He carried her through the silent corridors of the palace, his steps swift and sure. Elara curled against his chest, her face buried in the warm linen of his shirt, breathing in the scent that was so uniquely his. The world was a blur of shadows and torchlight, but in his arms, she felt utterly safe. Utterly claimed.
He shouldered open the door to their chambers, kicking it shut behind them with a finality that echoed through the room. The opulent space, usually a symbol of her solitary duty, felt different now. It felt like a sanctuary.
He didn't lay her on the bed immediately. Instead, he stood in the center of the room, still cradling her, and just looked at her. The moonlight from the balcony painted her face in silver, and the raw admiration in his gaze made her feel more seen, more beautiful, than she ever had before.
Slowly, he lowered her until her feet touched the floor, but he didn't let her go. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.
"No more interruptions," he vowed, his voice a low, gravelly promise that vibrated deep within her.
"No more interruptions," she echoed, her voice barely a whisper.
This time, when his lips met hers, it was a fusion of all the moments they had lost. It was the tenderness from her balcony, the desperate hunger from the dining hall, and a new, staggering depth of feeling that left her breathless. His tongue delved into her mouth with a claiming sweetness that made her knees weak. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on as he slowly, deliberately, walked her backward toward the waiting bed.
The backs of her knees hit the edge of the mattress, and she sank down onto the soft quilts. He followed her down, bracing his weight on his arms above her, never breaking the kiss. His body was a delicious, heavy warmth covering hers, and she arched into him, a silent plea for more.
His hands began to move, rediscovering her. He drew the velvet robe from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. His fingers found the ribbon of her nightgown again, and this time, there was no fumbling. With a gentle tug, the bow gave way. He peeled the delicate silk from her skin, easing it down over her shoulders, her arms, her hips, until she lay bare before him in the moonlit gloom.
The cool air was a shock, followed instantly by the searing heat of his gaze. He looked his fill, his eyes dark with a reverence that stole the air from her lungs. _"Gods, Lyria… you are…" oh how she wished he could call her by her real name but she's still doesn't mind it.
He had no words. Instead, he lowered his head and let his mouth finish the sentence.
His lips traced a path of fire down her neck, to the frantic pulse at the base of her throat. He worshipped the slope of her shoulder, the delicate curve of her collarbone. Each kiss was a soft, wet promise. Each flick of his tongue a tiny lightning strike of pleasure. When his mouth finally closed over one taut peak, she cried out, her back bowing off the bed. He laved her with his tongue, suckling gently, then with more pressure, until she was a writhing, pleading mess beneath him. Her fingers scrambled at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin.
He obliged, rising up on his knees to pull the linen over his head and toss it aside. The sight of him, all sculpted muscle and shadow in the silver light, made her breath catch. She reached for him, her hands smoothing over the hard planes of his chest, the defined ridges of his abdomen. She traced the old, silvery scars that mapped his history—a history of duty that had almost cost him everything.
He watched her touch him, his expression one of pained ecstasy. When her fingers reached the waistband of his trousers, he stilled her hand, interlacing his fingers with hers.
"Let me," he whispered, his voice strained. "Let me worship you first."
He gently pressed her back down, his eyes holding hers captive. He kissed her navel, the sensitive skin of her hip, the inside of her thigh. He was a man on a pilgrimage, and her body was his sacred text. He explored every line, every curve, with his hands and his mouth, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan his name into the quiet room.
The coil of pleasure tightened deep within her, a sweet, agonizing pressure building with every pass of his clever fingers, every stroke of his tongue. She was floating, lost in a haze of sensation, aware of nothing but the feel of this man loving her.
And then, his touch stilled. He moved over her again, settling his weight between her thighs. The rough fabric of his trousers was a harsh contrast to her bare skin. He looked down at her, his face a mask of fierce tenderness and barely leashed control.
"You are my queen," he breathed, the words a vow. "My heart. My choice."
He lowered himself, capturing her lips in a deep, soul-sealing kiss as he rocked his hips against hers. The friction, even through the barrier of his clothes, was exquisite. It was a hint of the union to come, a promise of a fullness she ached for. She met his rhythm, her own hips rising to meet his, a soft, broken cry escaping her lips with every movement.
The world narrowed to this. To the slide of skin on fabric, to the shared breath, to the pounding of their hearts syncing into one frantic beat. The pressure built to a dizzying peak, teetering on the edge of release without quite falling. It was torture. It was bliss.
And then, with a final, shuddering rock of his hips against her core, he spilled over the edge with a guttural groan against her neck, his body tensing above hers. The raw, helpless sound of his pleasure pushed her own release to its crest, a wave of intense, pulsing warmth that crashed through her, leaving her trembling and breathless in its wake.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. He collapsed beside her, gathering her instantly into his arms, pulling the quilts over their cooling bodies. He held her tightly, his face buried in her hair, his heart still hammering against her back.
As his breathing evened out into the deep, steady rhythm of sleep, Elara lay awake, cradled in his embrace. The moonlight shifted across the room.
And a thought, clear and impossible, rose from the deepest part of her mind.
I wrote this.
The disbelief was a quiet tremor in her soul. I wrote him. I created this fierce, loyal, passionate man from ink and imagination. I typed his name—Kael—and gave him a father's orders, a soldier's duty, and a heart meant for Seraphina.
A faint, incredulous smile touched her lips. In the story she'd crafted, he had been a ruthless king , designed to love the queen Seraphina and not Lyria. He was supposed to be cruel to others including Lyria.
But this… this man who held her as if she were the most precious thing in his world… this was not the character she'd written. This was something real. Something more.
The joy that bloomed in her chest was so profound it was almost painful. It was a secret euphoria, a victory no one else could ever understand. She had built these walls, this palace, these conflicts, and now she was living within them. And the greatest creation of all, the man she had designed to be nobody to her,but the man Lyria didn't marry, was sleeping beside her, his arm a protective weight across her waist.
He had been hers on paper, and now, in this impossible reality, he was hers in truth.
The next morning, a silver carriage arrived at the palace gates.
Inside: a diplomat from Vale.
Lady Maelis.
Elara's cousin.
Sharp-eyed. Soft-spoken. Dangerous in silk.
She bowed low before Elara in the throne room.
"We come in peace," she said. "But we come with questions."
Elara's voice was calm. "Ask them."
Lady Maelis smiled. "Are you happy?"
Elara blinked.
The court held its breath.
Kael stepped forward. "She is queen."
Lady Maelis didn't look at him.
Only at Elara.
"Is that the same thing?"
---
That night, Kael found Elara in the garden.
She was barefoot in the grass, her hair loose, her eyes distant.
He stepped behind her.
"Tell me what you're thinking."
Elara turned. "I'm thinking about what comes next."
Kael's voice was low. "With us?"
"With everything."
Kael reached for her hand. "Start with us."
She smiled. "We're already started."
He kissed her.
Slow.
Certain.
And the garden bloomed around them.