Chapter 65 Maps and Tea
Maps and Tea
We take longer than we should. When he finally softens inside me, it happens in stages, the pressure easing little by little until I feel the change fully. When he slips free, a quiet breath leaves me, my body still sensitive, still holding the echo of him.
At first, neither of us moves. Then I try to stand. My legs give slightly before they catch, a small, uneven step forcing me to reach for the edge of the throne. His hand comes to my waist at once, firm, holding me upright before I can say anything.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
I nod, drawing in a breath, letting him keep me there for a second before I straighten. Awareness returns in pieces. My skin. The air. The damp warmth between my thighs.
Him.
I glance down, then back up at him, and pause.
There are traces of me still on his skin.
Across his abdomen, lower, unmistakable, and he has made no move to wipe them away.
Heat rises to my face, though relief comes just as quickly.
At least our clothes had been off. Only then do I realize I am no better, that there is no part of me untouched by him either.
The thought lingers for a second before I push it aside, my attention returning to him.
“There is a basin in the west antechamber,” I say, quieter now, brushing my fingers lightly over his chest. “I can wash you.”
His hand catches my wrist before I can move away.
“No,” he says. The word is simple. Certain. His other hand slides along my side, pulling me closer, his voice lowering as he leans in. “I want every bit of you on me.”
My breath catches.
The heat in my cheeks deepens, something softer threading through it as I look at him again, unsure what to do with the way that presses into my chest.
“Colsar…” I start, but the words fall away.
He bends, retrieving my dress from the floor, lifting it and giving it a small shake before stepping behind me.
The fabric slides back over my shoulders, cool against my skin as his hands guide it into place.
His fingers move at my back as he ties it, pausing briefly at the base of my spine before easing away.
I turn to him.
There is still warmth between us, still the trace of everything that just passed.
I reach for him, my hands moving over his chest again, slower this time, smoothing along his skin before helping him back into his clothes.
He watches me closely, quieter now, his breathing more even, though the intensity of him has not faded.
He lifts the circlet from where it fell, turning it once in his hand before setting it back on my head with a care that feels like something else entirely. Then he leans in and kisses me, slower this time. Grounded.
Then again, his lips trailing down my stomach, my hip, the inside of my thigh. "Colsar." My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. "There is siakar dripping out of me. I am a mess."
Something about the brightness of the throne room, the stillness after everything, makes me feel suddenly shy. The distance between us is gone but the awareness of it is not.
His voice is low, rough at the edges. "You forget what I am, Asha."
His tongue trails up the inside of my thigh, unhurried, and then he pulls back and looks at me with an expression I have no name for.
"Let me mark you."
I nod.
He bites into my thigh without warning, at the same moment he shoves his fingers inside me, and the sound that comes out of me is not quiet.
Pain and pleasure hit at once, tangled together until I cannot tell them apart.
Blood trickles down my leg. He licks it clean with a low sound in his chest before he buries his face between my thighs entirely.
He pulls back once, just enough to speak. "Where is the mess, Asha Bear?"
"Inside me," I get out. "Mine and yours."
He takes his tongue and drives it inside me, fingers working alongside it, and the sounds he makes — consuming, unashamed, the raw sound of him swallowing every bit of us — send me over the edge faster than anything else could have.
My release hits hard and sudden and I stop trying to hold any part of it back.
Afterward he kisses me, soft against my mouth, and then pulls back just enough to speak.
"Believe it or not," he says, "I used to make women wash me after sex. The mess of it disgusted me." A pause. His eyes find mine. "I cannot get enough of it now.” He pauses. “Because it is you.”
I look at him, at the throne room around us. "I know," I say softly.
He kisses me again. When we pull apart, his hand returns to my waist as though it belongs there.
“Ready?” he asks.
I draw in a breath, testing my balance, feeling the lingering weakness in my legs, the low pull in my body that has not fully faded.
“Yes,” I say.
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods, his hand tightening slightly as he guides me toward the door.
When we finally return to the ballroom the music has shifted and the air feels heavier, warmer, thick with conversation and movement.
I am acutely aware of myself as we enter, of the heat still in my skin, the way my breath has not fully evened out, the way his hand remains at my waist as though he has no intention of letting me go again.
My cheeks burn. "Can they tell?" I murmur under my breath.
His mouth brushes my ear as he leans in, his voice low. "Maybe," he says. "But scent masking can last a while. So maybe not." My mind flashes back to the vials we drank when we first arrived in Shalvar.
Before I can respond his arms wrap fully around me, drawing me back against him, his face pressing into the curve of my neck.
"I do not give a fuck," he murmurs, the words rough and unfiltered. "But whatever this is, Asharin, whatever it is my father thought he could prevent—" his grip tightens slightly, his breath warm against my skin "—it is here."
A shiver moves through me.
"I need you," he says quietly. "Even now you feel too far away."
I turn in his arms, my hands finding his chest, grounding myself in him. "Then do not stand still," I say softly. "Let us dance."
He does not hesitate.
The music is slower now, the kind meant to draw bodies closer rather than display them. His hand comes to my waist, guiding me into the rhythm, and I feel the difference from before immediately. There is no space left between us for doubt or restraint.
He does not look away from me the entire time.
The weight of it builds slowly, his attention held on me with an intensity I feel in my skin and my breath and the way my chest tightens under it.
My cheeks warm further and he does not ease it, does not pull back from it.
He simply watches, as though I am the only thing in the room worth seeing.
By the time the music ends I am almost relieved to step back, though his hand remains at my waist as he leads me toward the Sovereign's table.
We sit. The room finds its rhythm again, conversation resuming in low currents around us, the music moving into something quieter in the background.
Then the Sovereign rises. He does not raise his voice, and still the room stills. “Yesterday,” he says, "a matter of treason was brought before this court."
No one moves.
"The Duke of Larafyn and his daughter were found to be acting against the interests of Shalvar. King Colsar dealt with it accordingly."
A pause.
"Disloyalty will not be negotiated."
The room absorbs it.
His attention moves to Colsar then, landing on him and staying there.
"When the war is resolved, Colsar will take his place as Sovereign."
A ripple moves through the room before being forced back into silence.
The Sovereign does not look away.
"He is not only king," he continues. "He is Fyrekin."
This time the reaction cannot be contained. It moves through the court in a low swelling surge.
Then his attention turns to me.
"For those who have not yet been given the courtesy of clarity," he says, his voice cutting cleanly through the room, "this is Asharin of Veynar. Queen Heir of Alarna."
The silence sharpens.
"My son did not take a wife," he continues. "He chose his equal.” He looks around the room. “And you will conduct yourselves accordingly."
Jessamy’s name does not linger. It ends here. Something in my chest eases. The room goes back to what it was, the music resuming and guests once again mingling.
A moment barely passes before a man approaches, moving quickly and with purpose, Arabar at his side. Something in their expressions changes the air around us before either of them speaks.
"My lord," the man says, his voice low and urgent. "We have word from the high pass."
Colsar straightens. "Speak."
"They have found the tunnel entrance," Arabar says. "They are holding position, but movement has begun along the outer ridge. If we are going to extract them, it must be soon."
My stomach pulls tight.
Colsar nods once, already thinking ahead of the words. "We proceed. Quietly. And we must be certain the tunnel holds."
Arabar hesitates. "We may need to adjust the route. The terrain has shifted. If we move forward as planned we risk exposure."
"Then we find another way. I will review it tonight. I want a decision by dawn."
"Yes, Majesty.”
They step back. Colsar turns to the Sovereign, his voice already shifting. "Father, I must—"
The Sovereign lifts a hand, cutting him off with a knowing look. "This you must take care of, Colsar. There is no doubt." His eyes move briefly to me, then back. "Go."
Something twists in my chest.
I understand. Of course I do. Rorin and his men matter. Everything Colsar told me still sits heavy and real inside me. And yet the thought of him leaving me again, even now, even after everything we just said to each other, moves through me before I can stop it.
Before I can think further, his hand closes around mine. "Come," he murmurs. No hesitation in it. He speaks briefly to an attendant as we pass, something low and quick I do not catch, and then we are moving again, away from the table and toward the exit.
Enovar catches my eye as we pass. He winks. Kentan does not move. He only watches, his expression holding briefly before easing into a faint smile. I feel it, a brief pull, and let it pass.
We leave.
The corridors feel quieter now, the energy of the ballroom fading behind us until there is nothing left of it but distant sound.
By the time we reach our chambers the stillness has returned fully.
"Saurin took them," I say, glancing toward the adjoining space.
“Then we have the night,” he replies. He lights another candle, the flame catching slowly and casting warm light across the room.
Then he turns back to me, his hands finding my dress and sliding the fabric from my shoulders, slower this time, the movement unhurried in a way that feels more grounding than urgent, as though he is drawing me back into something real.
A knock sounds at the door.
He does not step away for long. When he returns he carries a tray and a small stack of papers, setting them beside the bed.
"What is that?" I ask, though part of me already knows.
"Work," he says simply.
Something in me moves at that, but it does not break the way it had before. It finds a quieter place, one that understands even if it does not entirely like it.
He removes his coat, then his shirt.
I take him in despite myself, and it surprises me even now, after everything, how much I notice it. The breadth of him, the lines of muscle, the markings tracing across his skin, the copper strand falling loose across his face.
He is still new to me in ways I have not fully accepted.
He removes the rest and climbs into the bed beside me, then lifts me easily and guides me between his legs, pulling me back against him. His mouth brushes my neck, then my ear, then my shoulder.
"We need to find a route," he murmurs against my skin. "Even if it takes all night."
His hand lifts my chin gently, turning me toward him. "I promised I would not leave you," he says quietly. "So I will not go to them myself."
The words move through the space between us.
"But we cannot return to Veynar without them."
I study his face. Then I lean forward and kiss him softly.
"I agree," I say.