Yen stood tall in the center of their chambers, utterly bare. Not just in body—but in the quiet, unyielding authority that clung to him like a second skin.
The early light that spilled through the high windows limned him in pale gold, tracing every chiseled muscle with reverence. His chest rose slowly, rhythmically, as if the very air around him knew better than to rush. He was a monument in flesh—broad-shouldered, hips narrow, his body sculpted not by vanity, but by battle, by discipline, by sheer goddamn will. Scars snaked across his torso like silver threads of memory, reminders of wars fought—some outside, many within.
His hair, long and black, was slicked back with fragrant oil, exposing the full austerity of his face—aristocratic features carved in granite. High cheekbones, a knife-sharp jaw, and a mouth that seemed permanently etched with restraint. Eyes like molten gold stared ahead, unblinking. Cold. Sovereign.
Behind him, Lily moved like a shadow. Barefoot. Silent.
She approached him without a word, her eyes downcast as she reached for the first layer of his robes. Her movements were slow, precise—less like a wife tending to her husband, and more like a priestess performing a sacred rite.
Layer by layer, she cloaked him in fabric. Linen first. Then silk. Then the heavy outer robe, its color deep as dried blood. She adjusted the folds on his abdomen with shaking fingers, smoothing them flat with her palms. Her touch lingered, just a breath longer than necessary. A memory in her fingertips. A question, unspoken.
Once, she would have teased him here—chuckled at how he always insisted on the thick sash, even in the suffocating heat of summer. He would have grinned, snagged her hand, kissed her until she was laughing too hard to tie the knot right. They used to be human then. Soft. Messy.
Now it was all quiet. Too quiet. A silence sharp enough to bleed in.
She moved to stand before him, carefully adjusting the folds over his chest. Her hand stilled. She didn't mean to, but her fingers pressed there—over his heart. Searching. As if she could feel something beneath. Some thrum of warmth. Some echo of the man she loved.
When she looked up, he was already staring at her. His gaze unmoving. Piercing. His brow quirked, just slightly.
She dropped her hand.
And yet, he reached for her. His knuckles brushed the curve of her cheek, calloused and warm. The gentleness of it struck like a slap. She flinched—not outwardly, not enough to offend, but enough for him to notice.
He always noticed.
Then he leaned down.
And without thinking, Lily rose up to meet him. Her mouth found his out of habit—no, conditioning. This was what she was meant to do. This was the role she played.
But the kiss wasn't gentle.
It devoured her.
His lips crashed onto hers with violent hunger, and his tongue shoved past her parted mouth like a thief taking back what he believed was his. He curled it around hers, pulled it, sucked hard until she whimpered. Flicked cruelly against the roof of her mouth until she tasted iron and shame. Saliva pooled between them, hot and messy, sliding down her chin.
When he finally pulled away, a string of it clung between their lips. He severed it with a slow, deliberate swipe of his tongue—never once breaking eye contact.
He didn't wipe his mouth.
He licked it clean.
Like a beast savoring its claim.
Lily stood still, chest heaving. The wetness lingered—on her lips, her chin, her very soul. She hated the familiarity of it. Hated how her body didn't recoil. Not anymore.
She didn't wipe her mouth either.
He stepped back, arms opening slightly. And like muscle memory, she stepped forward, tucking herself against him. His embrace wrapped around her like chains dressed in velvet. Gentle. Crushing.
"Have a good day," she said. Her voice was even. Practiced. Empty.
He smiled—warm, affectionate, deadly. "That's it?" His fingers ghosted over her waist, firm enough to warn.
"I love you," he said softly.
She froze.
Her tongue went dry, throat constricted.
"I said," he repeated, voice laced in silk and steel, "I love you."
"I love you too," she rasped, the words scraping up from her chest like broken glass.
"Again."
"I love you too."
"Again."
"I love you, Yen."
He kissed her nose. Brushed her forehead with a mockery of tenderness.
"Keep saying it until we die, hm?"
She nodded. Her stomach churned. She would say it. She always did.
He turned, adjusted his robe, and left without another word.
The door clicked shut.
And silence, true silence, wrapped around her like a noose.
Lily stared at the empty space he left behind. She counted his steps—one, two, three, fading away into the vast hallways. Gone.
Only then did she breathe.
She collapsed onto the bed like a marionette cut from its strings. Her arms wrapped around her knees, forehead pressed against them, as if she could fold herself small enough to disappear into fabric and memory.
She had loved him once.
Truly. Deeply.
But love had rotted in the shadows of obedience. Now, all that remained was ritual. Habit. A love recited by heart, like a prayer without belief.
She didn't cry.
Not anymore.
Her body trembled—not with sorrow, but with the quiet, suffocating tremors of someone unraveling quietly.
And still, she'd say the words tomorrow. Again.