Chapter 64 The Circlet
The Circlet
He does not move at first. We stand there, the distance between us finally gone, everything that had been held back now sitting openly.
Then his hand lifts, slow enough that I feel every inch of it as it comes to rest against my jaw, his thumb brushing lightly along my cheek before he draws me toward him.
The kiss takes its time, pressing in, deepening before I can decide what to do with it.
There is nothing hurried in it, and yet the depth of it comes almost immediately, familiar and unfamiliar at once.
I don’t fight it. I let it happen, the warmth of him around me, the part of me that remembers him answering before I can think past it.
His other hand comes to my waist, holding me there, and the room falls away without permission.
Then I pull back, abruptly enough that his hand tightens slightly at my waist before he releases it.
"The ball," I say, my voice quieter than I intend.
"We should return." A change passes through his expression, restraint being forced back into place.
He nods once, and his hand finds mine again as he leads me from the room.
The corridors stretch ahead of us, hushed in a way that cuts against the noise we left behind.
As we walk, he speaks, not of what we had just said but of the palace itself, the rooms we pass, the alterations in the structure, the purpose behind parts I had not yet learned to recognize.
The conversation moves easily and I realize that it is the first time in weeks that being beside him feels like something I do not have to work at.
It feels easy in the way it used to, before everything that came between us.
We near the ballroom again, the distant sound of music beginning to carry toward us, and as we pass the throne room I slow slightly.
"My circlet," I say. "I want it back." He glances at me and nods without question, guiding me through the open doors.
The room is empty now, the aftermath of earlier cleaned away so thoroughly that nothing remains of it beyond memory.
The throne stands as it always does, elevated and untouched, and there at its center, placed neatly, rests the circlet.
I step forward and my fingers brush the cool metal as I reach for it.
Then his hand is on me again. This is not the same as before.
He turns me back toward him before I can lift it fully, his grip firm at my wrist as he pulls me into him, and this time there is nothing held back about it.
His mouth finds mine with a force that answers everything that had been restrained before, the weight of it pressing forward all at once.
His hand moves from my wrist to my waist and draws me closer, closing the distance I had just put between us.
The circlet slips from my fingers and falls to the floor with a clear clink.
Colsar steps into the space before the sound dies, his presence heavy.
I realize we have not truly been alone in this way since he became the Fyrekin, and I never noticed how his power radiates through a room.
He kisses me again with a hunger, an intensity as though he's held back too long and can't anymore.
His fingers pull at the ties of my dress, loosening the fabric until it slides off my shoulders and pools at my feet. We don't look down.
The cool air brushes my bare skin, but it doesn't matter against the pull of him. He pulls back just enough to see me, his face stripped of any mask. Pure want sits there, alongside a quieter ache that stops my breath for a second.
I hesitate. “Colsar,” I say, my voice low, edged with what remains. “Do not give me closeness only to take it away again.”
His features tighten, something unguarded breaking through. “I didn’t understand before,” he says. “I do now. I won’t leave you like that again.”
I hold his eyes. “You say that now.”
“Then watch,” he says. I look at him, the old hurt dulling beneath the honesty in his eyes. I step closer, hands reaching for him, fingertips tracing the glyphs inked along his arms, neck, and jaw. My lips press to the lines on his forearm, then up to his bicep.
“Then be the man who does not leave,” I say.
"You may have none of me or all of me," I murmur against his skin, my tone quiet but firm. "There is no in between."
“There is no part of you that is not mine," he says, kissing me again.
I pull away, then begin kissing the markings on his neck, feeling the quick stutter of his pulse.
Then I move to his cheekbone, hands framing his face.
A rush of possessiveness comes over me. "No other woman gets to touch you.
Only me." His breath falters, eyes darkening with need.
"Asharin," he says, his voice raw. "It's only ever been you. No one else. There never will be."
"Come closer," he adds, his tone dropping, rough in a way that's new to me.
He sits on the throne, movements tight, precise, but driven by something unhidden now.
His focus stays locked on me. I pause again, the old ache still there, though it's fading.
"You don't usually sit like this," I say, a thread of doubt in my words despite the pull I feel.
"I don't care about habit," he replies. "I care that it's you.”
His words cut deeper than I expect, easing the knot inside me. “The hurt is still there,” I admit, softer now, "but I want this. I want you."
"I need to see you," he says, his voice almost cracking. “I need to know you're here. That I haven't lost us. Let me look at you and know you're still mine."
I barely reach him before his hands close around me and pull me into his lap.
He grips my hips, guiding me as I straddle him.
The first press of his body against mine, hard between my thighs, forces a sudden exhale from me.
Everything else drops away, leaving just his nearness.
He breathes out against my skin, head dipping for a moment before his grip tightens, pulling me closer, refusing any gap.
"Asharin," he murmurs, my name strained, before his lips find mine again, kissing with fierce need, like he's been denied too long.
His hands slide up my back, fingers pressing hard, needing to touch everywhere.
I grip his shoulders, fingers digging into muscle as I sink down onto him.
The stretch as he fills me is deep, a pressure that makes me pause, each inch sparking my nerves.
It feels familiar, yet nothing about this feels the same.
He lets me set the rhythm, and for an instant I can only stare at him, surprised that he is giving me the control instead of taking it.
The restraint in him is visible now, his hands trembling against my hips as though forcing himself to remain still.
Instead, he pulls me into a rough kiss, tongue sweeping against mine like he cannot resist.
His hand moves between us, rubbing slow, firm circles until a broken sound tears out of me. I falter against him. His eyes lift to mine.
Neither of us speaks.
Distant strings drift in from beyond the throne room doors, carrying into the silence between us. My movements slow. His hands tighten on my hips, but he does not take control. He only watches. The restraint in his face is almost painful now, his breathing roughening each time I move.
“Asharin,” he says, and the sound of my name in his mouth nearly undoes me.
He reaches for me, trying to pull me closer. I catch his wrist.
“No.”
For an instant he looks ready to resist. Then his hand loosens and he leans back against the throne instead. Before he can speak again, I press my finger lightly against his mouth.
“Shhh,” I whisper. “Just watch.” My words dissolve into a moan as I throw my head back, hips rolling in a careful rhythm, feeling the drag of him inside me, the ache building low in my stomach, sharpened by the movement of his hand between my thighs.
My grip tightens on his shoulders, uneven sounds slipping from me, the wet sound of us filling the throne room with every motion.
Colsar’s free hand remains locked at my waist, his focus fixed entirely on me.
Then he reaches for me again. “I need you.”
This time I let him pull me close. He sits forward, wrapping his arm around me as I pause against him, my forehead nearly resting against his.
Neither of us speaks. I can feel him pulsing inside me.
His stare holds mine completely, one gray eye, one blue, both stripped bare in a way I have never seen from him before.
A tear slips down my cheek. I do not move to stop it. “This is what you almost lost,” I whisper.
His hand tangles into the back of my hair as he drags me into a bruising kiss, a rough sound breaking from him against my mouth.
“It will never happen again,” he rasps. “I can’t lose you. I can’t—”
The words break apart before he can finish them.
“Asharin,” he says again, voice rough and frayed. “I’m sorry for the pain I caused.”
He buries his face against my neck, breathing me in like he needs the proof of me there. “I am so sorry,” he whispers.
I begin to move against him again, slow at first, feeling the tremor that runs through him beneath me. “Fix it,” I whisper softly. “I want everything.”
His lips press hard against mine, then trail to my jaw, my neck, touching everywhere, relentless.
The emotion builds alongside the physical pull, each motion of my hips driving me closer to a breaking point, his fingers speeding that rush.
My legs shake, tension winding tight, and a wave of feeling suddenly looms over me, overwhelming in its intensity.
I freeze, breath hitching. “Talk me through it," I say, voice trembling.
I leave the rest unspoken, but I know he understands.
I am giving you everything again. Do not leave me alone in this.
He looks at me, his expression softening even as the hunger in him remains. His fingers slow but do not stop.