The room held its breath.
Moonlight spilled like milk over the cool stone and the silk-draped bed, catching in the hollow of Velastra's throat where her pulse betrayed her stillness. She wore her black royal dress still—its high collar loosened, the cloak undone and pooled at the foot of the bed like a shadow shed. The fabric clung to her in places, silk dark as night, regal even in its dishevelment. The scent of lavender lingered, but beneath it—something rawer now. The taste of him on her lips. The warmth of his breath, the brush of his fingertips, as if he were touching not her body, but her soul.
Her fingers curled into the back of his tunic as their lips parted—slowly, unwillingly, like fire separating from fuel.
And then he spoke.
Soft. Sure. A vow whispered in the quiet dark.
"Let me."
Velastra's breath caught. Her body stiffened on instinct, but not from fear. From the unfamiliar sensation of surrender.
She had always been the one above—the hunter, the commander, the blade. Even in passion, she had led, fierce and relentless. But tonight… the salve veiling her wounds dulled the worst of it, yes, but the pain pulsed underneath, hot and lurking, waiting to tear open again if she pushed too far.
And he saw it. He felt it. Every breath she held too long, every wince she tried to hide behind her mouth.
So Cael did what she never asked for but needed most.
He lowered her—gently—onto the bed as if she were made of moonlight and blood, precious and nearly broken. And it was not a conquest. Not a claiming. It was reverence.
She let him.
For the first time, Velastra lay beneath him not in defeat—but in trust.
His hands moved to her dress, fingers tracing the silver clasps down her spine—slow, careful, patient. Each one undone was a breath she didn't know she held. He peeled the garment from her shoulders, kissing the skin it revealed. Her collarbone. The curve of her shoulder. The place just beneath her throat where her pulse fluttered like a secret. His mouth worshipped, not rushed. Her breath turned unsteady.
Her hands found the edge of his clothes in return, tugging it up slowly, exposing the lean lines of his body she already knew but still hungered to rediscover. She kissed down his chest, warm lips on cooler skin, until his breath caught this time.
They undressed each other with a slowness that spoke of longing more than haste. Fabric was shed like silence between them, the space narrowing until there was only skin, and breath, and the mingled heat of want that had been too long starved.
Her lips brushed his shoulder. His hands cupped the small of her back. She kissed the scar on his ribs. He kissed the base of her spine. Their mouths moved over each other's bodies, not just to arouse, but to remember.
To claim in quiet.
When he entered her, his hand rose instinctively, cradling the back of her head, shielding it from the cold edge of the bedboard. The gesture was not just protective—it was reverent, grounding her in the softness of a world she had never allowed herself to belong to.
And in that quiet, in his movement, she leaned into him—not as a warrior, but a woman who, for one night, forgot how to wear her strength like armor.
Their mouths met again.
This time, slower. Longer. In rhythm with his breath. The way his mouth explored her—deep, unhurried, learning every gasp, every tremble—mirrored the way his body moved within hers. Each motion was not just desire, but reverence, as if he were reading her in a language only they could speak.
Outside, the wind stirred softly through the trees, brushing against the stone walls of the east wing, cool as silk. But not even that night air could cool the fire they fed between them. It flared in each breath they stole, in the desperate way her fingers curled against his back, in the low moan that left his throat when she moved with him—graceful and whole.
His hands wandered with reverence, not hunger—his fingers tracing the line of her collarbone, then dipping lower, as if memorizing the shape of her breath. When he cupped her breast, it wasn't to take, but to hold—as though it was a gem. His thumb brushed gently across her nipple, drawing a quiet gasp from her lips, her chest rising to meet his palm in a silent plea for more.
Velastra's mouth found its way to the hollow of his throat, to the place where his pulse lived—warm, steady, vulnerable. She kissed it softly first, then again, and again, lips brushing over the notch of his adams apple. He swallowed, and the movement thrilled her. She felt the stutter in his breath as her tongue traced a line along his skin, tasting the salt of him.
Their bodies moved in rhythm, not rushed—like a song meant only for the two of them. Every touch was patient. Every kiss, a return to something longed for but never spoken aloud.
Velastra trembled when he whispered her name into the crook of her neck. She answered with her hands in his hair, pulling him closer—not for control, but for belonging.
Her lips parted under his and he kissed her deeply, tongue tasting the ache she'd buried, the vow she'd never spoken aloud. Her hands trembled where they held him. His arms, ever steady, anchored her. And when he pressed his body to her, faster, a louder moan finally escaped.
And the longer their bodies unite—Velastra made a sound she never made on the battlefield. She arched beneath him, then pulled him deeper, biting her lip until it bled to keep from breaking open.
He kissed her mouth again—lips, then lower lip, tongue brushing against hers. She moaned softly into him, and his name left her lips like it had nowhere else to go.
"Cael."
When both have reached the peak, their lips parted, just a breath between them, she looked at him—eyes dark but sure.
When he came down from her, tangled in breath and warmth, Cael turned to her. His heartbeat was steady. Strong. Hers was trembling. Unfamiliar.
He didn't speak.
She did.
Only one word. Soft. Ragged. Drenched in all the longing she never tried to crush.
"Again."
Then, she pulled herself above him, straddling his hips in quiet defiance of her own weakness, he let her.
Cael's breath caught in his throat, not from surprise, but reverence. Velastra, scarred and beautiful and carved from all things forbidden, straddled his hips. Her thighs tightened around him, firm and trembling, her fingertips dragging down his chest, leaving trails of heat as if her touch alone could brand memory onto him.
"I'm not done with you," she whispered against his mouth, her voice a blade honed soft.
He didn't argue. He only touched her, hands reverent as they traced her waist, lifting to support her every movement. His thumbs pressed gently into her hips, not to guide, but to offer his strength into her rhythm.
Her body began to move—slow, as if every motion was being written into eternity. There was no urgency. No conquest. Only the lingering ache of love rediscovered and the way her spine arched when the pleasure rippled through her. The dim candlelight etched golden highlights across her skin, illuminating the shimmer of sweat, the tension in her neck, the moment she bit her lip to silence her own gasp.
But then she heard it—
Cael's moan.
It escaped him like a secret slipping past the cracks of control. Raw. Low. A sound born from too much restraint finally released. Her eyes widened just slightly, the edges of her mouth curving into something soft, something victorious.
And yet—he never looked away.
Then, she moved faster, even when the pain teased at her back and she flinched—he held her. He met her rhythm, lifted her through it, lips brushing her stomach, her ribs, her breast, as if anchoring her to him with every breath.
Her pride wasn't stolen in that moment.
It was honored.
And when her head tilted back, her long hair cascading like night down her spine, and her mouth parted for a cry she couldn't suppress—he rose slightly beneath her and kissed the center of her chest, right above her pounding heart.
"Your highness."
His voice, fueled her and a soft moan was heard.
When her legs finally weakened, when her body trembled with release and fatigue, Cael sat up with her still in his arms, his forehead pressed to hers, his hands never letting her fall.
Not even when she collapsed against him.
They lay like that in the low warmth of night, breath tangled, sweat cooling against satin sheets. Her head rested against his collarbone. His arm curled around her waist.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Until, softly, almost inaudibly, she murmured:
"I will be leaving later."
And he nodded.
He knew she must go.
...As always...