CHAPTER EIGHT
DESIRE'S DEADLY CURSE
he heavy oak door closed behind us with a finality that sent a shiver downT my spine.
We stood at the threshold of the bridal chamber—my new husband and I —surrounded by the scent of white roses and beeswax candles. Golden light played across the richly appointed room, catching on the embroidered tapestries and casting long shadows against the walls.
Valen released my arm, his dark eyes surveying our sanctuary with the same calculating precision he’d shown throughout our wedding feast. Yet there was something else there now, something hungry and intentional that made my pulse quicken despite myself.
I took a tentative step forward, the garnets on my crimson gown catching the candlelight like droplets of fresh blood. The chamber had been prepared with excruciating attention to detail. White roses spilled from silver urns, their perfume mingling with the spice of incense. The massive bed dominating the center of the room had been draped in silks of deepest crimson and gold, the colors of our newly united kingdoms.
My mother’s crown still sat heavy upon my head, a reminder of everything I had brought to this union.
“Do you approve?” Valen asked, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.
He moved past me, his fingers trailing across a vase of roses with surprising delicacy.
I raised an eyebrow, unprepared for this almost gentle inquiry. “It’s...
beautiful,” I admitted, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of my full appreciation. “Though I wonder who chose the white roses. A rather pointed statement on a wedding night, wouldn’t you say?”
A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his severe features into something dangerously beautiful. “Not every symbol carries the meaning you’ve been taught, Princess.” He plucked a single white bloom from the arrangement, twirling it between his fingers. “In Nocthar, white represents not purity, but surrender.”
“Then they’ve chosen poorly,” I replied, lifting my chin in defiance. “For I have not surrendered anything.”
Valen approached me slowly, the rose still between his fingers. “Haven’t you?” He reached out, brushing the soft petals against my cheek with aching gentleness. “You stand in our bridal chamber, wearing my colors, bound to me by blood and oath.”
The flower’s velvet touch ignited something low in my belly, a warm coil of anticipation that I couldn’t suppress. I hated how easily he affected me, how my body responded to his proximity with shameful eagerness. The wine from the feast still hummed in my veins, dulling the edges of my resistance.
“Technicalities,” I whispered, my voice betraying me with its breathlessness.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through the small space between us.
“Such defiance, even now.” His free hand rose to my face, fingertips ghosting along my jawline. “It suits you.”
I hadn’t expected tenderness from the Blood King. I had steeled myself for cruelty, for dominance, for pain, not this careful touch that threatened to undo me more thoroughly than any violence could have. My chest tightened with confusion, with want, with the terrible suspicion that this, too, was a form of conquest I hadn’t prepared for.
“Turn,” he commanded softly, his fingers falling to my shoulder.
I obeyed, more from curiosity than compliance, presenting my back to him. The candles flickered as if in response to my quickened breath, casting our shadows in grotesque proportion against the far wall. I felt his warmth behind me, his breath stirring the wisps of hair that had escaped their elaborate arrangement during the night’s festivities.
I shivered as his fingers found the fastenings of my gown, working with deliberate, unhurried precision. “I thought I didn’t frighten you, Princess,” he observed, his voice low and intimate.
“Your reputation precedes you,” I breathed, fighting to keep my voice steady as I felt the first clasps release, the heavy fabric loosening around my shoulders. “You never confirmed if the other stories surrounding the infamous Butcher were true.”
“They all are,” Valen replied, his knuckles brushing against my exposed skin as he continued his work. “And none of them. Legends grow like weeds, choking out the truth.”
The gown loosened further, slipping to reveal my collarbone. I felt his eyes follow the exposure of skin with a hunger that should have terrified me.
Instead, an answering heat kindled low in my belly.
I had known men before. All quick, furtive encounters stolen in shadows, moments of physical release that left me ultimately unsatisfied but temporarily distracted. None had undressed me with such patience, such focused attention. None had made the removal of clothing feel like a sacrament.
“What is the truth, then?” I asked, my voice steadier than I felt as his fingers continued their measured descent, releasing button after button.
“The truth,” he said, his voice dropping lower, “is not so complicated.”
The final button gave way, and my gown hung open, held in place only by my shoulders. “I am a ruler, a conqueror, and I will always take what is mine.”
When the last fastening yielded, Valen eased the gown from my shoulders. The crimson silk slid down my body like blood flowing from a wound, pooling at my feet in a rich puddle of fabric. I stood before him in nothing but my thin shift, the silver crown, and the cooling air of the chamber.
“You’re shivering,” he observed, his hands coming to rest on my bare shoulders. His touch was warm—unnaturally so—as though fever burned beneath his skin.
“It’s cold,” I whispered, unwilling to admit that it was his touch, not the temperature, that caused the tremors racing across my skin.
His thumbs traced small circles against my shoulder blades. “Then perhaps we should warm you.” With terrible gentleness, his fingers slipped beneath the straps of my shift, easing them down my arms. The thin fabric joined my gown on the floor, leaving me naked before him, vulnerable in a way I had never allowed myself to be.
Still, he made no move to touch me further. I felt his gaze like a physical
caress, taking in every curve, every shadow, every imperfection of my exposed form. The silence stretched between us, taut with unspoken intention.
“Turn,” he commanded again, his voice rougher now, betraying a crack in his perfect control.
I turned to face him, refusing to cover myself or show shame. The Blood King stood before me fully clothed in his wedding finery, the contrast of our states making my cheeks burn with something other than embarrassment.
Power dynamics had always fascinated me, and this one—the conquered bride naked before her conquering king—should have filled me with rage.
Instead, I found myself intoxicated by the hunger in his eyes, the way his gaze devoured me with unapologetic appreciation.
With reverence that surprised me, Valen reached for the crown that still adorned my head. His fingers worked carefully, removing the jeweled pins that secured it to my elaborate hairstyle. One by one, the pins came free, releasing dark tendrils to fall around my shoulders.
“This,” he said, lifting the silver circlet from my head with unexpected care, “is a treasure indeed.” He moved to a small desk across the chamber, placing the crown upon it with the delicacy one might show a holy relic. “Not Varethian craftsmanship. Much older.”
“It was my mother’s,” I said without thinking, the wine loosening my tongue. “A gift from my father.”
Valen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Interesting,” he murmured, though he did not press further.
When he turned back to me, something had shifted in his expression. He studied me with new intensity, as though seeing me truly for the first time. “I am not under the false impression that you have been untouched before now,” he said, his voice casual despite the weight of his words.
The sudden change of subject caught me off guard. I thought of Darius, of his body pressed against mine in the rain-soaked garden. Of Valen’s threat.
Fear coiled in my stomach at the memory, but I refused to let it show.
“That is fortunate for you,” I answered simply, meeting his gaze with cool indifference. “I would hate to disappoint.”
A smile curved his lips, transforming his severe features into something almost approachable. “Oh, on the contrary, wife,” he murmured, his voice practically a purr of satisfaction. “I am quite pleased.”
He approached me then, his movements as fluid and purposeful as a
predator’s. I braced myself for roughness, for the claiming I had been expecting from this man, this king. Instead, his hand cupped my jaw with surprising tenderness, his thumb tracing the outline of my lower lip.
“You have been with men who took their pleasure without consideration for yours,” he stated, not a question but a certainty. “Men who saw you as a means to an end rather than a partner in pleasure.”
I said nothing in return. My experiences had been largely transactional.
Moments of connection that served my needs for distraction and control as much as they had served my partners’ desire for release. Darius had been considerate, in his way, but even he had never truly focused on my satisfaction above his own.
“Your silence confirms my suspicion,” Valen said, his thumb still tracing the sensitive curve of my lip. “How unfortunate for them, to have had such a treasure in their grasp and failed to appreciate it properly.”
His words sent warmth blooming in my chest, a feeling I immediately tried to suppress. This was a tactic, nothing more. Pretty words meant to lower my defenses. I would not be so easily manipulated.
“And you believe yourself more skilled?” I challenged, my tone deliberately scornful.
Valen’s smile deepened, his eyes glittering with something between amusement and promise. “I believe, Mireille, that you deserve to be worshipped as thoroughly as you have been neglected.”
Before I could form a retort, he leaned in and pressed his lips to mine.
The kiss was astonishing in its gentleness—a careful exploration rather than a conquest. His lips moved against mine with a practiced slowness, coaxing rather than demanding a response. I remained frozen, caught between the urge to resist on principle and the desire to yield to the unexpected tenderness of his approach.
When his tongue traced the seam of my lips, requesting entry rather than forcing it, something within me yielded. I opened to him with a soft sound that might have been surrender, might have been relief. His arms encircled me, drawing me against the solid warmth of his still-clothed body. The contrast of textures—the soft velvet of his shirt coat against my bare skin, the cool metal of his buttons pressing into my flesh—sent a shiver of awareness through me.
His kiss deepened gradually, a slow building of intensity that left me breathless. His hands remained respectfully at my ribs, neither wandering nor
grasping, though I could feel the restraint in his touch, the carefully leashed energy. I had expected to be devoured, to be taken. I had not expected to be savored.
When he finally broke the kiss, I was trembling. Not with fear or cold, but with a need I never allowed myself to acknowledge. The look in his eyes as he gazed down at me was not the triumph I had expected, but something darker, more complex.
“You taste sweeter than I deserve,” he murmured seemingly without thought, his fingers threading through my loose hair. “Nearly sweeter than revenge.”
I should have had a clever retort, some barbed comment to maintain the armor around my heart. Instead, I found myself pulling him back to me, undone by the deference I had not anticipated from the Blood King.
The kiss transformed like a storm gathering strength. What had begun as gentle exploration rapidly deepened into something hungrier, more desperate.
The careful restraint he’d shown moments before frayed at the edges, revealing glimpses of something wilder beneath his controlled exterior. I found myself leaning into it, my body responding to his growing urgency with a heat that pooled low in my abdomen and spread outward like wildfire.
His tongue swept against mine with increasing demand, no longer asking but claiming. I matched his fervor, my hands sliding up to grasp his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath the fine fabric of his wedding attire. He tasted of wine and something darker, something that sent a forbidden thrill racing through my veins.
Valen’s hand abandoned its respectful position at my ribs, descending to the curve of my spine and pressing me against him with unmistakable intent.
His heat seared through the layers of fabric, the hard planes of his chest and the rigid evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against my stomach.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured against my lips, his voice a low growl that vibrated through me. “Exquisite.”
I wanted to maintain some semblance of resistance, needed to, but my traitorous body arched toward him of its own accord, seeking more contact, more pressure, more of everything he offered. A small sound escaped me— half gasp, half moan—when his hand slid lower to cup my bare backside, fingers digging into the flesh with possessive hunger.
In one fluid motion, Valen lifted me against him. Instinctively, my legs wrapped around his waist, ankles locking behind his back. The new position
pressed me more firmly against him, feeling his own arousal against mine, drawing another shameless sound from my throat.
“Hold tight,” he commanded, his eyes now dark pools of desire, any pretense of indifference long abandoned.
I clung to him as he carried me toward the massive bed that dominated the chamber, my arms looped around his neck, my face buried against his throat. I could feel his pulse hammering beneath my lips, the rapid rhythm betraying that his calm façade was just that—a façade. The knowledge that he wanted me with equal desperation was intoxicating, a heady power that made me bold enough to press an open-mouthed kiss to the junction of his neck and shoulder.
His grip tightened in response, a barely audible hiss escaping through clenched teeth. “Dangerous game, wife,” he warned, though there was a note of appreciation in his voice.
The bed loomed before us, its ivory silks gleaming in the candlelight.
With surprising gentleness, Valen laid me down in its center, my dark hair spilling across the rich fabric like ink. He stood back, his eyes raking over my naked form with undisguised hunger.
I should have felt vulnerable, exposed beneath his predatory gaze.
Instead, I felt powerful. Desired. I stretched deliberately, arching my back slightly, watching as his eyes tracked the movement with rapt attention.
“Are you going to merely look at me?” I challenged, my voice huskier than I intended. “Or are you planning on doing something with me, now that you have me?”
A dangerous glint flashed in his eyes. “Impatient, aren’t we?” He placed one knee on the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. “Good things come to those who wait, Mireille.”
Gods help me, the sound of my name on his lips stirred a need within me that overcame all thought. I wanted him. Wanted this king, this conqueror, this man who had claimed me as a political prize. The realization should have horrified me, should have reminded me of all I stood to lose by surrendering to him. Instead, it freed the wildness within me. Freed the hunger that matched his own—a desire untainted by politics or pride.
Valen moved onto the bed, positioning himself above me without touching me. His knees settled on either side of my hips, his hands braced beside my shoulders. With deliberate slowness, he lowered himself until our faces were inches apart, his breath warm against my lips.
“Tell me what you want,” he demanded softly.
“You,” I whispered, the admission torn from me before I could consider its implications. “I want you.”
A slow smile spread across his face, triumphant yet appreciative. “And so you shall have me.” He shifted, shoving my thighs apart with his knees, the sudden dominance of the gesture drawing a ragged gasp from my lips.
The sound seemed to please him, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest as he settled between my spread legs. The fabric of his trousers rubbed against the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs, the friction both maddening and insufficient. I reached for the laces of his formal attire, fingers fumbling with uncharacteristic clumsiness.
“You’re still dressed,” I complained, tugging at the intricate fastenings.
Valen caught my wrists in one large hand, pinning them gently but firmly above my head. “Patience,” he admonished, the word a silken command.
“There is no rush, Mireille.”
“I am not a patient woman,” I retorted, squirming beneath him in a futile attempt to create the friction my body craved.
His smile deepened, transforming into something wolfish. “No, I imagine not.” He lowered his head, his lips brushing the sensitive shell of my ear.
“But tonight, you will learn patience. Tonight, you will learn what it means to be properly worshipped.”
Before I could form a response, his mouth moved to my throat, teeth grazing the tender skin where my pulse raced. I tilted my head instinctively, offering better access, drawing another of those approving chuckles from him. His free hand traced lazy patterns down the center of my body, fingertips ghosting over the curve of my breast, the dip of my waist, the flare of my hip.
“You are breathtaking,” he murmured against my collarbone, his breath hot against my skin. “Every inch of you deserves attention.”
True to his word, Valen began a slow exploration of my body, his mouth following the path his fingers had blazed. He released my wrists, but the unspoken command to keep them above my head remained. I complied, not out of submission but out of curiosity—what would this man, this king feared throughout the realm, do when given free access to my form?
His lips closed around my nipple, drawing a sharp gasp from me as pleasure shot directly to my core. His tongue circled the sensitive peak, alternating between gentle flicks and firmer pressure until I was arching
beneath him, seeking more contact. When he introduced his teeth, grazing the hardened bud with just enough pressure to skirt the edge of pain, I nearly came undone, a broken moan escaping my lips.
“So responsive,” he praised, moving to lavish equal attention on my other breast. “So perfectly made for pleasure.”
I writhed beneath him, caught between embarrassment at my body’s eager response and a desperate need for more. No lover had ever taken such time with me, had ever seemed to derive such satisfaction from my pleasure rather than their own. It was disarming, this singular focus on my enjoyment.
Valen continued his downward journey, lips and tongue and occasionally teeth marking a path across my ribs, the soft plane of my stomach, the jut of my hipbones. Each touch was deliberate, each kiss placed with careful attention to my responses. When he reached the apex of my thighs, he paused, his breath hot against my most intimate flesh.
I propped myself up on my elbows, looking down at him with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. His eyes met mine, dark with desire but also questioning—seeking permission despite his earlier dominance.
The contradiction confused me. This man had claimed me as property, had threatened death to anyone who touched me, had spoken of ownership with casual certainty. Yet here he was, pausing at this threshold, waiting for my assent.
“Please,” I whispered, the word unfamiliar on my tongue. I had never begged for anything in my life, had prided myself on maintaining control even in the most intimate of moments. Yet now, with this man I had every reason to hate, I found myself pleading.
A look of feral satisfaction crossed his features. He lowered his head, maintaining eye contact until the last possible moment before his mouth made contact with my center. The first sweep of his tongue drew a strangled cry from my lips, the pleasure so acute it bordered on pain. My head fell back, eyes squeezing shut as sensation overwhelmed me.
Valen explored me with the same thorough attention he’d shown to the rest of my body, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention to the bundle of nerves that sent sparks shooting through my limbs. His hands gripped my thighs, holding me open to his ministrations, thumbs occasionally stroking the sensitive inner flesh in counterpoint to the movements of his tongue.
I lost myself in the pleasure he created, all thoughts of resistance, of
pride, of political maneuvering washed away by waves of mounting ecstasy.
My hands fisted in the satin sheets, my back arching off the bed as he brought me closer and closer to the edge of release.
When he slipped a finger inside me, curling it to stroke against a spot that had me seeing stars, I shattered. My climax crashed through me with unexpected force, a cry torn from my throat that might have been his name, might have been a prayer, might have been nothing but pure sound. My body convulsed around his finger, inner walls clenching in rhythmic pulses as pleasure radiated outward from my core.
Yet even as the first waves of release began to subside, Valen did not relent. His tongue continued its attention, driving me higher when I thought I could go no further. A second finger joined the first, stretching me deliciously as he established a rhythm that matched the strokes of his tongue.
“Valen,” I gasped, my voice unrecognizable to my own ears, raw with pleasure and something like panic. “It’s too much—I can’t —“ He hummed against me, the vibration sending a fresh jolt of sensation through my over-sensitized flesh. I was caught somewhere between ecstasy and madness, pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, yet I couldn’t bring myself to ask him to stop. My body trembled, hovering on the precipice of something greater, something more devastating than the release I’d just experienced.
When the second climax hit, it was a tidal wave. I cried out, my entire body tensing and then trembling as pleasure crashed through me with brutal intensity. Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, the sensation too overwhelming to contain.
Still, Valen continued, drawing out my pleasure until I was a shaking, incoherent mess beneath him. Only when my hands pushed weakly at his shoulders, my body too sensitive to endure more, did he finally relent.
He rose up on his knees, wiping his mouth with his thumb in a gesture that should have been crude but somehow managed to be unbearably erotic.
His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he took in my wrecked state—hair tangled across the pillows, skin flushed and damp with perspiration, chest heaving with ragged breaths.
“Valen,” I gasped, beyond caring how desperate I sounded. “Please. I want you inside me.”
His smile was pure predatory satisfaction, a conqueror surveying territory already claimed. “How prettily you beg,” he said, triumph evident in his tone,
yet there was something else there too—genuine appreciation, perhaps even a hint of reverence.
My cheeks flushed hotly at his words, but I didn’t look away. Instead, I immediately reached for him with renewed urgency, my hands grasping at his shoulders, his chest, anywhere I could touch. The need that coursed through me was unlike anything I’d experienced before, raw and demanding, obliterating thought and reservation alike.
I wanted him with a desperation, letting desire wash away diplomacy and caution and the carefully constructed walls I’d built around my heart.
“Too many clothes,” I murmured, yanking at his fine tunic with an impatience that bordered on frantic. The garment was a masterpiece, all intricate fastenings and delicate embroidery. Now it was nothing but an obstacle, a barrier between skin that I needed to touch, to press, to claim.
Valen’s low chuckle vibrated against my fingers as I fumbled with the complicated clasps. “Allow me,” he said, his voice rough with a mix of amusement and desire. He sat back on his heels, my thighs straddling him as his fingers made quick work of the fastenings I had struggled with.
I watched, mesmerized, as he shed his attire. The tunic came first, pulled over his head in one fluid motion and cast aside with casual disregard.
Beneath it, his torso was a study in perfection. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, muscles defined without being excessive, skin the color of sun- warmed amber.
My fingers itched to trace his skin, to map the topography that had shaped this man. Instead, I focused on the remaining barrier between us—his trousers, still frustratingly intact. As if reading my thoughts, Valen moved to stand at the edge of the bed, his hands deftly working the lacings at his hips.
“So impatient,” he observed again, though his own movements betrayed equal urgency.
The trousers joined the discarded tunic on the floor, and Valen stood before me in magnificent nudity. My breath caught in my throat at the sight of him fully revealed. He was beautiful in the way terrifying things often are —all coiled strength and lethal grace. His arousal stood proud against his flat stomach, impressive in both length and girth.
I sat up, unable to resist the urge to touch, to taste. My hand reached for him, fingers wrapping around his shaft with exploratory gentleness. A hiss escaped his clenched teeth, his muscles tensing at my touch.
Emboldened, I ran my hand up his length, my eyes widening in surprise
as I felt three small metallic studs embedded along the underside of his shaft.
I stilled, momentarily stunned. As I traced them with my fingertips, understanding dawned—piercings, each one slightly larger than the last, placed with deliberate precision.
“Scared yet, Sparrow?” Valen asked, his voice a rumble of dark amusement.
A wild, reckless smile curved my lips as I met his gaze, something daring surging within me. Without breaking eye contact, I leaned forward, dragging my tongue slowly upward along his length, feeling each piercing in turn— cool metal against the flat of my tongue. At his last piercing, I paused, circling the stud deliberately before flicking it with the tip of my tongue.
Valen’s entire body went rigid, a strangled sound escaping him as his hand shot to the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair. Not pulling, not pushing, just anchoring himself as though my touch had threatened to unmoor him.
“Dangerous game,” he growled, the words repeated from earlier now strained as though forced through clenched teeth. His other hand gripped his cock, pressing it against my chin in a silent plea for more.
My smile widened, pausing before I obliged, taking his head into my mouth, my tongue tracing the ridge where the piercing met flesh.
His hand released my hair, catching my chin and stopping me before I could go much further. “Enough,” he said, his voice tight as he pulled away from me. “There will be time for all manner of play, but right now, I need to be inside you.”
The raw honesty in his voice sent a fresh wave of warmth coursing through me. “Yes,” I whispered, the word both agreement and plea.
Valen’s eyes burned with something beyond mere lust as he rejoined me on the bed, positioning himself between my legs with deliberate intent. His hands slid beneath my hips, adjusting my position slightly. His head pressed against my entrance, hot and insistent, yet he hesitated, his gaze locking with mine.
In that moment of suspension, I saw something unexpected in his expression—not just hunger or triumph, but a deeper emotion I couldn’t quite name. Something almost reverential, as though this act were more than mere consummation, more than the sealing of a political bond.
“Mireille,” he breathed, my name a prayer on his lips as he began to push forward.
He entered me with excruciating slowness, his eyes never leaving mine as he watched every flicker of expression across my face. The stretch and burn of accommodation melted quickly into pleasure as I felt each piercing enter with him.
I gasped, my back arching as he filled me more completely than any man ever had, my body yielding to his in a way that felt inevitable, as though we had been crafted for this very moment.
When he was fully seated within me, Valen paused, giving me time to adjust to his considerable size. His breathing was labored, muscles trembling with the effort of restraint. Sweat beaded on his brow, evidence of the control he exerted to keep himself from thrusting.
“Perfect,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cup my cheek with surprising tenderness. “You feel perfect around me, like you were made for this—for me.”
The possessive note in his voice should have triggered resistance, should have reminded me of all the reasons to guard myself against this man.
Instead, it sent a thrill of pleasure through me, a dark satisfaction at being so thoroughly claimed, so completely desired.
He began to move then, withdrawing almost completely before sliding back in with intentional slowness. Each thrust was measured, controlled. It was lovemaking in its purest form—attentive, responsive, focused on mutual pleasure rather than selfish release.
Yet it wasn’t enough. The careful consideration, the gentle pace—they only stoked the fire within me rather than satisfying it. I didn’t want love making. I wanted more, needed the wildness I had glimpsed beneath his controlled exterior.
“Harder,” I demanded, my nails digging into his back, urging him closer, deeper. “I won’t break, Valen.”
Surprise, or perhaps appreciation for my boldness flashed through his eyes. “Are you certain of that?” he asked, his voice rough with restrained desire.
“I don’t want your gentleness,” I replied, lifting my hips to take him deeper, drawing a groan from his throat. “Fuck me, husband.”
The crude words, so at odds with my royal upbringing, seemed to snap the final thread of his control. A sound that was half growl, half groan rumbled from his chest as his movements suddenly changed, becoming more forceful, more primal. His hands gripped my hips with bruising intensity,
holding me in place as he drove into me with newfound urgency.
“This is what you want?” he demanded, punctuating the question with a particularly deep thrust that had me gasping. “To be claimed? Completely?”
“Yes,” I moaned, my head falling back against the pillows as pleasure built within me, coiling tighter with each powerful thrust. “Gods, yes.”
Valen suddenly stilled inside me, pausing mid-motion as though he had been struck by an unearthly force. The abruptness of it drew a broken cry from my lips—a protest against this sudden loss of sensation. It felt as if the world had stopped spinning, hanging in a tenuous balance.
He leaned closer, his breath ghosting across my neck as he pressed his free hand against my throat with enough pressure to make the air catch in my lungs. There was an undeniable thrill in his grip. A dark reminder of who held dominion in this moment.
“Do not call for other gods while I am inside you,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding, sending a shiver racing down my spine. “Do you understand?”
I nodded instinctively, realizing that this was no idle request but a demand meant to bind us even further. Still, I would have done anything he wanted in this moment, and telling him I wouldn’t call out for the gods while he was inside of me was easy.
His thumb brushed along the line of my throat before squeezing slightly, just enough to remind me of the power he wielded over our connection. “Tell me who you want to fuck you,” he insisted, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that sent another wave of heat through my core.
“You,” I gasped, my voice trembling with a mix of uncertainty and desire.
He held my gaze, the intensity of his dark eyes deepening as he leaned closer, his breath fanning against my skin. “Good. Remember that.” With a growl, he resumed his pace, thrusting deeply into me with ferocity that stole my breath and sent shockwaves of pleasure spiraling through my body.
“You’re mine now,” Valen growled, his voice darker, rougher than I had ever heard it. “Say it, Mireille. Tell me who owns you.”
In any other circumstance, such a demand would have ignited furious resistance. But here, caught in the throes of pleasure so intense it bordered on transcendence, I found myself responding without hesitation.
“You do,” I gasped, the admission torn from me as his thrusts hit something deep inside that sent orbs of light exploding behind my eyelids.
“I’m yours, Valen.”
His response was immediate and visceral—a sound of pure satisfaction as his movements became even more intense, more demanding. One hand slid from my hip to the junction of my thighs, fingers finding the sensitive nerves that had already brought me to climax twice tonight.
All of it, the relentless stimulation of his fingers and the deep, perfect angle of his thrusts, pushed me over the edge once more. My release hit with devastating strength, inner walls clenching around him as pleasure radiated outward from my core.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice rough with approval as he continued to move within me, prolonging my release. “Let go, Mireille.”
Through the haze of my own pleasure, I felt him swell further inside me, his rhythm faltering as his own release approached. His hands gripped my hips once more, holding me firmly as his thrusts became erratic, powerful.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice tight with impending release. “I want to see your eyes when I come inside you.”
I forced my heavy lids open, meeting his gaze through the shimmering aftermath of my own climax. What I saw there sent ice shooting through my veins. His eyes had darkened further, the irises now ringed with an unmistakable crimson glow. Instead of frightening me, it almost seemed… right. Natural for this creature of conquest who claimed me so completely.
With a final, powerful thrust, Valen found his release, spilling hot and deep within me as a groan tore from his throat. The sound was almost angry, almost pained, as though the pleasure was too intense to bear. His face in that moment of absolute surrender was unforgettable, all sharp angles and raw emotion, stripped of the careful masks he typically wore, though his eyes returned to their normal midnight pools—the crimson a trick of the candlelight.
For several heartbeats, we remained locked together, bodies joined, breath mingling in the scant space between our faces. His expression shifted then, the triumph giving way to something more vulnerable than I had thought him capable of.
His thumbs brushed gently across my cheekbones. “You are extraordinary,” he murmured, the words simple yet weighted with sincerity that caught me off guard.
I didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to make of this man who could shift from ruthless conqueror to tender lover with such fluid ease. The
political calculation that had governed my interactions with him seemed distant now, irrelevant in the face of this raw connection we had forged.
Instead of speaking, I lifted my head slightly, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that contained neither submission nor defiance—simply acknowledgment of something profound that had passed between us. He returned the kiss with equal simplicity, his hands cradling my face as though I were something precious, something to be cherished rather than possessed.
When he finally withdrew from me, the sensation left me feeling strangely bereft, as though some essential connection had been severed. He rolled to lie beside me, one arm draped across my waist in casual possession.
Neither of us spoke, the silence filled with the sounds of our gradually slowing breaths and the occasional pop of the candles that still burned around us.
We lay tangled together in the aftermath, Valen’s weight a strange comfort pressing me into the sheets. My body hummed with a satisfaction I had never known before, a completeness I had never experienced in others’ eager but inexpert embraces. Instead of untangling myself and putting on my usual mask as the distant princess, I sank into the strange peace of the moment, mind blissfully empty of the calculations and defenses that had governed my every interaction for as long as I could remember.
His arm still curved around my waist, keeping me close as though he feared I might try to escape. The thought almost made me laugh. Where would I go, naked and thoroughly claimed, in a palace full of witnesses to our union? More surprising was the realization that escape was the furthest thing from my mind.
His fingers traced idle patterns on my skin, following the curve of my hip, the dip of my waist, the outline of my shoulder blade. The touch was possessive yet oddly tender, as though committing my form to memory through touch alone. I wondered if he was always this attentive after, or if there was something particular about me that inspired such focus.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “I can practically hear the wheels turning in that fascinating mind of yours.”
I shifted slightly, propping myself up on one elbow to look at him. In the aftermath of passion, his features seemed softer somehow, the sharp edges of the fearsome Butcher blunted by satisfaction. A thin sheen of sweat still clung to his skin, making it glow in the candlelight like burnished copper.
“Perhaps I’m composing poetry about your prowess,” I suggested, my tone deliberately light. “Odes to the legendary skills of the King of Nocthar.”
A smile curved his lips, transforming his face into something heartbreakingly beautiful. “And what would such an ode proclaim, I wonder?”
“That the rumors of your... abilities... are vastly understated.”
His laugh was unexpected—a genuine sound of amusement rather than the calculated chuckle I had heard before. It changed him, that laugh, made him seem younger, more human. For a fleeting moment, I caught a glimpse of the man beneath the rumors, the man beneath the crown.
“Rest now,” he said, though the word was clearly a command rather than a suggestion. His hand smoothed down my side in a gesture that was both soothing and subtly controlling. “Our marriage is young, and I am far from finished with you.”
The reminder of our impending departure for Nocthar sent a momentary chill through the warm cocoon of afterglow. Tomorrow I would leave Vareth behind. Would leave Lysa, leave Isolde, leave everything familiar to enter a kingdom known for its bloodshed and darkness. The thought should have filled me with dread, yet somehow, lying beside this man who had shown me both ruthless dominance and unexpected tenderness, the prospect seemed less terrifying than it had before.
I settled back against him, my head resting on his chest where I could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The sound was hypnotic, lulling me toward a drowsiness that felt foreign after the last few nights of restless anxiety. Whatever spell he had cast over me, it was powerful enough to calm even the storm of uncertainty about my future.
Yet, even as my eyelids grew heavy, I became aware of something else— the unmistakable feeling of him hardening again against my hip. The evidence of his renewed desire sent a fresh wave of heat curling through me, dispelling the encroaching tendrils of sleep.
Without conscious decision, my hand slid down the plane of his stomach, fingers ghosting over the ridges of muscle until they encountered the growing evidence of his arousal. I wrapped my hand around his length, feeling him
twitch in response to my touch.
“I thought you were tired,” Valen observed, though there was no objection in his tone, only a heated interest.
“I find myself curiously revitalized,” I replied, my fingers beginning a slow, deliberate exploration. I traced the length of him, learning the texture of velvet over steel hardness, the slight ridge around the head, the three studs that pierced his skin, the pulse of blood beneath my fingertips.
His breath caught as my thumb circled the sensitive tip, gathering the moisture there to ease my movements as I began to stroke him with more purpose. Power surged through me at his reaction. I had always derived a certain satisfaction from bringing men to completion with my touch, but this was different. Deeper. More significant somehow.
I watched his face as I continued my ministrations, my grip soft and lazy.
His eyes had darkened to obsidian, pupils blown wide with desire. His lips parted slightly, quickened breaths escaping in rhythm with the movements of my hand. The muscles in his jaw strained as he fought to maintain some semblance of control, the battle evident in the tension of his jaw.
“Greedy woman,” he growled, though the smirk that accompanied the words told me he wasn’t displeased by my initiative.
A smile rose to my lips as I pushed him onto his back, straddling his thighs in a sudden reversal of our earlier positions. He allowed it, his hands coming to rest on my hips but making no move to reassert control. The gesture spoke volumes. He was permitting my dominance, not submitting to it. The distinction was crucial, a reminder that whatever power I wielded was granted rather than taken.
Yet even that limited control was intoxicating. I hovered above him, my hair falling around us like a curtain of darkness, creating a private world within the already intimate space of our chamber. My hand still worked between us, guiding him to my entrance, positioning him at the threshold of my body.
“Take what you want,” he instructed, his voice rough with desire but eyes sharp with awareness. Even now, yielding physical control, he maintained mastery of the situation through his commanding tone.
I sank down onto him with the same deliberate slowness he had shown me, savoring the stretch of accommodation, the way my body yielded to his invasion. A sigh escaped me as he filled me completely, the angle allowing him to reach depths that sent sparks of pleasure shooting up my spine.
Valen’s hands tightened on my hips, urging me to move, but I resisted the silent command. This was my moment of control, and I intended to savor it. I rolled my hips in a languid circle, feeling each piercing within me, his eyes threatening to roll back at the sensation. I felt inebriated by this power, knowing I could reduce this fearsome man to wordless pleasure with nothing but the movements of my body.
I established a rhythm that was purposefully, torturously slow—rising until only the tip of him remained inside me before sinking back down with excruciating patience. His fingers dug into my flesh, not quite painful but certainly insistent, silently demanding more speed, more friction, more everything.
“Patience,” I echoed his earlier admonishment, a small smile playing at my lips as I continued my unhurried pace. “There’s no rush, remember?”
A growl rumbled from his chest, his hips thrusting upward in a bid to increase the tempo. I pressed my palms against his chest, using the leverage to maintain my chosen rhythm. His eyes narrowed at the challenge, a dangerous spark igniting in their depths that sent a thrill of both fear and excitement through me. I was playing with fire, teasing a predator, and the risk only heightened my arousal.
I leaned forward, my breasts brushing against his chest as I brought my lips close to his ear. “Did you think I would be so easily tamed, Butcher?” I whispered, nipping at his earring with just enough pressure, I knew, skirted the edge of pain.
His response was immediate, his arms wrapping around me, holding me in place as his hips drove upward with newfound intensity. The sudden shift in force tore a gasp from my throat, pleasure sharp and unexpected.
We became locked in a silent battle for dominance, each seeking to wrest control from the other through the language of our bodies. I matched his increased pace with movements of my own, refusing to surrender completely to his lead. Our breaths mingled, ragged and heavy in the heated air between us. Sweat slicked our skin, easing the friction as we moved together with increasing urgency.
The chamber filled with the sounds of our coupling—flesh meeting flesh, the rustle of satin sheets beneath us, the occasional creak of the bed frame protesting our vigor. The outside world faded to insignificance, all concerns of kingdom and court eclipsed by the immediate, overwhelming reality of our joined bodies.
I was approaching the precipice once more, pleasure building in ever- tightening spirals at my core, when a sound tore through the night—a scream, high and terrified, cutting through the heated haze of our passion like a blade of ice.
I tensed, my movements slowing as the cry reverberated through the stone walls of the palace. It had come from somewhere not far distant.
Perhaps the corridor outside, or an adjacent chamber. The sound was unmistakably one of terror rather than pleasure, the kind of scream that emerged only from true fear.
“What was—“ I began, my body stilling above his.
“Shh,” he murmured against my throat, his teeth grazing my skin. “Pay it no mind.”
Another scream echoed, closer this time, followed by the unmistakable sound of running feet in the hall beyond our chamber. My hands, which moments before had been clutching at Valen’s shoulders in passion, now pushed against his chest in urgent protest.
“Wait,” I insisted, turning my head toward the door. “Something’s wrong.”
His response was to capture my face between his hands, forcing my gaze back to his. In the guttering candlelight, his eyes gleamed with an unholy pleasure that should have made me pause. Instead, I felt an answering heat flare in my core, a betrayal of my better instincts.
“Your attention belongs to me,” he said, voice low and commanding.
“Let the world burn around us. It matters not.”
Before I could argue, he sealed his lips over mine in a kiss that tasted of possession and something darker—something like triumph. His hips drove forward with renewed purpose, each thrust deliberate and precise, hitting places inside me that made rational thought dissolve like salt in water.
I hated myself for responding, even as my body arched to meet him. The screams continued outside our sanctuary, a terrible counterpoint to the building pleasure within me. It was obscene to feel such ecstasy, yet I couldn’t stop the wave that was building, couldn’t deny the coiling tension that demanded release.
“Look at me,” Valen commanded as my eyes began to drift toward the door again. “Feel what I do to you. Nothing else matters.”
My gaze locked with his as he drove deeper, harder. His hand slipped between us, fingers finding that perfect spot again, circling it, pinching it.
The touch was both reward and punishment, forcing me to acknowledge my body’s betrayal of my conscience.
“That’s it,” he praised as my breathing fractured. “Come for your king, wife. Come while your kingdom falls around you.”
His words should have doused my desire. Instead, they ignited something primal within me, some dark, hidden part that reveled in the forbidden nature of my arousal amidst chaos. When my release came, it crashed through me, my breath releasing on a moan of pure pleasure. Valen followed moments later, his own climax marked by a possessive growl against my ear.
For a heartbeat, perhaps two, we remained joined, my pulse pounding in my ears loud enough to momentarily drown out the continuing sounds of distress beyond our private sanctuary. Our shared breath hung between us, intimate and poisonous.
Then another scream, this one close enough to have come from just outside our door, pierced the veil of sensual haze surrounding me. The clarity that followed was swift and merciless. What was happening? How could I have remained here, lost in pleasure, while my people cried out in terror?
I jerked away from Valen, or tried to, but his grip still pinned me to him.
His expression held a mixture of satisfaction and cruel amusement that chilled my overheated skin.
“Let me go,” I demanded, pushing at his chest with renewed vigor. “I need to see what’s happening.”
“Do you?” he asked, head tilting slightly as if my concern was a curiosity he found amusing. “And what will you do, wife? Rush naked to the rescue?
Play the savior on your wedding night?”
Another cry echoed from beyond the door, followed by a crash of something heavy falling. My heart raced painfully against my ribs as I shoved at him with all my strength, finally removing myself from his grasp.
Valen laughed. A cold, mocking sound that raised the fine hairs on my nape. He made no move to stop me as I snatched a silk robe from where it had been laid out near the bed, my fingers trembling so badly I could barely secure the sash.
More screams, a distant clash of metal as a sickening realization spread through me… This was no accident, no random calamity.
This was an attack.
“What have you done?” I whispered, the question torn from me as I stared at Valen, who remained relaxed and unconcerned among the rumpled
sheets.
His smile was a knife’s edge, sharp and dangerous. “Hurry if you hope to save anyone, wife,” he said, the words a mocking caress. “Though I suspect you’ll find your efforts... futile.”
Understanding bloomed like a poison flower in my chest. The small contingent of Nocthari warriors who had arrived with Valen yesterday had seemed too few. Had there been others, sneaking into the castle under cover of the celebration? Had our guards been compromised, drugged, or simply overwhelmed?
I didn’t wait for confirmation. With one last look at Valen, memorizing the image of him lounging amid the destruction of my former life, I turned and fled toward the door.
The heavy wooden panel swung open under my desperate push, revealing a corridor that had transformed from a familiar passage into something from a nightmare. Torches flickered in their sconces, casting wild shadows that danced like demons across the stone walls. The air smelled of smoke and iron… blood, I realized with a sick lurch of my stomach.
I stepped fully into the corridor, the cool stone beneath my bare feet a shock after the warmth of the bridal chamber. The silk robe clung to my still- damp skin as I moved cautiously forward, ears straining to locate the source of the sounds of struggle.
A servant woman appeared at the far end of the corridor, her face a mask of terror as she ran toward me. One of mine. Her white apron was spattered with something dark, her cap askew.
“Princess!” she gasped upon seeing me. “Run! They’re killing everyone!”
“Who?” I demanded, reaching for her arm as she tried to rush past. “Who is doing this?”
Her eyes, wide with panic, flickered to the open door of the bridal chamber behind me, to where Valen no doubt still reclined in naked splendor.
Horror dawned in her expression.
“The Nocthari,” she whispered. “They were hidden throughout the castle.
They rose up during the feast, after you and the Blood King departed. They —“ Her voice broke on a sob. “The king—your father—they’ve taken him.”
The world tilted beneath my feet. My father. Captured or killed by the very people I had married into. And I had been in bed with their king, crying out in pleasure while my people died.
“Go,” I told her, releasing her arm. “Hide yourself if you can.”
She didn’t need to be told twice, disappearing down a servant’s passage with the speed of true terror. I stood alone in the corridor, the distant sounds of fighting echoing against stone walls that had stood for centuries, walls that had never before witnessed such treachery.
I glanced back at the bridal chamber door. Through the opening, I could see Valen had risen from the bed, his magnificent form silhouetted against the candlelight as he leisurely gathered his clothing. He caught my gaze and smiled that terrible, knowing smile that confirmed every suspicion blooming in my mind.
This had been his plan all along. The marriage, the peace treaty—all lies.
While I had writhed beneath him in shameful pleasure, his men had been slaughtering my people, taking my kingdom by force.
I should have felt rage, hatred, or at least disgust. Instead, a terrible numbness spread through me, followed by a cold, calculating clarity. I needed to survive this night. And then, somehow, I would make Valen pay.
