The royal chambers occupied the entire western tower of Valorheim's palace. Three floors of opulence that most servants never saw—but Ethan wasn't most servants.
He climbed the spiral stairs carrying a silver tray laden with the king's evening meal. The guards at each landing nodded him through without question. Why would they stop him? He'd been performing this duty for two years now. Loyal Ethan. Faithful Ethan.
Invisible Ethan.
The king's antechamber was empty when he arrived. Aldric was still in the council room, arguing with his advisors about grain taxes and border disputes—arguments that would last well past sunset. The old fool loved the sound of his own voice, even if he could barely remember what he'd said from one moment to the next.
Ethan set down the tray and moved through the familiar space with practiced efficiency. He knew this tower better than anyone—every passage, every door, every secret.
Including the one that connected the king's chambers to the queen's.
The connecting door was locked, as always. Aldric had locked it three months ago during one of his paranoid episodes, convinced his young wife was plotting against him. He wasn't entirely wrong—Isadora did resent him—but her plots extended no further than bitter silence and cold shoulders.
For now.
Ethan produced a key from his pocket. He'd had it made weeks ago, a simple matter of pressing the original into warm wax while the king slept off his nightly draught. The lock turned smoothly, soundlessly.
He stepped through into the queen's private study.
And found her exactly where he'd expected.
Queen Isadora sat at her writing desk, a letter half-finished before her. Twenty-eight years old, married to a man more than twice her age, wed for politics rather than love. Her dark hair was unbound, cascading over shoulders clad in a silk robe that did little to hide her figure.
She was beautiful in that sharp, hungry way of caged predators.
She looked up at the sound of the door, and her expression shifted from surprise to wariness.
"Ethan? What are you doing here? How did you—"
"I serve His Majesty," Ethan said calmly, closing the door behind him. "That includes ensuring his... household affairs are in order."
"The king's chambers are that way." She gestured toward the locked door. "This is my private study. You have no business—"
"I have every business, Your Grace." He moved closer, watching her tense. "I'm here because I know something. Something you've been hiding."
Her knuckles whitened on the quill. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" Ethan reached the desk, picked up the letter she'd been writing. Her hand shot out to stop him, but he was faster.
He read aloud: "'Dearest brother, I fear I cannot endure much longer. The king has not... performed his duties in months. The court whispers. They say I am barren, but how can I bear an heir when my husband cannot...'" He looked up, meeting her panicked gaze. "Shall I continue?"
"Give that back." Her voice shook with fury and fear.
"Why? So you can send it? Let your brother in Cassandre know that the great King Aldric is impotent? That the alliance marriage he brokered is a sham?"
"That letter is private—"
"Nothing in this palace is private from me, Your Grace." Ethan set the letter down, but didn't step back. "I see everything. I know everything. Including how many nights you've spent in that bed, untouched and aching."
Isadora stood abruptly, her chair scraping back. "How dare you speak to me this way? I am your queen!"
"You are." Ethan's voice remained calm, almost gentle. "And you're also a woman dying of thirst while surrounded by water you're not allowed to drink."
She slapped him.
The crack echoed in the quiet room. Ethan's head turned slightly from the impact, but when he looked back at her, he was smiling.
"Feel better?"
"Get out," she hissed. "Get out before I have you whipped for your insolence."
"No."
The single word hung between them.
"What did you say?"
"I said no, Your Grace. I'm not leaving. Because you don't want me to leave. You want me to stay. You want me to do what your husband can't."
"You're insane. You're a servant. I would never—"
"Never what? Never let a commoner touch you? Never betray your marriage vows?" He stepped closer, backing her against the desk. "Tell me, do those vows mean anything when your husband broke them first by failing to consummate this marriage properly?"
"He's old. He can't help—"
"And you're young. You can't help wanting what any woman wants. Can you, Isadora?"
The use of her name without title made her gasp. "You... you cannot speak to me like this."
"I can. I am." His hand came up, and she flinched—but he only tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was almost tender. "I've watched you, Your Grace. I've seen how you look at the young knights during tournaments. How your breath catches when the stableboys work without their shirts. How you touch yourself at night when you think no one can hear."
Her face flushed crimson. "You... you've been watching me?"
"Someone has to care about your needs. Your husband certainly doesn't."
"This is treasonous. I should have you executed."
"You should." Ethan's thumb traced her jawline. "But you won't. Because I'm the only person in this entire palace who sees you as more than a political pawn. Who sees the woman, not just the crown."
"Stop." But she didn't pull away.
"Make me." He echoed the same challenge he'd given Dame Celine. "Call for the guards. Have me dragged to the dungeons. Or..." His other hand settled on her hip, fingers spreading possessively over the silk. "...admit what you really want."
"I want you to leave," she whispered, but her body betrayed her. She swayed toward him, her breathing rapid.
"Liar."
He kissed her.
Unlike Celine's desperate, hungry response, Isadora fought him—for about three seconds.
Then she melted.
Her hands fisted in his shirt, and she kissed him back with years of pent-up frustration. When Ethan's tongue invaded her mouth, she moaned, the sound raw and needy.
He broke the kiss, watching her pupils dilate. "Tell me to stop."
"I... I can't."
"Can't? Or won't?"
"Both. Neither. I don't—" She broke off with a gasp as his hand slid under her robe, finding bare skin. "Oh God."
"Not God. Just me." His fingers trailed up her side, cupping her breast. She wasn't wearing anything beneath the robe. Perfect. "How long has it been, Isadora? How long since anyone touched you like this?"
"Too long," she admitted, shame and need warring in her voice. "Since before the wedding. My husband, he... he tried at first, but he couldn't..."
"Couldn't get hard?" Ethan pinched her nipple, making her cry out. "Couldn't make you feel anything? Couldn't do this?"
He spun her around, bending her over the desk. The letter to her brother crumpled beneath her.
"What are you—"
"Quiet." He pushed the robe up over her hips, exposing her completely. "Queens shouldn't talk so much."
She should have been outraged. Should have screamed for help. But when his hand came down on her ass—not hard enough to truly hurt, but firm enough to shock—she whimpered.
"That's better. You're not a queen right now, Isadora. You're just a woman who needs to be fucked properly. Aren't you?"
"Yes," she gasped. "God help me, yes."
"God won't help you here. Only I can do that."
His fingers found her center, sliding through wetness. She was drenched, her body betraying just how much she wanted this despite her protests.
"Please," she begged. "I need... I need..."
"Tell me what you need."
"You. I need you inside me. Please, Ethan, I can't—"
He thrust two fingers into her, cutting off her words. She cried out, hips bucking back against his hand.
"Like this? Or do you need more?"
"More. God, more. Everything. Give me everything."
Ethan withdrew his fingers, ignoring her whimper of loss. He freed himself, positioning at her entrance.
"Last chance, Your Grace. Once I do this, there's no going back. You'll be mine. My queen. My whore. Whatever I want you to be."
"I don't care. Just do it. Please—"
He slammed into her in one brutal thrust.
Isadora screamed into her arm, the sound muffled but desperate. Ethan didn't give her time to adjust—he set a punishing pace immediately, each thrust driving her against the desk, scattering papers and quills.
"This is what you needed, isn't it? Not soft touches and gentle words. You needed someone to take you, claim you, fuck you like the desperate little queen you are."
"Yes! God, yes!"
His hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back. "Who do you belong to now?"
"You! I belong to you!"
"Say my name."
"Ethan! I belong to Ethan!"
"Good girl." He released her hair, both hands gripping her hips now as he pounded into her. The desk scraped across the floor with each thrust. "You're going to come for me. You're going to come so hard you forget you're a queen. And then you're going to do it again. And again. Until you can't remember what it felt like to be empty."
She came with a wail that anyone in the tower would have heard if they'd been listening. Her whole body convulsed, inner walls clamping down on him like a vice.
Ethan didn't stop. He fucked her through it, drawing out her climax until she was sobbing with overstimulation.
"Too much," she gasped. "I can't—"
"You can. You will." He reached around, finding her swollen clit. "Come for me again."
"I can't, I just—oh God—"
The second orgasm hit her harder than the first. This time, Ethan let himself go, burying himself deep and marking her from the inside just as he had with Celine.
They collapsed against the desk, both breathing hard. Ethan stayed inside her, feeling his seed fill her.
"What have we done?" Isadora whispered eventually.
"What you needed." He pulled out slowly, watching his cum drip from her onto the expensive carpet. "What you'll need again."
She turned to face him, robe falling open, her hair wild and her lips swollen. She looked nothing like the composed queen who sat beside the king in court.
She looked perfect.
"This can never happen again," she said, but there was no conviction in it.
"It will happen again. Tonight was just the beginning." Ethan cupped her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "You're going to meet me tomorrow night. The old chapel, ninth bell. Tell your ladies you're praying for an heir."
"They'll ask questions if I go there every night—"
"Then vary the location. But you will come when I call. Understood?"
She should have refused. Should have asserted her authority. But she was too shaken, too satisfied, too desperate for more.
"Yes," she whispered. "I'll come."
"Good." He kissed her forehead almost tenderly. "Clean yourself up. The king will be back within the hour."
He left her there, leaking his seed, and returned to the king's chambers to finish setting up the evening meal.
When Aldric finally arrived, complaining about his advisors and his aching joints, Ethan was the picture of dutiful service.
"Your meal, Your Majesty. And your sleeping draught."
"Thank you, Ethan. What would I do without you?"
"I cannot imagine, sire."
Later, when the king was snoring in his bed and the palace had gone quiet, Ethan stood at his small window in the servants' quarters and smiled.
Dame Celine tomorrow night at the chapel.
Queen Isadora the night after.
And Princess Eléonore... well, he'd been watching her too. The rebellious little princess with her secret archery practice and her habit of sneaking out to the gardens.
Soon.
He had all the time in the world.
And an entire palace of women to conquer.
End of Chapter 2
Next: Chapter 3 - A Princess's Secret