A week after the wedding, the palace still hummed with the aftermath of celebration and quiet mourning. Whispers followed Hazel through the corridors—some awed, some fearful—and the weight of eyes on her skin never truly lifted. Lucian noticed. He always noticed.
One morning, before dawn painted the sky, he simply took her hand.
"No more walls for a while," he said, voice low and certain. "Come with me."
They left without fanfare, only Lazarus knowing their destination. A carriage waited beyond the gates, then horses for the final stretch through dense forest. By midday they reached the cottage.
It stood alone on a gentle rise, surrounded by ancient oaks and wildflowers. Stone walls weathered to soft gray, ivy climbing the chimney, windows framed in dark wood. Inside, it was anything but rustic—polished floors, thick rugs, a massive stone fireplace, velvet drapes, and furniture carved with elegant restraint. Lazarus had kept it perfect for centuries, renovating quietly whenever time demanded.
Hazel stepped inside and felt the knot in her chest loosen.
"This is… yours?" she asked, turning in a slow circle.
"Mine," Lucian confirmed, watching her with quiet satisfaction. "No servants. No court. Just us."
Behind the cottage, hidden in the hillside, a narrow path led to a cave. Warm steam drifted from within—a natural hot spring, the water glowing faintly turquoise under torchlight.
Hazel smiled, truly smiled, for the first time in days. "This man sure likes his luxury," she murmured to herself.
Lucian chuckled, hearing her perfectly. "Rest, my love. I'll prepare food."
He guided her to the bedroom—a wide bed draped in soft linens—and knelt to slip off her shoes, fingers lingering on her ankles.
"You cook?" she asked, amused.
"Of course." He rose, pride lifting his chin. "I'm not just devastatingly handsome. I'm a man of many talents. You should be proud to call me husband."
Hazel laughed, bright and free. "I am proud. My husband loves to boast. Now go—your lady is starving. Don't keep me waiting long, servant."
Lucian's eyes darkened with playful heat. "I'll let you command me here, since we're far from prying eyes. But a good master rewards her servant's efforts."
"What do you want, my handsome servant?" she teased, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger.
He leaned close, lips brushing her ear. "I'll tell you when I'm done, my love."
He disappeared into the kitchen. Lazarus had left everything prepared—fresh game, vegetables, herbs, loaves of bread still warm from some village oven. Lucian worked with quiet efficiency, sleeves rolled to his forearms, stirring a rich lamb stew until the aroma filled the entire cottage.
When he returned, he carried a tray laden like a feast: steaming bowls, crusty bread, soft cheese, honeyed figs.
"Food is ready, master," he announced, voice mock-formal.
Hazel licked her lips. "It looks divine."
She took one spoonful of stew and closed her eyes in bliss. "How is this so much better than the palace cooks?"
Lucian's chest puffed with pride. "Because I made it for you."
She ate until she was full, then drifted into the deepest, dreamless sleep she'd had in weeks.
When she woke, sunlight slanted through the windows—it was nearly dawn the next day.
The bed was empty.
She found him outside, crouched near the tree line, fangs buried in the throat of a rabbit. His eyes had bled to black, pupils blown wide.
"What are you doing?" she asked, frowning.
He lifted his head, licking a stray drop of blood from his lip. "Morning tea."
"You've refused to drink from me," she said softly. "Why?"
"You needed rest." He set the limp rabbit aside and stood. "Come. Eat breakfast. I have somewhere to show you."
After a simple meal, he led her down the path to the cave.
Steam curled from the water's surface. The pool was wide and deep, natural stone smoothed by centuries of flow. Lucian stripped off his shirt, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the sculpted lines of muscle, the sharp V dipping below his waistband.
Hazel forgot how to breathe.
He waited, letting her look, a slow, knowing smile spreading across his face. "You look like you could devour me whole. But it's fine—I'm all yours to eat, little rabbit."
He tugged her close, the wet fabric of her dress clinging to her skin, outlining every curve. Her nipples peaked visibly beneath the thin material.
"Want to take it off?" he murmured.
Hazel blushed furiously and looked away.
He chuckled. "It's fine if you don't. Though I seem to recall seeing those two perfect peaches before."
She turned even redder. "At this rate, you'll turn me into a tomato."
Lucian laughed, the sound rich and warm. "Then let me help."
His hands were gentle as he peeled the dress from her shoulders, letting it fall away. Cool air kissed her bare skin, then his gaze—hot, reverent—made her feel anything but cold.
His breath hitched. His arousal was immediate, unmistakable. A low growl rumbled in his chest.
He kissed her—deep, claiming, tongues tangling like they'd never kissed before. His hands cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples until she moaned into his mouth. He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down her throat, then lower, taking one peaked bud into his mouth. He sucked, licked, worshipped, while his other hand kneaded her softly.
Hazel's fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, urging him on. Her moans echoed off the cave walls.
He slid a hand between her thighs, knee nudging her legs apart. His fingers found her slick heat, circling her clit with slow, teasing pressure before slipping inside.
Hazel froze, breath catching.
"Does it hurt?" he whispered against her breast.
"Yes," she admitted, voice small.
"It will ease soon. Trust me."
He moved gently—slow, shallow thrusts—until her body softened, adjusted, then began to crave more. He added a second finger, increasing the pace, curling just right.
Hazel's legs trembled. Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, sweet and overwhelming. She clutched his shoulders, moaning his name like a prayer.
Gods help me, Lucian thought, fighting the urge to take her fully. One more moment like this and I'll lose control.
When she shattered—back arching, cry echoing—he drank in the sight, the sound, the scent of her release. He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his lips, tasting her slowly.
"So sweet, Hazel," he murmured, eyes never leaving hers.
She flushed scarlet, embarrassed and exhilarated.
He bent to her throat, fangs sinking gently. Her blood flooded his mouth—warm, rich, perfect. He drank only enough to sate the edge of hunger, then lifted her into his arms.
Carrying her from the cave, water dripping from their skin, he brought her back to the cottage.
The world outside could wait.