Chapter 15 #2
His hands caught hers, stopping her. “Sabine. Last chance. If you walk out now, I will let you go. But if you stay—”
“I am staying.”
His hands released hers.
She pulled his coat off, then worked the fastenings of his shirt, her fingers steady even though her pulse hammered. When she pushed the fabric off his shoulders, she saw scars. Old wounds. A life written in violence across skin she had only felt, never seen.
Lucien’s hands moved to the laces of her gown, working them open with controlled precision that felt like effort rather than ease.
When the fabric loosened, he pulled it down, then her chemise, until she stood before him with nothing between them but want and fear and the mark pulsing hot on her palm.
His gaze traveled down her body slowly. Not leering. Not detached. Hungry in a way that made her feel seen rather than assessed.
“You are sure,” he said.
“Yes.”
He lifted her, carrying her to the bed and laying her down on dark sheets. Then he stripped off the rest of his clothing and settled between her thighs.
Sabine’s breath caught.
She had felt him before, in corridors and alcoves, but seeing him was different. He was lean and scarred and hard in ways that told stories of exile and border campaigns and survival that had nothing to do with palace elegance.
He braced his weight on his forearms, careful not to crush her, and kissed her slowly. Not urgent yet. Just deliberate. As if he were memorizing the shape of her mouth.
His hand slid down her body, fingers finding her already slick. He stroked her carefully, watching her face, learning what made her breath hitch and her hips lift toward his hand.
When her breathing turned ragged, he positioned himself at her entrance.
“Slow,” he said. “Tell me if it hurts.”
Then he pushed forward.
The stretch burned. Sabine gasped, her hands clutching his shoulders, and Lucien stopped immediately.
“Too much?”
“No. Keep going.”
He pushed deeper, inch by inch, his breathing turning harsh as her body adjusted to accommodate him. When he was fully seated, both of them went still.
The mark on Sabine’s palm flared hot.
Lucien’s eyes closed briefly, his jaw tight, and she realized he was fighting himself. Fighting the need to move. Fighting whatever the bond was doing to him.
“Lucien,” she said quietly.
His eyes opened.
“I am not going to break.”
Something in his expression cracked.
He pulled back and thrust forward, and Sabine’s breath punched out because the sensation was overwhelming. Not painful. Just impossible to process as anything other than fullness and heat and the fact that he was inside her and they had crossed a line the palace would never forgive.
He set a rhythm, slow at first, giving her time to adjust. But when she lifted her hips to meet him, when her nails dug into his back, his restraint began to fracture.
His thrusts turned harder. Faster. His breathing roughened into something close to desperation. And Sabine felt her own control slipping, felt her body tightening around him, felt pleasure building low in her belly with enough force that she knew when it broke it would take her with it.
Lucien’s hand slid between them, fingers finding where they were joined, and when he pressed just right Sabine’s vision whited out.
Pleasure flooded through her in waves, her body clenching around him, and she heard herself cry out his name before she could stop it.
Lucien thrust twice more, then buried himself deep and went rigid, his release spilling hot inside her while he cursed low and rough against her throat.
For a long moment neither of them moved.
Then he pulled out carefully and rolled onto his back beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest still heaving.
Sabine lay still, her body still trembling, her mind struggling to reassemble itself into something coherent.
A bell tolled in the distance.
Evening prayer. Or trial summons. Or something else the palace used to mark time and control movement.
Lucien lowered his arm and turned his head to look at her.
“That was a mistake,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“The palace will find out.”
Sabine sat up, wincing slightly at the soreness between her thighs. “They already know. They have been watching me closely enough to steal my notes. They will know I came here. They will know what we did.”
She looked down at her marked palm.
The lines had spread. Not dramatically. Just enough to be visible. Dark tracery extending past her wrist now, climbing her forearm in delicate branches like roots seeking purchase.
“Lucien,” she said quietly.
He sat up and took her hand, his expression going still when he saw the mark.
“It is progressing faster than it should,” he said. “The bond is responding to” He stopped.
“To what.”
“To consummation. To choice. To the fact that we just confirmed the bond is real in a way the rite can measure.” His hand tightened on hers. “The palace will see this. And they will know exactly what it means.”
A knock at the door made them both freeze.
A voice in the corridor. Formal. Controlled. “Your Highness. Bloodwright Maelor requests your presence in the Vow Chamber. Immediately.”
Lucien’s face went white.
He released Sabine’s hand and rose, dressing quickly, his movements mechanical.
“Stay here,” he said. “Lock the door after I leave. Do not let anyone in.”
“Lucien”
“Sabine.” He turned to face her, and his expression was raw. “I do not know what this summons means. But if Maelor is calling me to the Vow Chamber after I just bonded with you physically, it is not for pleasant reasons. Stay here. Stay safe. And do not come looking for me.”
He left.
The door locked behind him.
Sabine sat on the edge of his bed, naked and marked and suddenly very aware that she had just done exactly what the rite might have wanted all along.
She had given it consummation. She had deepened the bond. She had turned desire into vulnerability.
And the palace had summoned Lucien to the chamber where Isolde died the moment the mark began to spread.
Sabine looked down at her hand, at the dark lines climbing her forearm, and felt cold settle in her chest.
She had wanted him honestly.
She had chosen him freely.
But the rite did not care about honesty or freedom.
It cared about consumption.
And she had just fed it exactly what it needed.