The moment the chamber doors shut behind us, something shifted. I couldn't name it, but I felt it crawling beneath my skin, tight and restless. I didn't wait for Kael. I moved ahead of him silently, my footsteps quick across the stone floor, echoing louder than I liked.
The air inside the room was too still, too warm. I suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe in it. Like the walls had drawn closer, the moment we stepped inside. I told myself it was just the long day, the weight of expectation pressing down on me, the looks from the nobles who had said nothing but said everything with their eyes. But it wasn't just that. It was her. Lyra. The way she had looked at him. Like she had a right to him. Like I wasn't supposed to be there.
My hands went straight to the clasps of my dress, movements sharp and hurried. The fabric snagged at my shoulders, and I bit back a sound of frustration. It was fine. Everything was fine. I just needed a moment. I just needed space. No, I needed distance from that voice, that perfume, that look. From the unease, chewing holes through my calm. I had no reason to feel this way. I barely knew him. This arrangement—this marriage—was politics. Not possession. Not love. It's not mine to feel anything over.
But then why did her gaze crawl over me like something cold and smug, as if she knew something I didn't? As if she knew where Kael's heart used to be. Or maybe still was. Was that it? Had she once been close to him? Had he ever looked at her the way he sometimes looked at me? I hated the thought. "I'm going to bathe," I said, the words coming out flatter than I intended. Kael's voice followed, low and calm. "Alright." I didn't look back. I slipped into the bathing chamber and shut the door—more forcefully than I meant to. The latch clicked like a judgment.
Steam curled around my face as I sank into the tub, the water near scalding. The servants must have already prepared it earlier in case we wanted one—it was habit here, this quiet readiness—but tonight, it felt like they'd known I'd need it. My skin flushed, but I welcomed it. I needed to burn off the feeling clinging to me like a second skin. That wasn't a lie. Not really. The air still carried Lyra's perfume, sweet and cloying. I wanted it gone. I grabbed the cloth and scrubbed my arms harder than necessary. Then my neck. My collarbone. Even the backs of my hands, though they hadn't touched anything.
There was no reason for the tightness in my chest. Or how her voice clung to the air even now, like perfume I hadn't chosen to wear. My jaw clenched as the image of her looking at Kael flashed through my mind—possessive, smug like he belonged to her. And worse, I didn't deserve him. Why did that matter? Why did it make something twist, low and ugly, behind my ribs? I breathed and sank lower into the water until it kissed my chin. That word shouldn't fit. But it curled around me like a second skin—tight, irritating, and impossible to peel away. I didn't want to name it. Didn't want to admit something I didn't understand. All I knew was that I wanted the scent gone. The memory is gone. The feeling is gone. And none of it was working.
Kael had moved to the edge of the bed by the time I returned. My skin was pink from the heat, and my hair was damp and clinging to my shoulders. I glanced at him once, then looked away. He looked relaxed, but his eyes tracked me like he was trying to read something I hadn't said. Or it was something I hadn't meant to show. "You planning to drown in there?" he asked. His tone was light, but there was a searching edge behind it. "Thought about it," I muttered, crossing the room. If I had, it would have silenced the voice in my head, still repeating the look on Lyra's face. Still whispering doubts I didn't want to admit. He stood slowly, giving me space. "You're quieter than usual."
"I'm just tired. That was a lot." A lot of what, though? Politics? Pressure? Or watching another woman look at my husband like he was still hers? "Was it the court or Lyra that wore you out?" I froze. The question hit too directly, too close. "You seemed fine until after meeting her," he added. "I am fine." I wasn't. My thoughts were loud and disorganized, chasing themselves in circles. I didn't know what I was more bothered by—Lyra's presence or my reaction. "If you glare harder at the floor, it might catch fire." I turned, heat rushing to my cheeks. "Why do you keep asking me if I'm alright?"
"Because you're not," he said. I opened my mouth. Closed it. Then, before I could stop myself, "She was looking at you like you were hers." The words dropped between us, heavier than I intended. He blinked. "Lyra?" My cheeks burned hotter. "Forget it." I wanted to. Desperately. But I couldn't stop thinking about it.
I couldn't stop wondering if there had ever been something between them. If he had once looked at her the way he sometimes looked at me. If I were just the one he ended up with, not the one he wanted. Even though I told him to forget it, I couldn't stop my following words. "You didn't stop her," I snapped. "You let her stand there like I was the stranger." He stared at me, taken aback. "I didn't really speak to her. I only said two sentences to her: " They were both about you."
"And that makes it better?" I said. "That you didn't even think about how she looked at you was worth addressing?" Kael took a breath, trying to temper himself. "Vireya, she doesn't matter. She's always been like that."
"Maybe she's like that because she thinks she had you." He stilled. And I hated how satisfying it was to watch him falter. "She looked at you like she knew you," I continued. "Like you shared something. Like I'm the replacement." Kael's expression darkened. "There's nothing between us. There was nothing. We never had a relationship." I crossed my arms. "You say that, but not like you mean it."
"Because I shouldn't have to convince you of something that never happened!" he snapped. "Well, maybe I wouldn't feel this way if you looked at me like you used to look at her!" Kael opened his mouth, ready to argue—but then something shifted. His jaw stayed tense, but the anger left his eyes. He went still. He stared at me for a long beat, breathing heavily, like he was sorting through everything I'd said. Then, with the slightest shake of his head, a quiet breath escaped him, followed by a crooked, stunned smile.
"I get it now," he said softly.
My brows knit. "Get what?"
His voice was low, almost amused. "You're jealous."
My heart thudded hard. "I'm not—" my voice faltered, and I couldn't bring myself to deny it. Was I jealous? Did I even have the right to be jealous of a man I just met? "You are," he said, the grin spreading—like he couldn't believe it. "You're jealous of Lyra." He took a step forward, then another, slow and deliberate, until only a breath stood between us. My pulse jumped, my chest tightened. I hated that he was smiling. Hated that he was right. I was jealous deep down, underneath all my logic, pride, and sharp words. I crossed my arms tighter over my chest as if that could shield me from how his gaze softened.
"Are you going to laugh at me?" I asked before I could stop myself. My voice was smaller than I meant for it to be, strained and raw. "For feeling that way? For... for being jealous?" Kael's expression shifted—softened even more. Not with pity. With something closer to awe, laced with a raw kind of reverence. "You think I'm laughing at you?" he asked gently. "Vireya, no. I'm—gods, I'm not laughing. I'm just... surprised. I didn't think you felt anything for me yet. Not like that. Not enough to burn like this."
I looked away. "I don't." He tilted his head. "No?" My throat closed. "It doesn't matter."
"It does," he said, voice roughening. "It matters to me."
I barely had time to react before his mouth was on mine—fierce, claiming, raw. The kiss tasted like frustration and fire, like everything we hadn't said, building into something we couldn't control. Our teeth clashed, breath catching between gasps, like we couldn't devour each other fast enough. His hands fisted in my hair, pulling me closer. I clung to him, chasing every press of his lips like it was the only thing keeping me grounded. Clothes came off in a rush of sharp exhales and shaking fingers. Buttons slipped, fabric tore, fingernails scraped along the skin with barely restrained urgency—but we didn't stop. We couldn't. There was no gentleness in how we touched—only hunger, raw and overwhelming like we were trying to claim each other with our hands alone.
His hands roamed hungrily, dragging down my spine, mapping every inch of skin like it belonged to him—because it did. Mine were just as desperate, sliding over the hard planes of his chest, memorizing the ridges of muscle and the heat of his body. I traced the curve of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, curling into his back muscles like I could pull him under my skin. I needed to feel him everywhere—to chase away every lingering trace of doubt, every look Lyra had ever given him. To erase her shadow from his body with the imprint of my own. I wanted him marked by me, overwhelmed by me. I needed to know that this was real—that he was mine.
Every kiss tasted like a plea for understanding, a demand for something real. My back arched beneath his mouth as he kissed a trail down my throat, across my collarbone, to the curve of my breast. He lingered there, breathing heavily, his lips pressed to the place where my heart beat too fast. "You're mine," he growled against my skin. His voice was possessive and primal as if he needed the words etched into my flesh as much as I needed to hear them. Something in me cracked open. The walls I'd built, the defenses I hadn't even known were there—they shattered beneath his touch.
He pressed me into the mattress with a growl that was more emotion than sound—frustration, need, and something more profound that threatened to unravel me. I met him with everything I had—all the fury, confusion, and longing I couldn't say aloud. My fingers clutched at his shoulders as his mouth moved with aching reverence, scattering open-mouthed kisses across my skin, lingering as if trying to memorize my taste. His lips skimmed down my shoulder, then dragged across my ribs with slow, deliberate heat, pausing at the sensitive dip of my stomach to press a kiss that made me shudder.
And then he moved lower.
His mouth found the inside of my thigh, breath hot against skin, never touched like this before. He kissed there, slow and reverent, his hands spreading across my hips to hold me still as I trembled beneath him. When his mouth reached the ache at my center, I cried out—a sound that ripped from somewhere deeper than my lungs. He devoured me like he was starved like he'd been waiting for this moment far longer than either of us would admit.
Lips and tongue blended into something that shattered me. He didn't rush. He devoured. His mouth moved with reverent precision, coaxing sounds from me I didn't know I could make. Every flick of his tongue made my spine bow and my fingers twist in the sheets.
He held me in place, relentless in his worship, and I broke for him without apology. His mouth left trails of fire that built and burned, grounding me in the certainty of his presence and possession. His mouth worked me apart with expert devotion and devastating precision, unraveling me thread by thread until I could no longer tell where the pain had ended and pleasure had begun. Each stroke and flick sent sparks across my skin, and heat spiraled low and deep, drawing cries from my throat and shaking my legs around his shoulders. He wasn't just worshiping me—he was consuming me, piece by trembling piece, until I shattered in his hands, only to be remade by his touch.
He brought me higher and higher, drawing me closer to a place I couldn't quite name—where every breath was sharp with need, and every nerve felt alive. The sensation built slowly, then all at once, like a tide cresting inside me. My body arched into his touch, chasing that rising, pulsing ache. It was unlike anything I'd ever known—hot, overwhelming, exquisite. I was coming undone and wanted to unravel for him, only for him.
As I reached my peak, my hips bucked instinctively, chasing the wave that crested inside me. Kael gripped my hip with bruising strength, anchoring me to the bed and holding me in place as pleasure surged through me like a lightning strike. It hurt, but it grounded me—and then everything shattered. My body exploded in a rush of sensation, white-hot and blinding. My back arched, a tremor wracking through me as I cried out, lost in the storm of it all.
Kael lifted his head from between my legs, his lips glistening and his smile utterly unapologetic. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slow and deliberate, before looking up at me through heavy lashes. "I wasn't expecting you to react like that," he said, voice husky with satisfaction. "Now I'm happy I asked for tips."
His words caught me completely off guard. My body was still trembling, my mind swimming in the aftershocks of pleasure too significant to process. I blinked at him, breathless. "What?"
He chuckled low in his throat as he moved up my body, his palms skimming slowly up my sides, possessive even in the gentlest touch. "Don't worry about it," he murmured, brushing a kiss against my temple. "Just know I listened."
I gasped as his hips settled between mine, his hands braced beside my head, muscles taut with restraint. My legs wrapped around him instinctively, pulling him closer, needing him deeper in every sense. When he finally entered me, the air left my lungs in a sharp, high, involuntary, broken cry—high, involuntary, broken with want. The world narrowed to him, to us—his weight above me, his breath in my ear, his name already written across every part of me. Each thrust was purposeful, relentless—not punishing, but claiming. Like he was rewriting something inside me, carving away every doubt and every shadow left behind by Lyra's gaze. Every movement broke something loose and healed it repeatedly until I no longer knew where I ended, and he began.
My nails dug into his back, desperate for something to hold onto. His name slipped from my lips, soft and broken, and he kissed it from my mouth like it hurt to hear. His groan vibrated against me, low and guttural, as if that single sound had unraveled him. We moved together like we'd done this in a dream and were only now remembering how. Our bodies found a rhythm born of instinct and ache. It was messy, breathless, tangled, and wild. Too much and not enough all at once. A storm neither of us wanted to escape. When it was over, we collapsed together in the aftermath—sweat-slicked, trembling, quiet. He didn't move away. His forehead rested against mine, breath shaky and warm, his heartbeat pounding where his chest pressed to mine. His hand found mine beneath the blankets, fingers threading through like he'd never let go again. I didn't let go. I didn't know what I was feeling. Only that it hurt and that it mattered. And that I didn't want him anywhere else but here.