"Is this my duty or my punishment?"
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing her in the oppressive silence of his—no, their—chamber. The air was different here. It smelled of him: leather, clean linen, and something sharp, like cold night air. Her own belongings, haphazardly piled on a velvet settee by the fireplace, looked like an invasion. She felt like an invader in the space of the man who had just become a stranger again.
Kael stood across the room, his back to her as he stared into the unlit hearth. The rigid line of his shoulders was a declaration of war. He had shed his formal jacket, and the thin white linen of his shirt stretched taut across his back. He didn't turn. He didn't speak. The silence was a living thing, thick and heavy between them.
Elara's heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a gilded cage. She took a step forward, the soles of her slippers whispering on the stone floor. "Are you just going to stare at the ashes all night?" Her voice was steadier than she felt.
He turned then, and the look in his eyes stole the air from her lungs. It wasn't the cold command from before. This was raw, a turbulent storm of conflict and a heat she hadn't seen in him since before the crown. Since before his father's command.
"What would you have me do, Lyria?" he asked, his voice low, grating. "Shall we discuss the council's tax reforms? The grain yield in the southern provinces?"
"I would have you look at me," she whispered. "Not at the queen. Not at your duty. Look at me."
He crossed the space between them in three long strides, stopping so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His gaze dropped to her mouth, and for a heartbeat, the mask of the stoic prince shattered. She saw the want there, the desperate, furious want that had nothing to do with royal decrees or paternal orders.
"I see you," he breathed, the words a near-silent confession. His hand came up, slowly, as if fighting its own impulse. His knuckles brushed her cheek, a touch so feather-light it was agony. She shuddered, a full-body tremor she couldn't suppress. His touch. After so much coldness, it was a brand.
"Kael," his name was a plea on her lips.
That was all it took. The last of his control snapped.
His mouth crashed down on hers.
It wasn't the gentle kiss of a courting suitor. It was a claim. It was desperation and anger and a deep, aching hunger that mirrored her own. His arms wrapped around her, one hand tangling in the intricate braids of her hair, the other splaying against the small of her back, pressing her into the hard, unyielding planes of his body. She melted against him, her own hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the linen of his shirt, holding on as the world tilted.
He kissed her like a man drowning, and she was his only air. His tongue swept into her mouth, and a low moan escaped her, a sound she didn't recognize as her own. It was all heat and taste and him. The faint scent of wine on his tongue, the familiar pressure of his body, the way his breath hitched when her fingers crept into the hair at the nape of his neck.
He walked her back, never breaking the kiss, until her legs hit the edge of the massive oak bed. He broke away, both of them breathing ragged, foreheads pressed together. His eyes were squeezed shut, his chest heaving.
"Lyria," he groaned, the word ripped from somewhere deep inside. It was filled with so much more than duty. It was filled with her.
Her own hands were trembling as she brought them to the fastenings of his shirt. "Let me," she whispered, her voice husky.
He watched her, his gaze dark and intense, as her fumbling fingers worked the leather ties. She pushed the linen aside, her palms flattening against the warm skin of his chest. She felt the frantic beat of his heart beneath her hand, a wild rhythm that matched her own. His skin was smooth over solid muscle, and she dragged her fingertips down, mapping the tense contours of his abdomen, feeling him shudder under her touch.
His own hands went to the laces of her gown. They were less patient. His movements were hurried, almost clumsy with need. The complex network of silk cords gave way under his insistence. The heavy velvet gown slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet in a whisper of sound, leaving her in only a thin chemise. The cool air of the chamber kissed her skin, raising goosebumps, but his gaze was far warmer, this was entirely different from the first time their were intimate.
He drank her in, his eyes trailing from the rapid pulse at her throat, down to where the thin fabric clung to the curves of her breasts, her nipples pebbled and visible against the material. The anger was gone from his face, replaced by a stark, breathtaking vulnerability.
"You are so beautiful," he said ,this was the first time he truly called her that,yes he knew she was beautiful but he never told her, the words hoarse, awed. "It hurts to look at you."
He lowered his head, and this time his kiss was different. Softer. A slow, soul-searing exploration. He kissed the corner of her mouth, the line of her jaw, the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. Each press of his lips was a brand, a silent apology, a promise. His hands slid up her sides, his thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts through the chemise. She gasped, arching into his touch, her head falling back.
He followed the line of her body, sinking to his knees before her. His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he pressed his hot, open mouth to the sensitive skin of her stomach, just above the edge of her silk underthings. She cried out, her fingers threading through his dark hair, not to guide him, but to anchor herself.
He looked up at her, his eyes blazing with a mixture of reverence and pure, unadulterated lust. "Tell me this is just duty," he challenged, his voice a rough whisper against her skin. "Tell me you don't feel this."
She could only shake her head, words failing her. The political strife, his father's cruel command, the weight of the crown—it all faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the roaring of her own blood, the first night together was obviously just a duty but not this night. This was just them. Kael and Elara. The heir and the hollow, filling each other up.
His fingers hooked into the waistband of her final garment. He paused, his questioning gaze locked with hers, seeking a final, silent permission. Her breath caught in her chest. The air crackled.
She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod