9. Warmth & Roses
Chapter nine
Warmth heat pooled in her core.
“You think feeding me makes this less of a prisoner situation?” She asked coolly, crossing her arms.
“No,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on her like she was the only star left in the sky. “But I’d prefer you to be strong, not starving.”
In his other hand, he held out a gown. Black wool, cut with elegance, the hem embroidered with tiny roses, delicate as frost. She blinked. The thought in it was sharp enough to hurt.
“You’ll need it,” Ace murmured. “Winter is climbing down the mountains. And as much as I’d rather see you undressed…” His mouth curved, wolfish. “The frost is coming.”
Heat coiled in her stomach—anger, want, both at once. She snatched the dress from his hand, but her fingers lingered against the fabric. He had chosen it. For her. A kindness disguised as necessity, or necessity disguised as kindness.
“You’re trying to dress a captive like a Queen,” Scarlett said, her voice low, laced with venom. “You forget I know what this is. You took me. You chained me with your Spade magic. A gown doesn’t make it care. Or make you forgivable.”
She turned from him deliberately, letting the thin nightgown slip from her shoulders.
It whispered as it pooled at her feet, leaving her bare in quiet defiance.
She didn’t hide—every scar, bruise, and mark from Maddox and Arley caught the firelight, a testament to the strength life had carved into her.
Her lack of desire for modesty at this point is a silent challenge to him.
A dare for him to let his gaze linger or risk a touch in hidden places.
Slowly, she stepped into the black gown he had brought, silk sliding over her skin, the embroidered roses brushing her thighs like thorns. Each movement was deliberate, a provocation—showing him what he could never possess.
Ace’s gaze didn’t waver, drinking in every inch of her.
He saw the marks, the bloodstained history written in her skin, and yet he didn’t move.
His voice came low, heavy with desire. “I never wanted a queen,” he murmured, stepping closer, his tattoos shifting in the flickering firelight, chains dancing over his skin like living things.
“I want you. The broken pieces. The ones you keep hidden from everyone else. I need them to be mine.”
Scarlett’s breath caught, her pulse quickening despite herself.
She should have laughed, mocked him for his words, for his weakness.
But when his hand reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from her shoulder, her body betrayed her.
The corset of the bodice lay open, still exposing her to him.
The air between them thickened, crackling dangerously, and her skin prickled.
“I don't need you to handle my broken pieces. You don't get to pick how to put me back together either,” she whispered, but the tremor in her voice gave her away, the heat rising in her like fire. She turned, looking him in the eyes with her burning defiance, careful not to let her mask fall.
She opened her mouth to further push him away, but no words came—because his lips claimed hers before she could. The kiss was slow at first, coaxing, almost tender, like he was giving her a chance to run. She didn’t. She leaned in instead, surrendering to the pull she swore she didn’t want.
The kiss deepened—his hand sliding into her hair, tilting her head back, his other finding her waist and drawing her closer.
Her gown slipped on her hips, firelight kissing the exposed skin of her back.
Her chest pressed into him as he pulled her closer.
The starched linen of his shirt pebbling her nipples.
His mouth was hot, hungry, and all-consuming.
When her lips parted, his tongue claimed her like a thief taking what he’d already decided was his.
Scarlett clutched his chest, fingers digging into the linen.
His tattoos seemed to ripple under her touch, alive with his magic, burning where her nails scratched.
The world narrowed to heat, lips, and breaths.
The war between her mind screaming to hate him, and her body begging for more of him, was treacherous.
He pulled away just enough to catch his breath, eyes wild with something dangerous and possessive. He searched her eyes for the same desire. He didn’t let go of her waist, his grip tightening, drawing her back into him, as if he was marking her, staking his claim.
“You’re mine, Scarlett,” Ace whispered, voice gravely, every syllable laced with both conviction and need.
“You’ve been mine since the moment you dared to challenge me.
The moment you decided to drag me aside at court in the shadows.
I warned you, I'd give you exactly what you keep pretending not to beg for. ”
Scarlett’s breath hitched at the possessiveness in his words, her pulse hammering.
Her chest tightened with something that felt less like resistance—but more like surrender.
She tore herself away at last, breathless, lips swollen, pulse wild.
“I should hate you,” she muttered, voice shaking with frustration at her body's betrayal.
Ace’s smile curved, dangerous, aching, his thumb brushing her bottom lip as if memorizing the ruin he’d made. “Then hate me,” he murmured. “As long as you keep wanting me.”
Scarlett clutched the gown to her chest, covering herself, needing its weight between them. She turned before he could see the war in her expression.
Only the echo of his kiss, the truth of his words, and the gnawing knowledge that desire and hatred were not so different after all.
His footsteps echoed as he turned away from her.
Ace stood at the threshold, looking back for a moment at her with fire in his veins, watching the girl who might yet ruin him.
“Remember this, Scarlett,” he called, his voice rough, commanding. “No matter how far you run, you’ll always come back. You belong to me now. And I always protect what’s mine.”
The door clicked shut, but the burn of his words lingered, a mark that no gown could hide.