The palace of Valeria never truly sleeps, but after the third bell of the deep-night watch it comes as close as marble and gold can manage. Torches burn low. Guards change shifts in silence. Somewhere far below, the kitchens bank their fires.
I walk the private corridor that leads only to one place: the Queen's apartments.
I am nineteen, slender, dressed in the plain black velvet she prefers me to wear when I serve as her shadow. No crest, no jewels. Nothing that draws the eye away from her. My boots make no sound on the carpet woven with silver lions. I carry a single candle; its flame trembles whenever my pulse does, and tonight it trembles often.
The two guards outside her door know me. They step aside without a word. They have never once asked why the youngest prince visits his mother's rooms every night long after the court has retired. They will never ask. Some questions rot the tongue that speaks them.
The outer chamber is dark. I set the candle on the little table by the door and slip through the inner arch.
She is waiting.
Queen Elowen stands at the tall windows that overlook the moonlit gardens. A single branch of candles burns on the map table behind her, throwing gold across the parchment borders of kingdoms that will soon kneel to my father's sword. She wears only a robe of midnight silk, belted loosely. The fire in the hearth has burned low; its glow licks along the curve of her hip, the heavy fall of her hair, the pale column of her throat.
She does not turn when I enter. She never does at first. She likes me to come to her.
I cross the room and stop two paces behind her. Close enough to smell rose oil and warm skin. Close enough to see the faint tremor in her fingers where they rest against the window frame.
"You are late, Lucian," she says, soft as a blade sliding from its sheath.
"The Duke of Lyssia tried to corner me about grain tithes. I escaped as soon as courtesy allowed."
A low laugh. "Poor darling. Come here."
I step forward until my chest almost touches her back. She leans—just enough—that the silk of her robe brushes my tunic. Heat flares under my skin like spilled oil catching flame.
"Closer," she murmurs.
I close the last inch. My hands find her waist without permission, settling over the knot of her belt. She lets her head fall back against my shoulder. Her hair spills across my chest, cool and perfumed. I can feel her heartbeat through the thin silk, quick and steady, the rhythm of a woman who is never surprised and yet is trembling tonight.
She turns in the circle of my arms. Slowly. Deliberately.
Firelight catches in her eyes—green, sharp, ancient. The Queen who out-thought three kingdoms before breakfast looks at me now as though I am the only map she has left to conquer.
"You were distracted in council," she says. Her fingers rise to trace the line of my jaw. "Your eyes kept drifting here." She presses two fingertips to the hollow of my throat, then lower, to the place where my pulse hammers beneath the velvet. "And here." Her hand flattens over my heart. "Tell me what you were thinking, my sweet shadow."
I try to speak and find my voice rough. "That I wanted to kneel under the table and taste you while the lords argued about barley yields."
Her smile is slow, wicked, approving. "Honest. Good."
She takes my hand and guides it beneath the opening of her robe. No shift, no smallclothes—only warm, bare skin. My palm slides over the soft curve of her stomach, lower, until my fingers slip between her thighs.
She is already wet.
A low sound escapes me—half groan, half prayer.
"Feel what the mere sight of you does to your queen," she whispers against my ear. "I have been like this for hours. Aching. Empty. Waiting for my good boy to fill me."
My knees nearly buckle.
She draws back just enough to look into my face. "Lucian."
"Mother," I breathe. The forbidden word tastes like sin and honey.
Her eyes darken. "Say it again."
"Mother."
She kisses me.
It is not gentle. It is not maternal. It is a claiming—teeth and tongue and the low moan she pours straight into my mouth. I answer with everything I have kept locked inside for years, hands clutching her hips, pulling her flush against the rigid length straining my breeches.
When she breaks the kiss we are both shaking.
She unties her belt with deliberate slowness. The robe parts. Slides from her shoulders. Pools at her feet.
Gods.
I have seen her in state gowns, in armor of diplomacy and silk, but never like this—naked, unashamed, every lush curve gilded by firelight. Full breasts tipped dark rose. The dip of her waist. The flare of hips I want to bruise with my grip. The dark curls between her thighs already glistening with want.
She takes my trembling hand and presses it between her legs again.
"Touch me," she commands, voice husky. "Show me how long you have dreamed of this."
I fall to my knees.
My fingers part her folds, slick and swollen. I stroke once, twice, reverent. She widens her stance, threading fingers through my hair.
"Use your mouth, darling. I have waited too long for shyness."
I lean in and taste her for the first time.
The sound she makes—low, broken, triumphant—will haunt my dreams forever.
She is heat and salt and the faint sweetness of the wine she drank earlier. I lick into her like a man dying of thirst, clumsy with desperation at first, then better when she guides me—slow circles, gentle suction, the flat of my tongue pressed hard exactly where she needs it.
Her thighs tremble. Her grip tightens in my hair.
"Lucian—yes—my perfect boy—"
She comes with a sharp cry, hips rolling against my tongue, flooding my mouth with her release. I drink every drop, greedy, worshipful, until she drags me up by the hair and kisses me again, tasting herself on my lips.
"Your turn," she whispers.
Her fingers make quick work of laces and buttons. My tunic falls. Breeches follow. I stand naked and aching before her, cock jutting proud and leaking at the tip.
She wraps her hand around me—warm, sure, possessive—and strokes once, twice. I shudder so hard my vision blurs.
"Not yet," she soothes, wicked smile curving her lips. "You will come when I say, and not before. Tonight is only the first lesson."
She sinks to her knees.
I last eleven seconds.
She swallows every pulse, humming with pleasure, then licks me clean with slow, deliberate swipes of her tongue. When she rises, she presses a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth.
"Good boy," she murmurs. "Tomorrow you will last longer."
I sway on my feet, wrecked and remade in the space of one night.
She leads me to the wide bed, pulls me down beside her, tucks my head against her breast. Her fingers stroke through my hair, gentle now, almost tender.
"Sleep, my shadow," she whispers into the dark. "Tomorrow the palace wakes, and we must wear our masks again. But every night—every single night—will be ours."
I close my eyes, breathing her in, my hand splayed possessively over the curve of her hip.
Outside, the war continues. Armies march. Kingdoms fall.
Inside these walls, the only conquest that matters has already begun.
And I will never let it end.