Viola's breath came ragged against his mouth, the words still hanging between them—her whispered "Don't stop," his low promise in return.
Auther didn't move at once. He let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of what she'd admitted. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, silvering the edges of her scarred arms, the rise and fall of her chest beneath the clinging dress. Her hands rested on his shirt, fingers curled but not pushing, not pulling—just holding on.
He leaned in slowly, forehead brushing hers. "You're shaking," he murmured, voice velvet-rough.
"I am not," she lied, the denial automatic, proud.
His smile was small, knowing. "Liar."
One hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her closer until she felt the hard line of him through their clothes. A soft gasp escaped her—betrayal from her own body—and he swallowed it with a kiss that started gentle, almost reverent, then deepened by degrees. No rush. No seizure. Just deliberate, maddening patience.
His tongue traced the seam of her lips until she opened for him, and when it slid against hers the sound she made was low, involuntary, hungry. Heat flared low in her belly, spreading outward like wildfire. She hated how easily he coaxed it from her.
He walked her backward until her thighs met the edge of the bed. Only then did he break the kiss, lips trailing along her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. "Tell me again," he whispered there, breath hot against her skin. "Tell me you want this."
Viola's hands tightened in his shirt. Pride warred with the ache throbbing between her legs. "I…" The word caught. She swallowed. "I want you to stop talking."
A soft huff of laughter against her throat. "As my lady commands."
He eased her down onto the mattress, following until he braced above her, weight on his forearms. Emerald eyes searched hers in the moonlight—steady, calm, utterly in control. It infuriated her how much she craved that control right now.
His mouth found hers again while one hand mapped the curve of her hip, the line of her thigh. When his palm slid beneath the hem of her dress, pushing fabric upward inch by torturous inch, she arched without meaning to. Cool air kissed newly bared skin; his warm hand followed, tracing scars she'd never let anyone linger over before.
Higher. Slowly. Until his fingers brushed the soaked silk between her legs.
Viola broke the kiss on a sharp inhale. "Auther—"
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then lower, open-mouthed along the column of her throat. "Let me take care of you."
His thumb traced her through the thin barrier of her panties, a light, teasing pressure that made her hips jerk. Another pass, firmer. Then again. She bit her lip to stifle the sound building in her throat, but he circled that swollen bundle of nerves with devastating precision and the moan escaped anyway—low, broken, humiliating.
"Good," he praised quietly, as though she'd done something clever. "Let me hear you."
He slipped beneath the silk at last, skin on skin, and the first glide of his fingers through slick heat drew a shudder from her entire body. One finger circled her entrance, gathering wetness, then returned to her clit with slow, deliberate strokes. Her thighs tried to close on instinct; his knee nudged them wider.
"Stay open for me," he murmured against her collarbone, teeth grazing lightly. "Just like that."
Viola's head fell back against the pillows. Pleasure coiled tighter and tighter, a spring wound to breaking. When he slid one finger inside her—slow, careful, curling just right—she cried out, back bowing off the bed. A second joined it, stretching her gently, thumb never ceasing its rhythm above.
She was close already—embarrassingly close—and he knew it. His pace stayed measured, relentless, drawing it out until her breath came in desperate little pants and her hands fisted in the sheets.
"Look at me," he commanded softly.
She forced her eyes open. His gaze held hers, dark and intent, as he curled his fingers again—once, twice—and pressed his thumb firmly.
The orgasm crashed through her like a wave against stone. Viola's cry echoed in the quiet chamber, body clenching around his fingers, hips bucking helplessly as a rush of wetness soaked his hand and the sheets beneath her. He worked her through it, gentling only when the last tremor passed and she collapsed, boneless, chest heaving.
For a long moment the only sound was her ragged breathing.
Then reality returned—sharp, cold, unforgiving.
Viola's eyes flew open fully. She stared at the ceiling, then at him—at the boyish face above her, the satisfied curve of his mouth, the glistening evidence of her surrender on his fingers. Shame flooded in behind the fading pleasure, hot and suffocating.
"Get out," she said, voice flat, barely above a whisper.
Auther stilled. "Viola—"
"Get. Out." Louder this time, edged with steel.
He withdrew his hand slowly, searching her face. Confusion flickered in his eyes, then something deeper—hurt, quickly masked. He pushed himself up, off the bed, standing in the moonlight like a statue suddenly unsure of its place.
She sat up abruptly, yanking her dress down, refusing to look at him. Her heart hammered with a new kind of panic. What had she done? What had she allowed?
The door was only steps away. He took them without a word. At the threshold he paused, hand on the latch, but she didn't speak—couldn't speak past the knot in her throat.
The door opened, then closed with a soft, final click.
Viola was alone.
She curled onto her side, pulling her knees to her chest, staring at the empty space where he'd been. The sheets were still warm from his body, still damp from hers. The scent of him lingered—clean skin, faint sweat, something uniquely his.
Pleasure still echoed faintly in her limbs, but it was drowned now by a wave of something darker: regret, fear, the sudden terrifying awareness of how completely he'd unraveled her.
Across the castle, in his own chambers, Auther stood motionless for a long time, hand still on the closed door behind him.
He had thought he understood her—the proud warrior who guarded her control like armor. He had thought the trembling beneath his hands, the broken sounds she'd made, meant surrender freely given.
But the look in her eyes just now—the cold command, the wall slamming down—told a different story.
He'd pushed too far. Or not far enough. Or simply misread everything.
A hollow ache settled in his chest, sharp and unfamiliar. He crossed to the window, staring out at the same aberrant moon that had watched it all, and wondered if he'd just ruined the only thing that had ever truly felt like his in either lifetime.
The night stretched on, silent and heavy, leaving both of them alone with the wreckage of what they'd almost had.