The fabric yielded to her trembling fingers, and when she freed him, a strangled breath she didn't realize she was holding escaped her lips. He was hard and heavy in her palm, a solid, living proof of the effect she had on him. Soren's grip in her hair tightened, not painfully, but as a silent, undeniable command. His gaze was a physical weight, pinning her in place, a mixture of raw desire and a dark, possessive triumph that should have terrified her.
He guided her forward, a slow, inexorable pressure, and she went. There was no hesitation now, only a desperate, single-minded focus. Her lips parted, and she took him into her mouth, the unfamiliar taste and texture a shock to her senses. A low groan rumbled in Soren's chest, a sound of pure, unbridled pleasure that vibrated through him, erasing every other thought. She moved by instinct, clumsy at first, then with a growing confidence as she learned the rhythm he craved. His hips began to move, a slow, deep thrust that matched the movements of her head, and she was lost in the raw, intimate act. This was her shield, her weapon, her desperate, beautiful gamble.
His control, a carefully constructed façade, began to splinter. His breathing became harsh, the rhythmic thrusts of his hips growing more erratic, more demanding. The world narrowed to this single, undeniable connection—the taste of him, the feel of him, the sounds he made. He was no longer the composed king or the teasing predator; he was just a man, undone by her. With a guttural cry, his entire body went rigid, and he shuddered, spilling himself into her with a force that stole her breath.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was their ragged gasps.
Soren's body trembled with the force of his release, a shudder that ran the length of his frame. For a moment, he simply breathed, his fingers loosening their grip in her hair. Freya pulled back slightly, her lips swollen, her chest heaving, a strange mix of triumph and exhaustion warring within her.
She looked up at him, her green eyes wide and searching, a silent question hanging between them.
Then, slowly, Soren lowered himself to his knees before her, his crimson eyes locking with hers. His expression was no longer one of predatory triumph, but of something infinitely more dangerous: a dawning, possessive tenderness.
"You play a dangerous game, Freya," he whispered, his voice a low, husky rumble that vibrated through her.
"But you play it so very well."
He picked her up and carried to the bed having her on top of him.
The shift was immediate, a complete reversal of power that left her breathless. One moment she was on her knees, the next she was straddling him on the bed, the soft fabric of her dress bunching around her thighs. Soren lay beneath her, a predator at rest, but his crimson eyes burned with an intensity that promised she was not the one in control, not truly. He guided her hips, aligning their bodies with an effortless strength, and she felt him, hard and ready against her.
"Ride me,"
he commanded, his voice low. There was no room for argument, no space for refusal. With a confidence she didn't know she possessed, Freya rose up and then slowly, deliberately, sank down onto him. A choked gasp escaped her lips as he filled her, a deep, unyielding stretch that was both a surrender and a conquest. She set the pace, her movements slow and unsure at first, then finding a rhythm that was hers, a rhythm that made his breath hitch and his hands tighten on her hips.
Freya started with a slow, tentative rhythm, a rocking motion that was more discovery than command. Soren's hands rested on your hips, not guiding, not forcing, but simply a constant, possessive presence. His gaze was a physical weight. She could feel the heat building inside her, a slow, coiling fire that spread through her veins with every downward glide.
Soren's grip tightened, his thumbs pressing into the hollows of her hips, a silent command that she obeyed without thought. Her pace quickened, the movements becoming more fluid, more urgent. She threw her head back, a soft cry escaping her lips as he hit a spot deep within her. This was no longer a game of diversion; this was a tempest, Soren began to move with her, thrusting up to meet her downward strokes, a deep, powerful rhythm that pushed her to the edge.
The coil in her core snapped, and she shattered, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washing over her, so intense it was almost painful. She collapsed against him, her body trembling, her mind a blank slate of sensation.
Soren followed her over the edge with a guttural roar, his own release tearing through him. He held her close, his arms wrapping around her, pinning her to him as he spilled himself inside her. Their breathing ragged, their hearts beating a frantic, unsteady rhythm against each other's chests.
***
Morning came quietly.
Freya woke slowly, her body heavy with the remnants of sleep—and something more complicated she didn't want to name.
For a moment, she didn't move.
Then it came back.
Everything.
The night before.
The closeness.
The way her body had responded to him—wanted him.
Freya's eyes opened.
The space beside her was empty.
The sheets still faintly warm.
Soren was already gone.
Relief came first.
And then—
something else.
A small, unwelcome pull in her chest.
Freya frowned slightly, staring at nothing.
"…No," she murmured under her breath.
Because that—
that was the problem.
She was thinking about him too much.
Feeling too much.
Letting something take root that she hadn't intended.
Her fingers curled into the sheets.
This place.
These walls.
The way every path curved back to him.
Freya sat up slowly.
This time—
her movements weren't uncertain.
They were decided.
Today.
She exhaled once, steadying herself.
Today, I leave.
The thought landed clean.
And yet—
That same small ache pressed faintly in her chest again.
Her jaw tightened.
"I'm not staying for him," she said quietly.
Because if she hesitated—
even once—
She might not go at all.
Freya swung her legs over the edge of the bed, standing carefully.
Her ankle held.
Her back still stung.
It didn't matter.
She moved with purpose now, crossing the room toward the wardrobe.
***
Soren's office was quiet, but not calm.
Reports were spread across the desk, organized with precision, yet untouched in any meaningful way.
Eugene stood across from him, relaxed in posture but far too observant to be casual.
"You're not reading those,"
Eugene said after a moment.
Soren didn't look up.
"I am."
"You're staring at them," Eugene corrected mildly.
"That's different."
A pause settled between them.
Soren finally leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.
"…Something is off."
Eugene's brow lifted just a fraction.
"With the kingdom?" he asked dryly.
"With her."
That was enough.
Eugene's expression shifted—not surprised, but interested.
"Freya?" he asked.
Soren nodded once.
"She's quieter," he said.
Eugene considered that.
"That doesn't sound like a problem."
"It is when it's intentional."
Another pause.
Eugene folded his arms loosely.
"You think she's planning something," he said.
Not a question.
Soren's gaze finally lifted.
"I think she's deciding something," he corrected.
Eugene let out a quiet breath, almost thoughtful.
"…You think she's trying to leave again."
Soren didn't answer immediately.
But his silence was answer enough.
Eugene studied him for a moment longer.
Then, lightly—
"Or," he said,
"she's decided to stop running."
Soren's expression didn't change.
But something in his gaze sharpened.
"No," he said quietly.
Not dismissive.
Certain.
Eugene tilted his head slightly.
"That sure?"
"Yes."
"She's not settled," Soren continued. "She's… focused."
Eugene hummed under his breath.
"That's worse."
Soren didn't disagree.
Another silence stretched between them.
Then—
"What do you want me to do?" Eugene asked.
Soren's fingers tapped once against the desk.
"Nothing," he said.
Eugene's brow lifted again.
"Nothing?"
"I don't want her watched differently," Soren continued.
"If she's planning something, I want to see how."
Eugene studied him carefully now.
"…You're letting her try."
Soren's gaze dropped back to the reports, though he still wasn't reading them.
"I'm letting her show me what she thinks her options are."
Eugene let out a quiet breath.
"And if one of those options is leaving?"
Soren's voice didn't rise.
Didn't harden.
But it settled with quiet certainty.
"Then she'll learn it isn't one."
Eugene said nothing to that.
Because there was nothing to say.
***
Freya didn't hesitate this time.
By the time the palace had settled into the rhythm of midday, she was already dressed.
Not as herself.
Not as a lady.
The training clothes fit well enough—loose through the frame, heavy enough to obscure shape.
Her hair was hidden carefully beneath the dark wig, every strand of gold tucked away.
Her eyes—
she couldn't change.
But she could lower them.
Freya studied her reflection one last time.
"…Good enough," she murmured.
And then—
she left.
The walk to the training grounds felt different today.
Less uncertain.
More… intentional.
Freya kept her pace even, her posture slightly altered—less upright, less precise.
And it worked.
No one stopped her.
No one questioned her.
She stepped onto the edge of the training grounds like she belonged there.
And this time—
she didn't stay at the edge.
She moved further in.
***
Lucan hadn't planned to be there.
His path had simply taken him past the grounds.
Routine.
Until—
he saw him.
Not clearly at first.
Just another trainee moving among the others.
But something—
something in the way he moved—
Lucan slowed.
His gaze sharpened slightly.
Too deliberate in its attempt not to be.
He watched him turn.
Watched the angle of his shoulders.
The balance in his step.
Recognition didn't come all at once.
It settled.
".... Freya." he murmured under his breath.
Disguised.
In the training grounds.
Lucan didn't move.
Didn't call out.
Didn't intervene.
He simply… observed.
Because this—
this was not carelessness.
This was intention.
His gaze followed her as she moved further into the space, blending among trainees who had no idea who stood beside them.
And for the first time—
Lucan understood something clearly.
She wasn't reacting anymore.
She was acting.
His fingers tightened slightly behind his back.
He should stop this.
Report it.
End it before it became something worse.
But he didn't.
Because something held him there.
Not duty.
Curiosity.
And something quieter.
More dangerous.
Because he wanted to see what she would do next.
And more than that—
He wanted to understand why.
Lucan remained where he stood.
Unseen.
Unnoticed.
Watching her.
And choosing—
for now—
silence.