cry out.
His hand journeyed lower, over the quivering plane of her stomach, through the soft curls, and finally to the heart of her need. He found her slick and hot, already aching for him.
"So ready for me," he growled against her skin.
His fingers parted her folds, one stroking up through her wetness in a slow, maddening pass that made her hips jerk. He did it again, and again, each time circling closer to her clit but never quite touching it, building a desperate, coiled tension inside her.
"Please," she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "Don't tease."
"I'm not teasing," he said, his voice thick. "I'm savoring."
But he finally gave her what she craved. His thumb pressed down on her clit, a firm, perfect circle, while two fingers slid inside her. She gasped, her inner muscles clamping around the intrusion. He began to move, his fingers curling, finding a rhythm that had her panting, her head thrashing against the cushion.
The pleasure built, a tight, shining coil in her lower belly. She was close, so close, teetering on the edge.
He withdrew his hand.
A whimper of protest died on her lips as he shifted his body, positioning himself between her thighs. The broad, blunt head of his cock pressed against her entrance, hot and insistent. He held himself there, his muscles trembling with restraint, his eyes locked on hers.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low rasp. "I want to see you when you take me."
She obeyed, her gaze drowning in his. With a slow, relentless push, he filled her.
It was an overwhelming, perfect stretch. She cried out, a sound of pure relief and pleasure, as he sank into her to the hilt. He stayed there, buried deep, letting her body adjust, his forehead pressed to hers.
"You feel… like heaven," he whispered, the words strained.
Then he began to move.
He started with long, slow strokes, each one dragging every inch of him against her most sensitive places. The friction was exquisite, a building fire. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper. Her nails scored down his back.
His pace quickened. The slow, deep strokes became more urgent, more powerful. The lounger creaked beneath them. The sound of their skin meeting, their ragged breaths, her soft cries, filled the quiet night.
He shifted slightly, angling his hips, and on the next thrust, he hit a spot that made her see stars. A sharp, shocked cry tore from her throat.
"There," he grunted, driving into that spot again, and again. "That's it. Let go for me."
The coil inside her snapped. Pleasure erupted, a white-hot wave that crashed through her, shaking her to her bones. Her body clenched around him, milking him, pulling a guttural groan from his chest.
He drove into her through her climax, his own control shattering. His rhythm became frantic, possessive. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself and stilled, his release pulsing into her as he groaned her name into the crook of her neck.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing mingling with the distant chirp of crickets. He was a heavy, sweaty, wonderful weight on top of her. Slowly, he softened inside her, but he made no move to pull away.
He lifted his head, brushing sweat-damp hair from her forehead. His eyes were soft, sated.
She smiled, languid and fulfilled. "Still just mine?" she whispered.
He kissed her, slow and deep. "Always."
He finally shifted, pulling out and rolling to his side, but he immediately gathered her against him, her back to his front. His arms wrapped around her, one hand idly stroking her stomach. They lay in silence, skin cooling under the stars.
After a few minutes, his hand drifted lower, his fingers tracing through the slickness on her inner thigh.
"Hmm," he murmured, his voice already thick with renewed interest. "I don't think I'm done being yours tonight."
His fingers dipped, finding her core again, still sensitive and swollen from their joining. She gasped, pressing back against him, feeling the evidence of his renewed arousal hard against her lower back.
"Your king has a second wind," he said, nipping at her earlobe.
His fingers stilled their gentle exploration, and he nuzzled the sensitive spot just below her ear. "The night is warm," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against her skin. "Come with me."
He stood, pulling her up effortlessly. She was still naked, the breeze a faint caress, but his body was a shield of heat beside her. He didn't reach for their discarded clothes. Instead, he laced his fingers with hers and led her, wordlessly, from the terrace through an arched doorway into the villa's interior.
The marble floors were cool under her feet. They passed through silent, moonlit rooms until they reached another archway, open to the sky. The air here was different—laden with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the mineral tang of water.
The bathing court.
It was a private sanctuary, a square pool sunk into the floor, fed by a gentle spring. The water was a dark, liquid mirror reflecting the swath of stars above. Pale stone benches lined the edges.
Kael led her to the pool's edge. Without a word, his hands settled on her waist. His grip was firm, possessive. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing, setting her down so she was perched on the cool, smooth lip of the pool, her feet dangling in the water.
The contrast was instant. The water was a shock of coolness against her ankles, a stark counterpoint to the heat radiating from him as he stepped between her thighs. He looked down at her, his face all shadow and intensity.
"Tonight," he said, his voice a rough promise, "I worship."