21. Chapter 21
twenty-one
B rielle
As I step into the throne room, its grandeur hits me with quiet awe. The vast, echoing space seems to hum with ancient power, the walls rising like cliffs, their intricate carvings pulling my gaze. The soft glow of candlelight flickers off gilded arches, and every step I take echoes through the stone, amplifying the quiet power of the room. My hand is wrapped in his, grounding me as my gaze drifts to the heart of the space; to the twin thrones standing side by side. They are a matched pair, yet so unmistakably different.
The throne on the right looms with an imposing presence, its tall back a jagged line of sharp, ruthless edges. The deep black of its wood seems to swallow the light, radiating an aura of power and strength, a seat that demands respect and submission.
But it’s the throne on the left that truly holds my attention. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Dark vines twist around its frame, curling in intricate, baroque patterns that soften the severity of its structure. The seat and back are upholstered in rich, dark leather, every stitch precise, every button perfectly placed, the padding almost inviting me to sink into it. Its design is delicate yet commanding, with branches weaving in and out of the ornate woodwork, as if the throne itself pulses with life.
We stop before it, and he turns to me. His gaze is intense, a small smile curving his lips. “This is yours,” he says, his voice low and reverent. “If you wish to take it.”
A thrill courses through me at his words. Mine. I can almost see myself there, seated in that dark majesty, the weight of it fitting around me like a crown. But before I can respond, a weak, broken voice cuts through the silence.
“Brielle… is that you?”
The sound comes from off to the left. It’s a voice I haven’t heard in what feels like a lifetime. I turn, my gaze slipping from the throne, and there, huddled in a cage, pale and gaunt, is Henry. I blink, startled. The man before me is a shadow of who he once was. He’s smaller now, frail even, and his eyes have lost their cold, commanding edge. He stares up at me, his face marked by disbelief, confusion… maybe even fear. The sight of him is jarring, so utterly different from the image of him I carry in my memory, that for a moment, I feel rooted to the spot.
He looks… helpless. Weak. And it’s baffling, like the world has tilted on its axis, unraveling everything I thought I knew. I never imagined I’d see him like this, reduced to such a pitiful state. The familiar war inside me ignites, roaring in my ears like a storm caught between duty and desire. I should feel sorry for him, shouldn’t I? I should pity the shell of a man he’s become, twisted and shrunken behind these iron bars. Everyone has a chance to change, don’t they? But as Henry stares up at me, his brows knitting together in fury, I feel only the cold weight of satisfaction settling into my bones.
He squints, taking in the way I’m dressed—like royalty, like something untouchable. “What is this?” he spits, his voice a rasp. “Why are you dressed like that? Are you with him ?”
I take an instinctive step back, the heavy silk of my gown brushing against my legs. He stands, gripping the bars of his cage, and I try not to flinch as he stumbles slightly. His gaze burns, furious and accusing, yet beneath it, I can see the hollow weakness in his frame, the trembling in his fingers as he clings to the metal.
“Well, don’t just stand there staring at me,” he snaps, his voice raw with anger and disbelief. “Get me out of here. Now, Brielle.”
I don’t move. My legs feel leaden, my body frozen in place, as if some force holds me back. I take another step backward, my spine pressing against Thorne’s solid, reassuring chest. His hands come to rest on my arms, his touch gentle, grounding. He leans in close, his breath warm against my ear, his voice a low murmur that somehow cuts through the chaos inside me.
“Breathe,” he whispers. “You are safe. You are in control.”
Henry’s enraged shout cuts through the stillness, desperate and venomous. “Get your fucking hands off of her!” He lunges against the bars, rattling the cage, his face contorting with anger. “Brielle, my love, let me out of here! We can go home.”
Home. The word feels foreign, hollow, as if it belongs to someone else’s life. I shake my head, my lips parting to respond, but the words refuse to come. They tangle in my throat, trapped by the weight of years spent swallowing my own pain, my own silence.
Henry stares at me, as I shake my head again, more firmly this time.
His face twists, his eyes narrowing with dark rage. “What the fuck do you mean, no?” His voice drops to a threatening growl. “You let me out of this godforsaken cage now, Brielle, or I will—”
Thorne’s expression darkens, his jaw clenched as he steps forward, positioning himself between me and the cage. His eyes flash with fierce intensity, a protective edge sharpening his features. “You watch your tongue, or I’ll cut it out and feed it to you. No more threats. We both know no harm will come to her while I’m breathing.”
I can feel the tension crackle in the air, thick and electric, as Thorne’s gaze shifts to me. His eyes soften. “His fate rests in your hands,” he says, his voice smooth and tempting, wrapping around me. “You can choose to release him if that’s what you desire.”
I see the truth in his words, the weight of my power hanging between us. “Or you can choose your throne.”
My gaze drifts to the throne he crafted for me, the intricately carved vines curling around it, the dark elegance of it calling to a power deep inside me. But Henry’s voice slices through the moment, dragging me back with its bitter bite.
“To leave me to die in here… that’s cruel,” he spits, his voice hoarse with desperation and malice. His eyes narrow, his lips curl as he adds, “You evil, cruel whore. After all I’ve done for you.”
The word "cruel" snaps through my thoughts like a slap, breaking whatever hesitation had trapped my voice in my throat. My head whips toward him, my eyes hard and unyielding, locking onto his. “Cruel?” I echo, my voice sharper, colder than I’ve ever heard it. I see the shock flicker across his face, the faintest widening of his eyes as he realizes he’s lost control of me; lost the power he once held over me.
He stares, uncomprehending, as I take a step forward, my tone deadly calm, each word cutting. “You dare to call me cruel, Henry?” My voice doesn’t waver; it doesn’t break. Instead, it grows stronger, gathering momentum. “What? Didn’t think my voice could rise above yours?” I take a bitter satisfaction in watching him flinch, the disbelief rippling across his face. “No, I bet you never thought my voice could go higher than a whisper, did you?”
Henry’s mouth opens and closes, grasping for a retort, but I’m not finished.
To call me cruel,” I say, a harsh laugh escaping, “is almost laughable, coming from a man who chose cruelty at every single opportunity. A man who never missed a chance to crush, belittle, and control.”
I can feel Thorne’s presence behind me, steady and silent, a solid reminder that I’m no longer alone in this. But I don’t need him to stand up to Henry now.
Henry stares at me, his eyes wide with disbelief and barely contained fury. His voice shakes as he snaps, “You are my wife, and I demand you let me out of here. This isn’t you, Brielle. Snap out of it.”
A chill runs through me, but I don’t flinch, it’s no longer fear that meets his yelling but cold, hard, anger. Instead, I tilt my head, allowing a small smile to play on my lips. “No, Henry,” I say, my voice cutting through his command like a blade. “I am no longer yours; your wife, your servant, your outlet for every twisted scrap of rage you could conjure. You took my love and devotion, bent them into something small and weak, something you thought you could control. But look at me now.”
His face darkens, his rage pooling in his expression like ink spreading through water. “You think this means anything? That you’re some queen now?” His laugh is jagged, bitter. “You’re nothing more than his whore. When he’s done with you, you’ll be tossed aside, left with nothing. You’re just trading one man’s control for another.”
I can’t help but smile, and take in the pathetic figure before me; shackled and raging, desperate to claw back his stolen power. I feel a surge of satisfaction, powerful and absolute. “Control?” I echo, my voice low and soft, venom wrapped in silk. “You have no idea. Thorne doesn’t control me; if anything, it’s quite the opposite. You should’ve seen him, Henry, the way he crawled to me, the way his hand touched me, but only after I told him he could. The only time I wasn’t in control was when he played me like a perfectly tuned harp. The way I lost control of my body as I shook and came on his fingers. Something you were never able to do.”
His jaw clenches, and I watch the shock and fury twist in his eyes as the words sink in. But he says nothing; his silence feels like a victory. Slowly, I walk to the throne he’s gifted me, letting the weight of it sink over me, the dark allure of its sharp edges and rich detail. As I settle into it, I see Thorne’s body language shift, the faintest trace of relief softens his usually fierce gaze, as if he’d almost doubted I would choose this, choose him . But he closes the distance between us, lifting my hand to press a tender kiss to my fingers. I can feel the warmth of his touch seep into me, grounding me.
Then, as Henry’s pitiful shouting turns into incoherent rage from the cage, Thorne drops to his knees before me, his voice a low rumble. “My queen,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing up my calves, then higher, his gaze never breaking from mine. “You truly amaze me.”
He slides his hands slowly, reverently, up my legs, his fingers grazing my skin with a touch that sends a delicious shiver through me. He hikes up the hem of my dress, exposing me to the cool air, each movement deliberate. “Allow me,” he says, his voice thick with reverence, “to let you lose control again.”
He trails his lips over the sensitive skin of my thighs, nipping, sucking, each touch building tension until I arch forward, gasping. His mouth moves with purpose and devotion, pressing deep, his tongue tasting, claiming, until I’m nothing but sensation, Henry’s pitiful cries barely a murmur beneath the waves of pleasure building inside me.
His hands anchor me, strong and sure, and I feel each exhale against my skin, intensifying the thrill of each kiss, each teasing nip that pulls me deeper into his rhythm. I arch into him as his tongue finally reaches the aching part of me, pressing deeper, tasting me, drawing me into a world where the rest of the room fades into oblivion. His movements are precise, unhurried, as if savoring each response he draws from me, and a gasp slips out as he pushes me closer, each flicker of his tongue coaxing me further out of control.
In the background, Henry’s voice rises in furious cries, his words turning into a bitter wail that does nothing to break the spell Thorne has cast. Instead, it heightens the pleasure, the reminder of the power I hold here, seated on my throne while Thorne gives himself to me entirely. His hands slide upward, fingers digging just enough to ground me as he deepens his movements, mouth pressing hard, his tongue relentless.
He pauses, lips hovering, and lifts his head just slightly. “Hear him, Brielle,” he says, his voice low, satisfied, as he slides his hands higher, drawing me closer. “Let his cries remind you exactly how far you’ve risen.” Then his mouth is on me again, his devotion boundless, his control absolute as he brings me to the edge and holds me there, every nerve attuned to his touch, and the world beyond this throne, this room, forgotten.
He explores me, his tongue finding each sensitive point, tracing circles that push me to the edge, then pull me back, devouring me like a man starved. I feel myself sink into the throne, my hands gripping its arms as the sensations build, sharp and consuming.
Henry’s furious voice rises again, a cracked, hoarse cry. “Brielle, stop this! Do you hear me? This is…this is madness!”
His voice, once powerful, now feels pitifully small. I glance over, eyes sharp, letting him see the pleasure etched on my face, each blissful tremor that Thorne’s touch elicits. Henry’s anger is a hollow echo here, swallowed up by the space, powerless against the reality of this moment. A smile curves my lips as I let my head fall back, savoring the contrast; the fury in Henry’s voice and the pure worship in Thorne’s touch.
Thorne’s hands tighten on my thighs as his tongue flattens against my clit, his gaze flicking up to mine, daring me to hold his eyes while he draws me closer and closer to that peak. He smiles, a devilish grin, as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. Each stroke of his tongue is deliberate, a careful, consuming rhythm that leaves no room for restraint. My breath comes quicker, my body arching toward him, surrendering fully.
Henry’s voice trembles as he snarls, “You think this makes you powerful? This, this grotesque display?” But there’s a note of desperation in his voice now, a weakness that I’ve never heard from him before.
Thorne doesn’t break his rhythm, not even for a second. He continues to worship me with a devotion that feels almost sacred, each stroke of his tongue a promise that he is mine, completely, utterly. His mouth moves with deliberate hunger, tasting me, claiming me with every flick, every press of his tongue. He knows me, understands me; knows just how to coax me, to break down every barrier I’ve ever had. His touch is slow, almost maddening, as he drives me to the edge, keeping me just shy of release.
I can feel the pressure building, hot and sharp in the pit of my stomach. It’s unbearable, each second stretching longer, teasing me with a sweet kind of torment. My breath comes in shallow gasps, my body trembling with the strain of holding back, of wanting to lose myself in him completely. But I can’t stop watching him, his focus unbroken, his hands and mouth moving in perfect harmony. He’s completely in control, and yet, there’s a piece of me that feels like I’m the one holding all the power now.
The pressure inside me is unbearable now. He pulls back slightly, smiling at the way I whine at his mouth’s departure, his hands shifting to gently guide mine away from the throne. His fingers are firm, yet gentle, as he takes my hand, leading it to his head. His breath brushes against my skin, my hips moving as if reaching for him, begging for his return.
“Use me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, “Take your pleasure.” I feel the pull of his command deep inside me, and without a moment’s hesitation, I guide his face back to where I need him most, my fingers tangling in his hair as I guide him right where I want him.
Thorne doesn’t resist. He sinks into the rhythm, his hands anchoring my hips as I ride his face, my grip on his head tightening as the pleasure rushes back in. The room fades away, leaving only the feeling of him, of his mouth and his devotion, of the control I hold over him even as my body trembles in surrender. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t falter. I move faster now, desperation mixing with desire as I feel the final crescendo building in my chest, swirling with intensity. My breath quickens, my body shakes as the wave rises higher. Thorne doesn’t pull away, he sucks harder, licks faster, willing suffacate in my release.
And then, with a cry that echoes through the room, the pressure breaks, and I fall into the warmth of my orgasm, riding the pleasure that he’s given me, losing myself entirely in him. His hands hold me tight, his mouth never leaving me, until the last shudder of my climax fades.
Only then does he lift his head, his gaze dark, knowing, as if he’s tasted every inch of me and claimed it. I’m left breathless, my body still quaking in the aftermath, but in his eyes, I see nothing but satisfaction and a burning hunger for more.
Thorne rises slowly, his gaze heavy with satisfaction as he looks down at me before turning to face Henry. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, lingering for effect, a wicked smile on display.
"Now that, Henry," he says, letting each word drip with smugness, "is how you treat a queen."
Henry’s face twists with rage. His eyes land on me, and I can feel the disgust, the bitterness burning in his gaze as he takes in my flushed cheeks, my breath still unsteady as I stand and smooth down my dress, knees weak but head held high.
"So," he spits, each word sharp and full of contempt, "what is to be done with me? I’ve been your prisoner."
"Either kill me or let me go. Get on with it."
I shift my gaze to Thorne, his eyes already waiting for mine, curiosity dancing behind that intense stare. There’s a hint of amusement in his expression, but also respect; he’s deferring to me. “Hmm,” he murmurs, his voice softening like he already knows my answer, “What do you think, my love?”
I look at Henry, really look at him, taking in every piece of what he is now: weakened, desperate, a shadow of the monster who once controlled me. He’s not even close to who he was — all his power gone, all his strength sapped. The irony tastes almost as sweet as my victory. My voice is steady, steel in every word.
"Release him."
Thorne’s head jerks toward me, his brows pulling together in genuine shock. He steps closer, searching my face as if he must have misheard.
"Release him?" he repeats, voice low and disbelieving. "What?"
I hold his gaze, unwavering. "Yes," I say, my tone as firm as steel. "Release him."
The weight of my words hangs between us. There’s no need for more explanation; I know what I must do.