Chapter 3
Chapter Three
That evening, she returned to the hidden chamber early.
She sat on the chaise with her knees pulled to her chest, firelight dancing across her skin, waiting.
She waited for him to come back and swear they’d figure this out; that they’d run, or fight, or make the kingdom burn if it tried to separate them.
The door creaked open.
She looked up, breath catching, only to be met with Emrys’s storm-dark eyes, unreadable and flat.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Didn’t speak. Didn’t touch her.
“Emrys?”
He didn’t move.
“What’s wrong?”
He dragged a hand over his face, exhaling like he’d just been punched. “The queen’s handmaid was near the west library this morning. She said she saw movement in the passage.”
Lysandra’s blood went cold. “She didn’t see us?”
“No.” His voice was tight. “But it won’t take much. All it takes is one whisper. One wrong scent. One misplaced mark.” He reached her now, finally, but his hands didn’t touch, only hovered near her shoulders, trembling. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
“Then don’t push me away,” she said, voice rising. “Don’t act like what we have is some mistake.”
“It’s not,” he snapped. “That’s the problem.”
Her lip quivered, but she didn’t let the tears fall. “I love you.”
His breath hitched.
“I would give up the throne for you,” she continued, heart raw. “I would run. Tonight. Just say the word.”
“No,” he growled. “You were born to rule.”
“I was born to feel,” she bit back. “And I feel more alive with you than I ever have surrounded by gold and duty.”
He closed the distance then, finally, grabbing her face in both hands and pressing their foreheads together.
“You undo me,” he whispered. “Every fucking part of me.” His lips crashed into hers, desperate, bruising.
But this kiss was different, laced with something more fragile beneath the hunger. Something that felt like goodbye.
When he pulled away, she wouldn’t let him go. Her hands fisted in his tunic. “Don’t you dare leave me.”
“I won’t,” he promised. “Not unless you tell me to.”
“Never.”
“We need to be smarter,” he said, breathing ragged. “No more open wandering. No more hours in this chamber. We’ll meet in shadows. Move like ghosts.”
“And when the prince comes?”
His expression darkened. “I’ll be watching.”
Lysandra’s eyes burned. “You’ll be killing.”
His jaw flexed. He didn’t deny it.
Outside, a storm had begun.
Rain lashed the windows, wind howling against the ancient stone walls. But in the silence of the hidden chamber, two lovers sat tangled on the chaise, holding each other like they were already halfway to ruin.
And neither one would let go.
The prince arrived with the sunrise.
He came in a gilded carriage lined with frost-gold sigils, his standard snapping in the wind—three entwined serpents crowned with a star. Virelle’s colors. Virelle’s bloodline. Virelle’s claim.
Lysandra stood at the top of the keep’s grand staircase, her gown silver and pale blue, her crown delicate but sharp. Her father watched from the gallery, silent. The court watched from behind veils and masks of propriety.
Emrys stood three paces behind her—close enough to feel, far enough to ignore.
The prince emerged from the carriage with all the practiced charm of someone raised in rooms of war and wine. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his smile slow and deliberate.
“Your Highness,” he said, bowing low.
Lysandra smiled. Politely. Coldly.
“Prince Adrien,” she replied. “Welcome to Aeloria.”
Their hands met briefly, and she felt nothing.
Not the way she felt when Emrys looked at her.
Not the way she burned when he touched her.
Adrien held her fingers a beat too long, eyes flicking over her shoulder, toward the shadows where Emrys stood like a statue carved from restraint.
Interesting, she thought.
He noticed.
Emrys was assigned to the prince’s guard rotation by sundown.
It was her father’s decree: polite, subtle, and vicious. A test. A trap. And a message.
We see you.
“You’re to accompany the prince on his tour of the grounds,” the Steward informed him, voice clipped. “And to remain within view at all public engagements.”
Emrys didn’t flinch. “Yes, my lord.”
But when Lysandra caught sight of him that evening, striding alongside Adrien during the feast preparations, her blood boiled. He looked calm. Composed. Dead inside.
And she couldn’t stand it.
She found him that night in the northeast corridor, near the old observatory. He wasn’t on duty. He wasn’t patrolling.
He was alone, bracing himself against a stone column, head bowed.
“I can’t watch him touch you,” he said without turning.
“He hasn’t,” she replied, approaching. “He won’t.”
“He will.” His voice cracked. “It’s his right if you say yes.”
“I won’t.”
He turned toward her, jaw tight. “And if you’re forced?”
She stepped into his space, heart slamming against her ribs. “Then I’ll burn this castle to ash.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again. “You don’t understand, Lys,” he said, softer now. “This isn’t exile if we’re caught. It’s death. For me. And disgrace for you.”
“We won’t get caught.”
“Too many eyes,” he whispered. “Too many doors with ears.”
She stepped closer, eyes locked on his. “Take me somewhere without doors.”
He didn’t speak, he just grabbed her wrist and pulled her through a side corridor she didn’t recognize—his grip tight, possessive, and trembling. They moved fast, past shuttered kitchens, past old guard halls, until the scent of hay and horse led her to the stables.
It was empty at this hour. Dark, save for the faint golden lantern hung over the loft ladder.
She turned to him the moment they slipped through the gate, but Emrys was already behind her, pressing her back to the stable door, lips at her ear. “You want a place with no doors?” he growled. “Then climb.”
The ladder creaked as she ascended, her heart hammering, arousal slick between her thighs. She heard him breathing below her, ragged and unsteady. She knew what he saw: the sway of her hips, the thin underskirts clinging to her legs.
When she reached the loft, she turned just in time to see him pull his tunic off in one clean motion. His chest rose and fell like he’d been sprinting. His cock strained against his trousers, hard and leaking, his pupils blown wide.
“You look like you want to devour me,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer.
He pounced.
They crashed onto a pile of hay and old blankets, his mouth devouring hers like it was the last time he'd ever taste her. Her skirts were pushed up to her waist in one ruthless shove. His hand dove between her thighs. “Soaked,” he growled against her throat. “Dripping for me already.”
“Always,” she gasped. “Only for you.”
His fingers slid through her folds, spreading her open, middle finger circling her clit once, twice, then plunging inside. She bucked against his palm, moaning loud before his mouth covered hers again. He added a second finger, curling them deep as she rode his hand like her life depended on it.
She came hard, hips jerking, cunt clenching tight around his fingers.
He didn’t let up. “Again,” he growled. “I’m not finished with you.”
“I can’t—”
“You will.”
She was still shaking when he flipped her over, dragging her to her hands and knees, tugging her ass toward him with both hands.
“Stay there,” he said. “Just like that.”
She heard his trousers fall. Heard the wet slap of his cock in his hand. Then felt the blunt head pressing against her entrance.
She gasped. “Do it—Emrys, fuck me—”
He slammed in. One hard, brutal thrust that filled her to the brim, made her cry out so loud it echoed off the beams. His hips met her ass with a slap. He gripped her waist so tight she’d have bruises.
“Gods, you’re tight,” he hissed. “This perfect little cunt was made for me.”
He pounded into her then—fast and ruthless, every stroke hitting deep. Her arms gave out. Her cheek pressed into the hay as she clawed at the blankets, sobbing his name.
“Yes, harder, fuck, don’t stop—”
He spanked her ass, once, twice, making her scream.
“You want it rough, princess?”
“Yes, use me, ruin me—”
He growled, grabbing her hair and yanking her upright, her back arching against his chest as he fucked up into her from behind.
“You’re mine,” he panted against her ear. “Mine to take. Mine to fill.”
“Do it,” she sobbed. “Fill me, please…”
He slammed in to the hilt and held, groaning as he came, cock twitching inside her. She felt every pulse, every wave of heat flooding her.
But he didn’t pull out.
Instead, he lowered them to the blanket-covered floor, still inside her, cradling her back to his chest.
“If anyone tries to touch you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “I’ll kill them.”
She reached back and cupped his cheek. “Then you’d better keep fucking me until I forget anyone else exists.”
He smiled against her skin. “Gladly.”
Time slipped by in breathless silence.
They lay tangled together in the loft, his release still warm and dripping between her thighs, her heart still thudding against his chest. Emrys hadn’t moved, not because he couldn’t, but because he wouldn’t.
His arm was draped possessively over her waist, his cock still nestled inside her, twitching with the after shocks of how hard he’d come.
Lysandra smiled to herself.
She’d never felt more full. More claimed. More his.
But she wasn’t done with him.
Not yet.
She shifted, rolling over in his arms, and the slow drag of his softening cock slipping free from her core made them both groan.
“Gods, Lys—”
She kissed him quiet, one hand on his cheek, the other gliding down his chest. “You said you weren’t finished with me,” she whispered. “But I’m not finished with you.”
His eyes darkened immediately.
She kissed down his neck, over his collarbone, her fingers trailing lower until they brushed the head of his still-slick cock. He was already thickening again, rising for her like a summoned beast.
“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’ll kill me.”
She grinned against his chest. “Not until you beg.”
She took her time with him—mouth soft, lips teasing.
She licked the underside of him slowly, starting from the base and dragging her tongue all the way to the tip.
He was hot and heavy in her palm, already swelling to full hardness again.
She swirled her tongue around the head, tasting herself on him, savoring the groan that escaped his throat.
“You taste like me,” she purred.
He growled, hips twitching, but she pushed him back with a hand on his abdomen.
“Stay still,” she said. “Let me worship.”
And gods, she did.
She opened her mouth and took him in slowly, inch by inch, lips stretching around his girth. Her tongue flattened beneath him, her throat relaxing as she swallowed more. When her nose pressed against his stomach, he hissed through his teeth, one hand flying to her hair.
“Lysandra, fuck, you don’t have to—”
She pulled back with a wet pop. “I want to.”
Then she went back down, sucking, bobbing, her hand stroking the base in tandem with her mouth.
She moaned around him, letting the vibrations buzz through his cock.
She licked along the sensitive underside with the tip of her tongue, kissed the crown, then sucked him in again like she was starved for it.
Emrys was wrecked. His head fell back. His thighs tensed beneath her. His abs rippled with every moan, every gasp, every helpless thrust of his hips. “You’re going to make me… fuck, Lys, don’t stop—”
She didn’t.
She sucked harder, faster, her mouth wet and greedy. She wanted to feel him come undone in her throat, wanted to taste every last drop.
And when he finally did, he shouted.
His hips bucked. He pulsed against her tongue, hot spurts of come spilling into her mouth as she swallowed him down, not missing a drop. His hand gripped her hair tight, not pulling, just anchoring, grounding, needing her there.
She sucked him through it, slowing only when he trembled too hard to breathe.
When she finally pulled back, she wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand and looked up at him with wicked, glowing satisfaction.
His chest heaved.
His eyes were wild.
“You,” he said hoarsely, “are fucking lethal.”
She smirked, crawling up his body and straddling his hips. “Good,” she said, dragging her fingers across his lips. “Because I’m not done worshipping you.”