That night,The air in their shared chamber was still thick with the unspoken. Elara stood just inside the door, her own breath too loud in her ears. Kael was across the room, his back to her as he poured a glass of dark wine. He didn't acknowledge her entrance, but his shoulders were a tense line beneath his tunic.
Her things were here. Her brushes on his dresser. A gown of hers hung beside his doublet in the armoire. The space felt both invaded and strangely, hollowly intimate.
He finally turned, his gaze sweeping over her, assessing, cold. He took a slow drink, his eyes never leaving hers. "The bed is made."
It was a statement. A command. An unbearable distance measured in the space between them.
She moved to the bed, her steps silent on the rug. She sat on the edge, the same place she had sat in that cold, first chamber. This bed was larger, the canopy a dark bruise of velvet against the stone ceiling. She waited.
He finished his wine and set the glass down with a definitive click. He walked toward her, and every step was a hammer fall on her resolve. He stopped before her, his presence blocking the firelight, casting her in his shadow.
"On your knees," he said, his voice low and devoid of the heat she remembered. "At the foot of the bed. Face the post."
Her heart stuttered, he normally wasn't like this,something felt different,and she became worried . This was it. Not the frantic, angry coupling of before. This was calculated. This was the duty, stripped bare. She slid from the bed and knelt on the cold floor, the rough tapestry of the rug biting into her knees. She faced the ornately carved wooden post, gripping it to steady herself.
She heard the rustle of silk behind her. Not his clothing. He was tying something. A moment later, a long, deep blue sash was draped over her shoulder. The silk of her own favorite dressing gown.
His hands were on her wrists, his callouses rough against her pulse points. He didn't fumble. With a terrifying Efficiency, he wrapped the silk around one wrist and then the other, tying them firmly to the bedpost. The binds were tight enough to hold, but not to chafe. A clinical restraint.
He stepped back. She was trussed and presented. Kneeling, bound, utterly exposed to him. Her breath came in shallow pants,she had written him but the man behind her was totally different from the one she had written, the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on her skin. She heard the soft sounds of him undressing behind her—the rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt buckle.
Then, silence. The anticipation was a live wire, sizzling in the space between his body and hers. She could feel the heat of him before he even touched her. His hand, when it landed on the small of her back, was searing. She jolted at the contact.
His palm was massive, flattening against her spine, pressing down until her forehead rested against the cool wood of the post. His other hand settled on her hip, his thumb digging into the soft flesh there, a possessive anchor.
"This cunt," his voice was a gravelly whisper right by her ear, laced with a dark promise that made her shiver. "This tight, perfect fucking cunt was made for one thing tonight. Do you understand me, Lyria?"
She could only nod, her cheek scraping against the wood.
His hand left her back. She heard him spit, a crude, wet sound, and then his fingers were there, at her entrance, spreading his own moisture over her, a rough, impersonal preparation. He pushed one thick finger inside her, and she gasped, her body clenching around the intrusion. It was not to pleasure her. It was to test her. To claim her.
"Good," he grunted, his breath hot on her neck. "You're wet. Your body knows its purpose, even if your mind rebels."
He withdrew his finger. The blunt, hot head of his cock replaced it, pressing insistently against her. He was huge, and the memory of him stretching her, filling her, flashed through her mind with dazzling, terrifying clarity.
He didn't thrust. Not yet.
He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth next to her ear. His voice was a low, vicious growl that vibrated through her very bones.
"You're mine, Lyria." The words were not a endearment. They were a brand. "Mine to fuck. Mine to breed. This is my claim. My heir. You will take every fucking drop I give you. You will remember who you belong to,and you will show him who you belong to."
With that, he drove into her.
It was a single, powerful thrust that stole the air from her lungs. He buried himself to the hilt, a perfect, agonizing fit that stretched her exquisitely. He held there, deep, and she felt the throb of him inside her, a relentless, possessive rhythm.
Then he began to move.
His grip on her hip tightened, his fingers surely leaving bruises as he set a brutal, pounding rhythm. Each thrust drove her forward against the post, the wood a hard counterpoint to the driving heat of him. The bed groaned with the force of it. He was a machine of duty, each snap of his hips a punctuation mark on his father's command.
"You feel that?" he snarled, his voice ragged with effort and something darker. "That's my cock. Claiming what's mine. Planting my seed so deep in your royal cunt, it'll have no choice but to take root.", "He was never this talkative during the other nights of them being intimate, was he still mad at the rumors, did he believed them now", that was all, Elara could think
He fucked her with a focused intensity that was more terrifying than his previous anger. This was not passion. This was a grim, determined execution of a task. And yet, her body, traitorous and alive, began to respond. A heat pooled low in her belly, coiling tighter with every deep, penetrating thrust. A soft, broken whimper escaped her lips.
He heard it. His hand on her hip slid around, his fingers finding the slick, swollen nub of her clit. The contact was electric, and she cried out, the sound muffled by the post.
"You can't help it, can you?" he mocked, his voice thick with a twisted triumph. His fingers circled her, a ruthless, precise pressure that unraveled her. "Your body wants it. This perfect, breedable body wants to be filled. Wants to be fucked full of me."
His words, his touch, the relentless drive of his cock—it was too much. The coil snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her, silent and seismic, her body convulsing around his shaft, milking him, pulling him deeper. She shook, held upright only by his iron grip and the bonds on her wrists.
Feeling her climax was his undoing. With a guttural, animalistic groan, he slammed into her one final time, his hips grinding against her ass as he emptied himself into her. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of his release, a flood claiming the deepest part of her. It seemed to go on forever, a biological mandate fulfilled.
He collapsed over her, his weight heavy and spent, his forehead resting between her shoulder blades. Their harsh, panting breaths were the only sound in the room for a long moment.
Slowly, he softened inside her. With a muttered curse, he pulled out, the sudden emptiness a shocking cold. She winced at the sensation of his spend already beginning to trickle from her. He stood, and she remained there, kneeling, bound, utterly used. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then his hands were at her wrists, untying the silk bonds with the same clinical efficiency he'd used to tie them. The blood rushed back into her hands with a painful tingle. She couldn't move, her limbs leaden.
She expected him to leave her there. To go to sleep.
But he didn't.
A moment later, a warm, damp cloth touched the inside of her thigh. She flinched. He was cleaning her. His touch was surprisingly gentle, wiping away the evidence of their congress, the physical proof of his "duty." It was a quiet, meticulous act that stood in stark, confusing contrast to the violence of his possession moments before. He said nothing.
When he was done, he tossed the cloth aside. He didn't look at her. He simply blew out the last candle, plunging the room into darkness save for the dying embers in the fireplace. The bed dipped as he got in on his side, his back to her.
She finally found the strength to move, her body aching as she crawled up onto the bed and under the covers, as far from him as she could possibly get. She lay on her side, staring at the wall, feeling the warm, aching throb between her legs.
The silence was absolute.
Then, his voice cut through the dark, flat and cold, shattering the fragile illusion of his care. "It changes nothing, Lyria. Remember that. This was your duty. Nothing more."
She squeezed her eyes shut, a single, hot tear tracing a path down her temple and into the pillow. She heard his breathing even out into the slow, deep rhythm of sleep, leaving her alone in the dark with the hollow, aching aftermath of his claim.