Her lips pressed to his, and he yielded to it. She gave as much as she took, her tongue meeting his in a clash that blurred the line between surrender and demand. Every brush of her mouth was deliberate, unafraid now—even when her pulse trembled under his memory.
He heard a stir on the floor and ignored it, heat sparking down his veins, every nerve thrumming with the recklessness she had provoked. He wasn't about to let a servant dictate the end of this—of them.
Her hands tightened in his hair, and he angled his head to deepen it once more, drinking in the taste, the boldness. When she finally broke away, her chest was rising fast, lips swollen and glistening.
He held still, gaze locked on her face, unwilling to let the moment scatter too quickly. The room was hushed save for their breaths, the heavy rhythm of hearts not yet steady.
Without looking away, Lucarion spoke—his voice loud enough to cut the quiet, thick with command.
"You may stop pretending."
A sharp intake of air followed. The man's pulse jumped audibly. Eva blinked, slow to register the words.
She glanced at the man, then back at Lucarion, realization flooding her face.
Her blush deepened, blooming from throat to cheeks as the understanding settled—her attacker, bound and silent, had witnessed too much.
Lucarion didn't move, didn't soften—only watched her, eyes glinting with unrepentant satisfaction. The flush rising in her cheeks was a sight he wanted burned into him, something he would savor long after this moment passed.
Then his mouth curved—reckless, wolfish, a rare flicker of dark amusement.
"I could knock him out again," he purred, honeyed and dangerous, every word thrumming with the intoxication of her blood. "Give us more time. Just say the word."
Her breath caught; her eyes widened before she huffed and looked away, dismissing the notion with more haste than conviction.
"You're insufferable."
A low, pleased chuckle escaped him as he leaned close, lips brushing her ear.
"You're adorable."
He pressed a quick peck to her cheek and turned away, savoring the sharp intake of her breath and the faint hitch in her pulse as the primal euphoria still hummed in his veins.
Lucarion moved to the door and barked a sharp command. Two guards appeared, stepping quietly into the room at his signal.
"Take him," he said, voice low and commanding. "Quietly. This is a confidential matter."
Then his attention returned to her. His gaze swept over her—each line, each curve, the flush on her cheeks, the subtle tremor in her pulse—recording everything with a sharp, hungry intensity.
"Do you wish to move rooms?"
She cleared her throat softly before answering, voice even but taut.
"That would only draw attention. It's better if no one notices anything amiss."
A faint tilt of his mouth acknowledged her answer, but his eyes lingered, drinking her in one last time as if committing her to memory.
"Very well."
Finally, he turned, closing the door quietly behind him, though the echo of her presence clung to him like a shadow. In the corridor, he caught the eye of a passing guard and gave a sharp, silent signal. The man bowed once and took position at her door.
—
Eva woke unrested. Sleep had not freed her but gnawed at her mind with disjointed shapes and whispered fragments. She couldn't recall the dreams—only the heaviness they left behind, like smoke clinging to her chest. Being too near him always frayed her edges, tugging at something she barely understood, and the night had pushed her too far.
Her hand drifted to her neck before she even sat up. Skin smooth. No soreness she half-expected remained. Nothing to show for what had passed between them—only the memory, a pulse under her skin, vivid and impossible to ignore.
Sunlight slanted across the room, too high—she had slept long past her usual hour. On the table beside the bed sat a tray of food, steam gone but not yet cold. A letter lay across the silver plate, sealed in deep violet wax. The sigil pressed into it was unfamiliar: a silver tree struck through with a crimson spear, three stars gleaming above its branches.
Her stomach tightened as she broke the seal.
E.,
I have cleared your schedule for the day. You will remain in your chambers, undisturbed. Rest. Work on your drawings. I will bring you news when evening falls.
L.
Her fingers tightened on the page, a dull ache pushing behind her eyes. Again—that quiet certainty in his tone, as if she were something to be guarded, polished, kept out of sight.
She almost crumpled the letter, nearly missed the line at the bottom.
P.S. The sigil and wax that sealed this letter are ours. It was delivered this morning.
The words caught her breath. Ours.
She read the letter again, slower this time. But her mind kept returning to the memory of last night—the moment he drank. Not just the pressure of his lips or the liquid fire spreading along her neck, but the weight behind it. Every pulse of his mouth carried the pull of centuries, a gravity she could feel in her bones.
She had faced divine power before—wielded the force of destruction—but this was different. Lucarion was no god. He inspired not awe or fear, but recognition. A sense of scale and permanence that grounded her even as it threatened to unmoor her.
Her heartbeat had collided with his, a thrum that made her aware of every nerve, every breath. She had wanted to pull him closer, to let the bite deepen, to mark herself with him, to touch something eternal—but she understood his restraint. The act was not mere hunger—it was connection, trust, vulnerability distilled across lifetimes. To force it would have been sacrilege, a theft of something far beyond the physical.
And yet, even restrained, she had felt it: his loneliness, his longing, the weight of endless years. Every drop of her blood had become a bridge, a pulse of life reaching into the hidden chambers of him. The intimacy had been overwhelming, almost sacred, leaving her trembling and exhilarated.
Now the armor was back in place, hard as iron, pressed into every line of the letter. And yet, she felt a quiet ache, a mix of longing and relief. She had glimpsed the weight he bore, the solitude that stretched across centuries, and for a moment, she had wanted to help carry it. She had not been ready then—but she resolved, silently, that one day she would be.
Eva rose slowly. Her head throbbed faintly. She leaned over the small basin of water, letting the cool splash soothe her skin and rinse away the lingering warmth that clung stubbornly to her.
Dressing was slow and careful. Even the simple act of bending, stretching, and reaching sent shivers through her body, and she flexed her fingers absently, aware of the tension still coiled beneath her skin. Every step carried the memory of tight grips, heated touches, and the sharp brush of teeth—her pulse still quickened despite the hours that had passed.
Her throat felt dry, her lips parched, and a deep, lingering thirst pulled at her chest. She drank and ate from the breakfast tray, though each bite felt strangely distant, her focus turned inward.
She didn't ring for service. Instead, she approached her easel. The gray mare, Lucy, by the hot springs waited on the canvas. She gripped her brush and began to paint—methodical, deliberate, though her hand trembled with residual adrenaline. Sweat prickled at her temples; her body still ached. Now she understood why Lucarion had called marking brutal—if a shallow drink could drain her so, what would a week do?
She rang for more water. Hydration seemed to ease the headache.
As she painted, her mind turned to the court, the bound servant, and the quiet threats lurking in the palace. They underestimated her—Lucarion included—thinking her fragile, harmless. Let them. That miscalculation could be her advantage.
Even as she worked, she kept her awareness sharp. The soreness, the thirst—they were reminders not of weakness but endurance. Pain and exhaustion honed her. The quiet diligence of her work felt almost like armor.
The day bled slowly toward twilight. When the last strokes of light slipped across the canvas, Eva's mind had steadied. The colors blurred softly in the cooling air—pale mist over water, light shimmering on Lucy's flank. She set the brush down and exhaled, the ache in her arms easing into calm.
When she stepped outside, the air was heavy with the scent of rain on stone. The palace gardens stretched before her in muted golds and deep greens, fountains murmuring under the dimming sky. She found her usual bench near the pond and sat, letting the world settle around her. The soreness had dulled to a faint hum, and only a trace of thirst remained—a reminder, not a weakness.
Lucarion appeared at the edge of the path, twilight glinting against his pale hair, footsteps soundless.
"You're awake," he said, stopping a few paces away. "And out of your chambers sooner than I expected."
"I've rested enough," Eva replied evenly. "I needed air."
His gaze lingered, sweeping over her as if to confirm it. "How do you feel?"
She shrugged lightly. "Sore. Thirsty. Otherwise intact."
A corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. "Good. It fades quickly after the first time."
"I see," she murmured, eyes drifting to the pond. "And the servant?"
His expression cooled. "Alive. But under a deep trance—old, layered. It erases memory without breaking the mind. Whoever did it knew their craft."
"Can he speak?"
"He tries," Lucarion said. "But every time he nears the truth, his mind seizes. There are traces of alchemy in his blood—binding compounds, with spellwork layered over that."
Eva's brow furrowed. "Can't you break it?"
"I could," he admitted, "but not without risk. Push too far, and his mind may collapse before he can speak. Enthrallment would tear what little remains intact. For now, patience is wiser."
She nodded slowly, absorbing that. He seemed eager to reassure her—too careful. It wasn't that she doubted him; she knew he had control. But still, something in her bristled at being the one who needed reassurance.
"I'm not afraid of them, you know," she said after a pause, gaze drifting to the rippling pond. "Your courtiers, their schemes—they don't frighten me. If anything, I think it's the other way around."
Her lips curved faintly, almost self-deprecating. "I suppose I'm only wounded they thought a trance-bound servant would be enough to deal with me."
She gave a short, quiet laugh. "At least your guard in the eastern fortress took me seriously."
"And that was my goal," he said, tone thoughtful. "I've hidden the truth of your arrival—downplayed it. They think you're my capricious distraction, not a force. We can't afford word spreading that a weapon capable of undoing gods now walks within the heart of the capital."
A quiet breath escaped her, half amusement, half resignation.
"So that's what I am, then. A secret weapon disguised as a fragile woman."
His lips lifted, the faintest ghost of humor. "Would you prefer the opposite?"
Her smile was small, knowing. "No. It has its advantages."
For a moment, the tension between them eased—two conspirators sharing the same dangerous joke.