Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Adrien waited for her in the conservatory. He’d summoned her there through a servant with the confidence of a man who believed he still had the right to command her.
He did not.
She entered without preamble, the glass doors swinging shut behind her. Sunlight filtered through the frost-covered panes, painting the white marble floor with fractured rainbows. Adrien stood by the citrus trees, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed.
Too relaxed.
“You didn’t show for our final dance,” he said without turning.
“I was otherwise engaged.”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “With your guard?”
There it was. No pretense. No disguise.
She didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
He turned fully now. His expression wasn’t angry, but it was curious. “You realize this makes you ineligible for any royal match.”
“I’m not interested in a royal match.”
He stepped closer, hands still behind him. “You’re the heir of Aeloria.”
“I am also a woman,” she said, voice hardening. “One with a heart and a spine. I will not be sold off like cattle because the kingdom fears standing on its own.”
Adrien studied her in silence.
Then, maddeningly, smiled. “He’s a lucky bastard.”
She blinked.
“I would’ve claimed you,” he said, shrugging. “But I’d rather face an honest rival than a reluctant bride.”
Lysandra stared, yet didn’t argue. She turned and walked out without another word. She had somewhere else to be.
Someone else to save.
Emrys stood at the edge of the border gate with nothing but a satchel slung over one shoulder.
She found him there just after sunset. Alone.
Drenched in gold and shadow, jaw clenched, fists tight, refusing to look back.
The sight of him there tore something inside her wide open.
“You were going to leave without saying anything?”
His head snapped up.
“Lysandra—”
Her heart cracked at the sound of his voice. Rough. Raw. Like it hurt to speak. “You were just going to disappear,” she said, approaching him. “After everything?”
“If I saw you again,” he murmured, “I wouldn’t leave.”
“Then don’t.”
He looked at her like he was memorizing. Drinking her in. “If I stay, I’ll die.”
She stepped closer, touching his chest. “Please. One more night. Just one.”
He didn’t answer.
But his hands found her waist.
And gripped.
Her chambers glowed with firelight when they arrived, the doors locked, the curtains drawn. She lit a single candle by the bedside while he stood there in silence, shoulders tense, eyes hungry.
“You’ve ruined me,” she said softly, undoing the clasps at her throat. “I dream of you constantly. Even when I’m awake.”
His voice was hoarse. “I dream of tasting you.”
Her gown fell to the floor in a whisper. She crossed the room in slow, measured steps, bare and unashamed, and knelt before him.
He stopped breathing.
She undid his belt, pulling it open with trembling fingers. His cock sprang free, half-hard already, thick and veined. She wrapped her fingers around it, kissed the crown, and looked up. “Let me worship.”
He hissed through his teeth. “Lys, fuck.”
She took him into her mouth without another word.
Slow.
Deep.
Wet.
His thighs tensed immediately. She licked along the under side, stroked the base, then sucked him harder, letting spit coat her lips and chin as she worked him with long, steady pulls.
“Gods,” he groaned. “You’re going to make me come already—”
She pulled back just enough to murmur, “Not yet.”
Then sucked him back down deep.
Her mouth was soft, eager, insatiable. She bobbed her head, moaning around him, loving the way his hands tangled in her hair and his breath broke above her. When he was seconds from losing it, she released him with a pop and pushed him back onto the bed. “Your turn.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He hauled her onto the mattress, flipped her onto her back, spread her thighs wide, and buried his face between them.
She cried out, the first lick dragging a long, obscene moan from her throat. His tongue lapped at her like he was starved, his fingers digging into her thighs as he devoured her.
When she started to shake, he grinned against her. “Will you finish just from my mouth?”
“Yes, Emrys, don’t stop.” She climaxed hard, hips jerking, thighs squeezing around his head.
He licked her through it, slow and steady, until she was pant ing, dazed. And only then did he kiss up her body, his cock grinding against her thigh.
“I need you inside me,” she breathed. “I want to feel all of you.”
He grabbed her hips and pushed inside in one long, slow thrust.
She arched with a cry, the fullness almost too much. But gods, it was perfect.
He moved slow at first—deep strokes that kissed her cervix, his eyes locked on hers. Every thrust was heavy with emotion. Every kiss tasted like goodbye.
“I love you,” she whispered.
His eyes glistened. “I’ll die loving you.”
He surged forward, slamming into her harder, faster.
The bed creaked beneath them, her nails carved down his back.
He whispered her name like a prayer against her neck, and when he flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her hips back against him, fucking her from behind, she sobbed his name into the pillow.
“Harder—Emrys, please—fill me—”
He did.
With a low, shattered groan, he spilled inside her, hips jerking as he emptied himself in thick, pulsing waves. He stayed buried deep, chest draped over her back, his breath hot at her nape.
They collapsed together, trembling.
The grand hall was a throne of gold and judgment.
Velvet banners fluttered above the marble floor. The courtiers lined the walls in tight clusters, fanning themselves as though heat—not anticipation—had them sweating. The High Steward called for silence with a ceremonial bell. The King, Lysandra’s father, sat stone-faced on his gilded dais.
The moment had come.
Lysandra stood at the center of the hall in a gown of starlight silk, shoulders bare, her hair braided through with silver chains. The sapphire ring of her station glittered on her finger.
Beside her, Adrien bowed low. “Shall we make it official, Your Highness?”
She looked at a man who could have been a friend, but never her fate.
“No,” she said softly.
The chamber erupted in whispers.
“I will not marry Adrien of Virelle,” she said, voice clear and commanding.
Gasps. One loud exhale. A broken teacup.
Her father’s hand curled around his armrest, knuckles white.
Adrien, with a knowing grin, inclined his head. “Understood.”
Lysandra walked forward.
“I have made my choice,” she said, stopping before the throne. “And I will not be moved by threat, tradition, or fear.”
Someone in the gallery muttered, “Treason.”
She ignored them.
“I invoke the Rite of Old Flame,” she declared, raising her voice. “An unwed royal may name their consort in full court, so long as they do so under oath and without duress. This law was written before Aeloria’s crowns were forged.”
“You dare—” the Steward sputtered.
But the King held up his hand.
Silence.
Lysandra turned.
And there he was.
Emrys stood near the rear doors in full ceremonial armor— hair damp from rain, sword belted at his hip, gaze locked on hers. He hadn’t expected to be called. Hadn’t dared hope.
She met his eyes and said, without flinching, “I name Emrys of the Wildwood Line as my consort. Bodyguard no more. My equal. My chosen.”
The room exploded.
Cries of outrage. Of shock. Of disbelief.
The King said nothing. He just stared at her, his eyes unread able. She didn’t blink or waver. And after a long, blistering silence, he rose. He looked at Emrys, then at her.
And said, “So be it.”
The sky poured rain when she found Emrys in the chapel garden an hour later. He was standing beneath the stone archway, soaked, face tilted toward the storm as if trying to believe this was real.
She didn’t speak.
Just walked straight into his arms.
He caught her in an instant, kissing her like salvation, like hunger, like the world had just been remade beneath their feet.
“You’re mine now,” she whispered against his lips.
“I always was.”
They didn’t make it to the bed. They made it to the chaise in her tower window, half-dressed, fevered, mouths already on each other like magnets reunited.
Emrys dropped to his knees before her, tugging her skirts up and over her hips, groaning at the sight of her bare beneath.
He kissed the inside of her thighs, slow and reverent, fingers stroking her slit until she was trembling.
“You never wait,” she teased, breathless.
“I’ve waited long enough.”
He buried his face between her legs, licking with the patience of a man who knew he had forever. She moaned, hand fisting in his hair, body rocking into his mouth as he feasted— tongue soft, then firm, then swirling around her clit until she was gasping.
He worked her open with his tongue alone, then added two fingers, curling them to find that spot that made her legs shake. She came against his face, writhing, whispering his name like a spell.
He didn’t stop until she was raw, drenched, begging. Then he rose, unbuckling his belt slowly, watching her the whole time. She reached for him, helped slide his pants down, and stroked his cock with both hands, smirking when he hissed. “Let me ride you,” she whispered.
He sat back, hands gripping her hips as she straddled him and sank down inch by inch.
They both moaned. She rolled her hips, taking him deep, wet heat pulling him in until her thighs met his.
He cupped her breasts, kissed her throat, let her set the rhythm—grinding and circling, their bodies melting together as the storm raged outside.
He whispered filth against her ear.
She clenched around him. Hard.
He flipped her, fucked her from behind, his hand in her hair, his other arm around her waist, his hips pounding into her with slow, relentless force.
She cried out. Loud. Unapologetic.
“Let them hear,” he growled. “Let them know who you belong to.”
“You,” she gasped.
He pushed her to the edge and kept her there—teasing, thrusting, and stretching it out until her body was vibrating, her legs useless. He reached around, rubbed her clit hard and fast, and she shattered with a scream. He followed a breath later, emptying inside her with a shuddering groan.
They collapsed on the chaise, bodies tangled, skin slick, breathing uneven.
When the thunder faded and the world stilled, he kissed her temple.
And said, “I’ll never leave again.”
She smiled. “You’re not allowed to.”
The storm passed.
The sun broke through the clouds.
And in the highest tower of Aeloria, the princess and her consort lay wrapped in sheets and each other—bodies warm, hearts full, future unwritten.
But theirs.
At last.