The next day,at night, in their chamber.
"I thought you were asleep," he murmured against her neck, his voice a low vibration that traveled straight through her skin.
Elara's breath hitched, a soft, shaky sound in the silent chamber. "I was. Then I wasn't."
Kael's hand, which had been resting gently on her hip, curled inward, his fingers pressing lightly into the thin silk of her nightgown. "Bad dreams?"
"No," she whispered, her own hand coming up to cover his. "Just thoughts. Loud ones."
He shifted behind her, the fine linen of his trousers brushing against her bare legs beneath the sheets. The warmth of his chest against her back was a solid, comforting weight. A luxury she was still learning to accept.
"Tell me," he said. It wasn't an order. It was a quiet plea for entry.
She rolled over to face him. Moonlight, silver and stark, cut through the balcony doors, illuminating the stark planes of his face, the regret etched beside his eyes. The garden below was a canvas of shadows, the very place where, mere hours ago, the chasm between them had felt infinite.
This afternoon…
The scent of silver roses was cloying, thick as honey in the humid air. Elara had stood perfectly still, a queen carved from marble, as Kael's confession hung between them.
"I didn't know how to choose you," he'd said, his voice rough with a pain that seemed to age him. "Not when everything I was taught told me not to."
Her heart, a frantic bird against her ribs, had threatened to break free. The memory of his silence in the throne room, the cold doubt in his eyes when her lineage was revealed, was a fresh wound. "You chose me in the throne room," she stated, her voice devoid of the tremor she felt inside.
He had taken a step closer, the gravel crunching softly under his boot. A bridge being built, one hesitant stone at a time. "I chose you too late."
The honesty in it disarmed her. The rigid General, the unwavering pillar of duty, was admitting a flaw. A failure. Not to the crown, but to her. Her breath had caught, a tiny, broken sound. "You chose me."
When his hand found hers, his calloused fingers tentative against her palm, she had let him. She had to. But the part of her that had built walls against the world, against the hurt his uncertainty had caused, remained guarded. She did not squeeze back.
Not yet.
Now, in the dark of their chambers, those walls felt less solid. The memory of the Assembly meeting that followed was a cold splash of reality—Lucien's grim report of rebellions brewing in Seraphina's name, the lingering threat of Dorian's shadow. It was a world of stone and strategy. But here… here was something softer. Something far more vulnerable.
"Yesterday was a lot," she finally said, answering his question from the darkness.
His thumb began to stroke the curve of her hip, a slow, hypnotic rhythm. "It was. You were magnificent. The way you faced them down…" He breathed in deeply, the scent of her hair—jasmine and night air. "You didn't need me there at all."
"But I wanted you there," she whispered, and the admission seemed to shift the very air between them.
His hand stilled. He searched her face in the moonlight, his gaze intense, hungry for the truth in her words. Slowly, as if giving her every second to pull away, he leaned in.
The first brush of his lips was a question. Soft. Tentative. A stark contrast to the desperate, bruising kisses they'd shared before, born of fear and anger and the precipice of loss. This was different. This was a beginning.
Elara answered by parting her lips, a silent yes that he accepted with a soft groan. The warmth she'd felt against her back now flooded her front as he shifted to pull her closer, one arm sliding beneath her neck, the other wrapping around her waist to mold her body against the hard lines of his.
There was no hurry. No frantic race to remove clothing. There was only the slow, deep exploration of his mouth on hers, the taste of wine and mint and Kael. His tongue traced the seam of her lips before delving inside, and a shuddering sigh escaped her. Her hands came up, one tangling in the dark silk of his hair, the other splaying across the broad strength of his back, feeling the muscles shift and tense beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
He broke the kiss, both of them breathing heavily. His forehead rested against hers, their breath mingling in the scant space between them. "I don't deserve you," he breathed, the words a ragged confession.
She smiled, a real, unguarded smile she felt him feel against his skin. "Then earn me."
His sharp intake of breath was her reward. "Every day."
Her fingers drifted from his hair to trace the line of his jaw, rough with evening stubble. "Start now."
A new kind of intensity flickered in his eyes. He lowered his head again, but this time his lips found the delicate skin beneath her ear, then the column of her throat. His kisses were slow, worshipful, each one a brand that seared away the lingering chill of doubt. She arched into him, a soft moan escaping as his hands began to move.
One slid down her side, coming to rest on the hem of her nightgown. His fingers dipped beneath the delicate silk, brushing against the bare skin of her thigh. The sensation was electric. Her grip on his back tightened.
"Kael…" His name was a plea on her lips.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her collarbone, his breath hot on her damp skin. His hand inched higher, a promise of heat and friction.
She couldn't form the words. All she could do was shake her head, her eyes closed, lost in the sensation. His fingers traced lazy circles on her inner thigh, moving higher with agonizing slowness, each inch a new universe of feeling.
He shifted above her, bracing his weight on one arm, his eyes dark with a desire she felt mirrored in her own blood. His free hand came up to the ribbon tie at the neckline of her gown. He paused, his eyes locking with hers, asking a final, silent permission.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild drumbeat fueling the flush spreading across her chest. She gave a single, slight nod.
His fingers, usually so sure and steady with a sword, fumbled for a moment with the delicate silk ribbon. It came loose with a soft whisper. Slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, he drew the fabric aside, baring her shoulder, then the gentle swell of her breast to the cool night air and the heat of his sight.
The look on his face was one of pure, unadulterated awe. He didn't move to touch, he simply looked, his breath catching as his eyes traced the revealed skin.
"Lyria…" he breathed, and her name had never sounded so sacred.
His head began to lower, his lips aiming for the flushed, sensitive skin he'd unveiled. The air crackled with the anticipation of that contact.
But just before his mouth could claim her, a sharp, frantic knock echoed through the chamber door.
They froze.
The spell shattered.
The real world, with all its dangers and demands, came crashing back in.
Kael's head snapped up, his body instantly rigid, every inch the General again. His eyes, however, remained locked on hers, blazing with a frustration that matched the sudden, painful throb of her own pulse.
The knocking came again, more insistent this time.
"Your Majesty!" a voice called from the other side of the door, strained and urgent. "You need to come at once. There's been… there's been an incident at the gates."
The urgency in the guard's voice was a cold splash of water. Kael was on his feet in an instant, the shift from lover to protector seamless and absolute. He grabbed his sword belt from a nearby chair, his movements efficient and hardened by years of discipline.
Elara's own reaction was slower, her body still humming with the phantom sensations of his touch. She pulled the silk of her nightgown back over her shoulder, the fabric feeling flimsy and utterly inadequate against the sudden chill of the interrupted moment. Her fingers trembled as she tied the ribbon, the simple act feeling impossibly difficult.
"What incident?" Kael's voice was a low, commanding growl aimed at the door, his body positioned slightly in front of hers, a shield.
"A… a disturbance, General," the guard stammered from the hallway. "A merchant's cart overturned just inside the main gate. The goods are scattered. He's causing a scene, shouting about sabotage. The Captain of the Guard thought the Queen should be informed."
A cart. An overturned cart.
The anticlimax of it was so profound that a slightly hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up in Elara's throat. She saw the same fierce frustration tighten Kael's jaw. Their world had been on the brink of war, of rebellion, of assassination, and they were being summoned for… a traffic incident.
But a queen's duty was never just to the grand schemes. It was to the minute-by-minute peace of her people.
"We will be there directly," Elara announced, her voice regal and steady, a stark contrast to the disarray she felt inside. She rose from the bed, drawing a heavy velvet robe over her nightgown, its weight a small comfort.
The scene at the main gate was exactly as described, a comedy of errors under the torchlight. A spooked horse had bolted, catching its wheel on a loose cobblestone and sending a load of pottery and textiles spilling across the courtyard. The merchant, a red-faced man with a dramatic flair, was indeed wailing about his ruined wares, though any talk of "sabotage" seemed to evaporate the moment he laid eyes on his queen.
Elara handled it with a graceful efficiency that made Kael's chest ache with pride. She soothed the merchant, directed guards to help right the cart and gather the salvageable goods, and promised compensation from the royal coffers for his trouble. Within twenty minutes, the crisis was averted, the courtyard was clearing, and the only evidence was the lingering smell of horse and a few shards of broken ceramic.
The walk back to the royal wing was silent, their path lit by a handful of torches and the full, silver moon. The air between them, once crackling with need, now hummed with a different energy—a shared, simmering frustration and the lingering warmth of what had been so abruptly taken from them.
They passed the entrance to the formal dining hall, its grand doors open to air out the room. Moonlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the vast, polished table and the high-backed chairs that sat like silent sentinels.
Kael stopped walking. He placed a hand on Elara's arm, his touch gentle but firm, stopping her as well.
She turned to him, a question in her eyes.
He didn't speak. He simply looked from her to the empty, moon-drenched room and back again. The meaning was clear, a silent suggestion that made her breath catch.
The world interrupted us once tonight, his eyes seemed to say. It doesn't get to do it again.
Without a word, he guided her inside, his hand sliding down her arm to interlace his fingers with hers. The great door clicked shut behind them, the sound echoing softly in the vast, silent space. They were alone. Truly alone.
He backed her against the cool, polished wood of the door, caging her in with his arms, his body not quite touching hers. The scent of him—leather, night air, and pure, masculine want—washed over her.
"That was a very long twenty minutes," he murmured, his voice rough-edged.
"An eternity," she agreed, her own voice whisper-soft.
His gaze dropped to her lips. "I believe I was in the middle of earning you."
Her heart thudded against her ribs. "I believe you were."
That was all the permission he needed. He closed the scant distance between them, his mouth capturing hers in a kiss that was nothing like the tender exploration in her chambers. This was all pent-up hunger and reclaimed territory. It was deep and desperate, a silent conversation of frustration and promise.
Elara met his ferocity with her own, her hands coming up to grip the hard muscles of his shoulders, holding on as the world tilted. The cold door at her back, the heat of his chest against her front—it was a delicious contrast that made her head spin.
His hands roamed, sliding over the velvet of her robe before finding the tie and pulling it loose. The heavy fabric fell open. His palms found the thin silk of her nightgown beneath, and he groaned into her mouth at the feel of it, at the feel of her beneath it.
He broke the kiss, both of them breathing in ragged unison. His eyes were dark pools of desire in the moonlight. "This is highly inappropriate," he breathed, his voice a thrilling rasp. "The Queen. In her dining hall."
"Scandalous," she agreed, a slow, seductive smile spreading across her lips.
That smile undid him. His mouth found the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, kissing and nipping gently at the skin there until she moaned, her head falling back against the door with a soft thud. His hands slid down her sides, coming to rest on her hips before gripping them and lifting her effortlessly.
She gasped as he sat her on the edge of the immense dining table, the polished wood cool even through her silken gown. He stepped between her legs, his hands braced on the table on either side of her, leaning in to claim her mouth once more. This new height aligned them perfectly, the hard ridge of his desire pressing against her core through their clothes, a blunt, thrilling promise.
A shuddering wave of pleasure rolled through her. Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel his skin. She managed to get a few undone, sliding her hands inside to feel the warm, solid plane of his chest, the crisp hair, the frantic beat of his heart against her palm.
His own hands were busy, gathering the fabric of her nightgown in his fists, slowly dragging it up her thighs. The cool air kissed her skin, followed by the searing heat of his touch as his hands slid underneath to caress her bare hips. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers as he looked down between them, watching his own hands smooth over the silken skin of her thighs, his thumbs stroking lazy, inward circles.
"Kael…" his name was a breathless sigh.
"I know," he murmured, his voice thick with a restraint that was visibly costing him. His thumbs moved higher, tracing the crease where her thigh met her hip, a feather-light touch that made her jolt with anticipation. He was so close to where she ached for him, yet he didn't rush, drawing out the torment with a master's patience.
He leaned down, his lips following the path his hands had taken, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her knee, then higher, along the trembling muscle of her thigh. Each kiss was a brand, a claim. Elara's fingers tangled in his dark hair, not to guide him, but to anchor herself as sensation threatened to sweep her away.
He was worshiping her. And she was melting under the attention, a low, continuous moan escaping her lips. The world had narrowed to this room, to this man, to the exquisite tension coiling deep within her.
Suddenly, he straightened up. His eyes, glazed with passion, met hers. Without a word, he slid his hands under her, one arm curving behind her back, the other under her knees.
She gasped as he lifted her easily from the table, holding her cradled against his chest. "What are you doing?"
He looked down at her, his expression fierce with possession and tenderness. "Taking you to bed," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "The dining table is no place for a queen.