Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The night that followed blurred like ink across parchment—soft, dark, and full of hidden meaning.
That evening, Lysandra feigned sleep until the last candle in the hallways guttered out.
She slipped from her chambers like smoke, heart pounding in rhythm with the cool hush of the castle’s corridors.
Her steps, once hesitant, grew bolder with the promise of a midnight rendezvous, guided more by instinct than courage.
The library welcomed her like a lover. The door creaked open for her alone, and within, the moonlight waited patiently.
She found herself craving the scent of old vellum and cedar shelves almost as much as the presence she knew she’d find there.
Tonight, he stood by the hearth, flames painting his face in flickers of gold and shadow.
His expression softened the moment he saw her.
Emrys was always already waiting.
“You came,” he said.
“As if I could stay away.”
He held out a hand. She crossed the room and took it without hesitation, letting him pull her gently into the circle of warmth. There was nothing innocent in the way their fingers tangled now. Nothing accidental in the way his thumb stroked over the back of her hand.
“You shouldn’t risk so much for me,” he murmured.
“I’m not risking anything,” she said, chin tilted defiantly. “I’m choosing.”
His eyes darkened. “Lysandra…” But he didn’t argue. Not anymore. Instead, he brushed a kiss over her knuckles, then guided her toward a low-backed velvet chair tucked beside a forgotten lectern.
“Tonight,” he said, retrieving a slender volume bound in indigo leather, “I thought I’d show you something.” He opened the book with reverence. The pages inside shimmered faintly with runes and ink that danced across the surface like starlight on water.
“Fae poetry?” she asked, arching a brow.
“More than that,” he said. “This is written in Sylren. The old tongue. It’s a dying script.”
“Teach it to me.”
His gaze snapped to hers, surprised. “You want to learn?”
“I want to know everything you’ll teach me.”
He stared at her a moment longer, then gave a low chuckle. “All right, little star.”
Her stomach flipped. He had never called her that before, but the name settled over her like a crown—one not of duty, but of wonder. It sounded like something he’d whispered in his dreams.
He knelt beside her chair, opening the book across both their laps.
As he spoke, she watched the way his mouth shaped the words, the rise and fall of his voice like music.
His fingers occasionally guided hers along a line, warm and firm, their knees brushing under the table.
Each touch felt deliberate now. Each glance lingered just long enough to burn.
The minutes slipped by, marked only by the crackle of fire and the slow turning of pages.
At one point, she leaned too close, and her cheek brushed his shoulder. Neither of them moved. Her breath slowed, drawn in with intent as she whispered the next line of verse back to him, syllables thick with unfamiliar grace.
“Perfect,” he murmured.
“I had a good teacher.”
Emrys turned his face toward hers. They were inches apart. The space between them pulsed with tension. It was less fragile now, more like a storm waiting for the sky to break.
His gaze dropped to her lips. “Say it again,” he whispered.
She did. And this time, the last syllable spilled from her mouth just as his found it.
The kiss was softer than the first—no less desperate, but laced with wonder.
His lips moved over hers slowly, like he was memorizing her taste.
She clutched the front of his tunic, fisting the fabric as her body leaned into his.
He responded with a groan that vibrated through his chest, his hands bracing her waist, holding her as though she might vanish.
When they broke apart, she was breathless. Dazed.
“This is madness,” he said, forehead pressing to hers.
“This is real,” she countered.
They remained tangled in silence, the fire casting golden halos around them.
Then, after a pause, he said quietly, “There’s a passage hidden behind the genealogy shelves. A study chamber no one uses anymore. If you ever need to find me… if it becomes too dangerous to meet here…”
She smiled, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw. “Show me.”
The hidden passage behind the genealogy shelves was narrow and dust-laced, but it opened into something other worldly.
Emrys led her by the hand, past books on bloodlines and succession, through a door she’d never noticed before—disguised behind an illusion spell only fae eyes could detect.
Inside was a private chamber carved of ancient stone and warmed by a hearth that responded to Emrys’s magic.
A velvet chaise sat near the fire, and tapestries hung from the walls, rich with the faded sigils of forgotten houses.
The air was thick with the scent of aged parchment, iron, and something darker, like cedar wood and restrained hunger.
Lysandra turned in a slow circle, her fingers brushing the edge of a table strewn with old scrolls and candles.
“You’ve been hiding this from me,” she said, her voice hushed with awe.
She wondered for a moment if he had ever brought anyone else here.
Envy immediately swirled and spread across her chest.
“I was hiding it from everyone,” Emrys replied, closing the door behind him. “Until you.” His tone was quiet, but laced with something dangerous, like silk wrapped around a blade.
When she turned to face him, he was already watching her with that fierce and reverent gaze, as if he were starving and she was the first breath of spring after a brutal winter.
She stepped toward him slowly, her pulse a wild thing in her throat. “Tell me what you want.”
His jaw flexed. “You already know.”
“Say it anyway.”
He didn’t speak. Not at first.
He crossed the space between them in two strides, his hand rising to cradle her jaw, thumb sweeping the edge of her bottom lip.
“I want to lose control,” he said, voice low and raw.
“I want to stop pretending I don’t think about you every time I close my eyes.
I want to kiss you until you forget your own name, until you remember only mine. ”
Her breath stuttered.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I want to take my time,” he whispered. “Undress you one piece at a time and memorize every inch of skin.”
A shiver ran through her.
She reached up, unfastening the tiny jeweled clasps at her shoulders. One by one, they fell open, and her gown slid down her body like water, pooling at her feet in a whisper of silk. She stood before him in nothing but a thin shift of moon-blushed fabric, barely more than mist.
The look on Emrys’s face made her tremble—for it was ruin all at once.
“I’m yours,” she said.
That was all it took.
He surged forward, crushing his mouth to hers with a groan that sent sparks through her entire body.
His armor was gone in moments, discarded in pieces that clattered to the floor, revealing warm skin, taut muscle, and the intricate ink of protective runes scrawled along his chest. Fae markings, meant to guard against magic, seduction, treachery.
But they did nothing to shield him from her.
He pressed her back against the table, sweeping books and scrolls aside in a careless flurry.
His hands roamed her body with worshipful intensity, fingers trailing along the curve of her waist, her hips, the back of her thighs.
He lifted her easily, setting her atop the cool wood, stepping between her legs.
“You have no idea,” he murmured against her throat, “how long I’ve dreamed of this.”
“I do,” she breathed. “Because I’ve dreamed it too.”
His hands slid beneath the thin fabric, up her thighs, parting them gently. She gasped, arching into his touch, her head falling back as his mouth descended on the hollow of her collarbone. Every kiss was fire. Every stroke was a question answered.
He took his time—gods, he took his time—tracing patterns across her skin with lips and tongue, pausing to look into her eyes whenever she moaned or whimpered his name.
When she reached for him in return, tugging at the laces of his trousers, he caught her wrist and kissed her palm, then guided her hand lower.
“Touch me,” he said, voice gone ragged.
She wrapped her fingers around the thick, silken length of him, and the low, unholy sound that tore from his throat was pure filth. Emrys’s hips jerked into her grip, involuntary, as though her touch unraveled him from the inside out.
“You shouldn’t be allowed to touch me like this,” he rasped.
“Then stop me,” she whispered.
He didn’t.
He let her stroke him—slow, teasing passes that made his eyes roll back and his abdomen flex tight. When she dragged her thumb across the swollen head, gathering the bead of moisture there and swirling it downward, his hand shot out to grab her wrist.
“Lysandra,” he warned, voice shredded. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to—”
“Do it,” she challenged, eyes wide with heat. “I want to see you fall apart.”
He growled, and the next second she was on her back, dress hiked up to her waist, thighs spread wide as he knelt between them.
The shift came next. One vicious tug and the thin silk tore down the middle, baring her fully to him.
He stared, mouth parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just come off the battle field. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”
Then, he lowered his head and devoured her.
His tongue licked a long, lazy stripe through her folds, then circled her clit with maddening precision.
He moaned against her, as though her taste was divine punishment.
His fingers spread her wider, held her still as he feasted with devastating control, alternating between slow licks and rough, wet suction that had her writhing on the chaise.
When she came, it was with a gasp and a cry, thighs clamping around his head. He didn’t stop. He licked her through it, groaning into her, lapping her release like he was insatiable.
By the time he pulled back, his mouth was wet, and his eyes were wild. “I need to be inside you,” he growled. “Now.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Fuck me.”
That was all it took.
He lined himself up and thrust deep with one fluid motion, sinking into her to the hilt. Lysandra’s back arched off the chaise, a ragged moan ripping from her throat. “Gods, yes.”
He was big. Thick. She felt stretched, full, owned in the most obscene way. He gripped her hips and began to move slowly at first, grinding deep, his pelvis rubbing against her already-sensitive clit.
The sound of skin on skin filled the chamber—wet, raw, shameless. Each thrust sent her hips jolting up to meet him. Her nails carved lines down his back, and he only fucked her harder for it.
“Say it,” he demanded, panting into her mouth. “Tell me who you belong to.”
“You,” she choked out, drunk on pleasure. “You, Emrys, gods, only you.”
“That’s right.” He pulled out and flipped her before she could breathe, dragging her onto all fours across the chaise. Then, he slammed back into her from behind.
The cry she gave was wanton, echoing off the stone walls. He gripped her hair and yanked her head back, his other hand reaching around to play with her clit while he pounded into her. The angle was ruthless. Precise.
She shattered again, legs trembling, juices soaking his cock and her thighs.
“Messy little princess,” he growled. “You’re dripping.”
“Keep going,” she begged. “Don’t stop. Use me. Use all of me.”
He lost it then.
He bent over her, biting her shoulder as he drove into her with frantic need. She clawed the cushions, mouth open in a silent scream. The orgasm built again, sharp and fast and brutal.
When it hit, she convulsed around him, tight, clenching, milking him, and with a strangled moan, he spilled inside her, deep and hot, filling her with pulse after pulse of thick release.
They collapsed, panting, bodies slick and tangled.
He stayed inside her, softening slowly, his lips brushing her spine, her shoulder, her neck.
“Mine,” he whispered. “Every inch of you. Mine.”
She turned to kiss him, and murmured against his lips: “Yours.”
The next morning, Lysandra couldn’t stop shaking.
Not from fear.
From memory.
Every brush of fabric against her skin recalled the way Emrys had touched her.
Her inner thighs were tender from the way he’d held her wide, her lips still swollen from kisses that had left her drunk on his name.
The fire of their night hadn’t faded; it lived beneath her skin, glowed in the pit of her stomach, and made her every breath feel like it belonged to him.
She wore a high-collared gown that day. Not because court demanded it, but because there were bruises blooming along her throat, her hips, her breasts—gifts he had left behind with teeth and devotion. Each one was a secret. A crown of sin only she could feel.
Emrys had vanished before dawn, slipping from the library passage and back into shadow. No words. Just one last kiss, slow and starving, and the promise of another night.
But secrecy has a scent.
And hers was all over him.
And later that afternoon, Emrys stood two paces behind her throne at a court assembly, silent and composed.
Too composed.
His eyes never met hers, but she could feel the heat of him—coiled, tense, and dangerous.
He smelled of steel and pine sap and sex.
Gods, he still carried her scent on him.
And from the twitch in his jaw, the slight flare of his nostrils when she shifted in her seat, she knew he could still smell himself on her too.
The court droned on. Trade negotiations. Border tensions. A new envoy arriving in three days.
Three days.
Lysandra’s stomach twisted.
She hadn’t forgotten. Her father’s emissaries had arranged a meeting with the prince of Virelle—a marriage prospect meant to solidify their northern alliance.
It had all seemed so far away.
But now, it felt like a guillotine hanging by thread.