The weight lifted off her in a slow, deliberate shift, and Ellanor felt the absence of him like a sudden cold. But his hand stayed—pressed flat between her thighs, palm sealed over her cunt, holding everything he'd put inside her. She was still face-down in the pillows, her breath coming in shallow pants, and she could feel the heat of his come pooled deep in her, kept there by the press of his fingers.

"Don't move."

His voice was rough, wrecked, still thick with the force of what he'd done to her. She heard him shift on the bed, felt the dip of the mattress as he moved around her. Then his hands were on her hips, turning her, rolling her onto her back with a gentleness that contradicted the command in his voice.

She blinked up at him, the dawn light catching the sharp angles of his face, the gold in his eyes burning even in the pale morning. His hand never left her, even as he settled her onto her back and spread her legs wide, positioning her like something precious, something he was about to devour.

The cool air hit her wet skin, and she gasped. She could feel it—the slow spill of him, the come he'd poured into her starting to run down her inner thigh, escaping despite his hand's best efforts. His thumb pressed against her clit, a slow, idle circle, and she shuddered.

"Look at that," he murmured, his voice low and dark with satisfaction. His eyes tracked the path of his seed as it leaked down her skin, a glistening trail on her sun-kissed thigh. "You're already losing it."

Ellanor's cheeks flushed, but she couldn't look away from him. He was still fully dressed in nothing but the loose sleep trousers he'd pulled on sometime in the night, his chest bare, his hair a midnight mess from her fingers. He looked like a god in the dawn light, and she was spread beneath him, full of him, dripping with him.

"I can't help it," she whispered, her voice still breathless.

"I know." His thumb circled her clit again, slower this time, and she felt her hips twitch. "That's why I'm going to keep putting it back in you."

He pressed his palm harder against her cunt, pushing the come back inside her with a firm, deliberate pressure. Ellanor whimpered, the sensation overwhelming—the fullness of him still inside her, the press of his hand sealing it there, the slow circle of his thumb on her clit.

"Glorfindel—"

"Shh." He leaned down, his mouth brushing her ear, his voice a low growl. "You're going to walk through the hall like this. Full of me. Dripping with me. Every step you take, you'll feel me running down your thighs, and everyone will know exactly what I did to you."

Her breath caught. The image he painted—her walking through the great hall, the court of Lindon watching, his come leaking down her legs—sent a fresh wave of heat through her. She could feel herself clench around nothing, hungry for him even now, even after he'd filled her twice.

"You want that," he said, not a question. His gold eyes met hers, burning. "You want to walk through the hall with my seed inside you."

"Yes," she breathed. "I want it."

His mouth curved, a slow, possessive smile that made her stomach flip. He pulled his hand away, and she felt the spill again, the come running down her skin in a warm trickle. But before she could protest, he pushed two fingers into her, scooping his come deep, pushing it back where it belonged.

Ellanor cried out, her back arching off the bed. His fingers were thick, callused, and they curled inside her, spreading his seed, coating her walls with himself. He worked them in and out of her slowly, deliberately, each thrust pushing his come deeper, and she could feel herself getting wetter, her body responding to the invasion even as she trembled from the sensitivity.

"That's it," he murmured, watching his fingers disappear into her. "Take it all back. Don't waste a drop."

She was panting now, her hands fisting in the sheets, her legs shaking. He pulled his fingers out, and she felt the loss, the emptiness, the start of another spill. But then he lowered his head, and his mouth was on her.

His tongue swept up her cunt, licking her clean, tasting himself on her. Ellanor gasped, her hips bucking against his face. He lapped at her slowly, deliberately, cleaning up every trace of his come, his tongue sliding through her folds, dipping inside her to scoop out more.

"Glorfindel—" His name came out as a plea, a prayer, her fingers tangling in his hair.

He pushed his tongue inside her, deep, tasting himself on her walls, and she cried out, her thighs clamping around his head. He fucked her with his tongue, slow and deep, his nose brushing her clit with every stroke, and she could feel herself building again, the pleasure coiling tight in her belly.

But he pulled back before she could crest, lifting his head, his lips wet with her and him. His gold eyes burned into hers, and she saw the hunger there, the insatiable need that had driven him all night.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, his voice rough. "Spread open for me. Full of me. I could spend the next four hundred years just looking at you like this."

Her heart clenched. "Four hundred years," she whispered.

"And more." He settled between her thighs, his weight pressing her into the mattress, and she felt it—the hard, thick length of his cock, already erect, nudging at her entrance. She gasped, her eyes widening.

"Again?"

"Again." He pushed forward, just the head, and she felt the stretch, the pressure, the exquisite fullness of him starting to enter her. "I told you. I'm not done with you."

"You'll never be done with me," she breathed.

"Never."

He thrust into her, slow and deep, burying himself to the hilt. Ellanor cried out, her nails raking down his back as he filled her completely, his cock pressing against her deepest walls, pushing his own come deeper into her. She could feel it—the slickness, the fullness, the way her body stretched to accommodate him, already wet from his seed and her own arousal.

"Fuck," she gasped, her head falling back.

"Yes." He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, then thrust back in, a deep, grinding stroke that had her seeing stars. "Feel that? Feel how full you are?"

She could. Every inch of him was coated in his own come, sliding into her with a wet, obscene sound that made her blush. He was fucking his seed back into her, over and over, each thrust pushing it deeper, sealing it inside her.

"I feel it," she whimpered. "I feel everything."

He groaned, his forehead dropping to hers. "You have no idea what you do to me. Four hundred years I waited for you. Four hundred years I dreamed of this—of filling you, of watching you take all of me."

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Then take me," she whispered. "Take all of me."

He did. He fucked her slow and deep, each stroke a deliberate claim, his hips rolling in a rhythm that had her trembling. The dawn light crept higher, casting the room in gold, and she watched his face—the concentration, the hunger, the raw, possessive love in his eyes as he looked down at her.

"Mine," he murmured, his voice breaking.

"Yours," she agreed, her own voice cracking.

He kissed her then, deep and desperate, his tongue sliding against hers, and she tasted herself on him, tasted him, tasted everything they'd done together. His thrusts grew faster, harder, the bed creaking beneath them, and she clung to him, her legs locked around his waist, her hands in his hair.

"I'm close," she gasped against his mouth.

"I know." He pulled back, his gold eyes burning into hers. "I want to watch you come on my cock. I want to feel you clench around me, feel you take everything I give you."

His thumb found her clit, circling it in time with his thrusts, and she shattered. Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave, her cunt clenching around him, her back arching off the bed, his name torn from her lips in a scream. He groaned, his own control snapping, and she felt him pulse inside her, felt the hot rush of his come filling her for the third time.

"Yes," he growled, thrusting into her through his release, pushing his seed as deep as it would go. "Take it. Take all of it."

She did. She took everything, her body convulsing around him, her mind blank with pleasure as he emptied himself into her. He collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his cock still buried to the hilt, still pulsing.

They lay there, panting, tangled together in the dawn light. Ellanor could feel him inside her, could feel the heat of his come pooling deep, could feel the slow trickle starting to escape despite how full she was.

But before it could run far, his hand was there, palm pressed flat over her cunt, sealing him inside her.

"Stay like that." His voice was rough, wrecked. "I want to watch it hold."

She lay there, his hand cupped over her, his come inside her, and she watched his face as he watched his seed leak down her thighs. The dawn light caught the gold in his hair, the burn in his eyes, and she felt the weight of his claim settle over her like a second skin.

His thumb moved, a slow, idle circle over her clit, and she gasped.

The sound she made was small and broken, a breath stolen from her chest, and she watched his eyes darken in response. His thumb circled again, slower, deliberate, and she felt the tremor run through her thighs, the muscles fluttering against his palm. He was watching her with an intensity that made the air in the room feel heavy, thick with the weight of everything he'd poured into her.

"You feel that?" His voice was barely above a whisper, rough as gravel. "That's me. Still inside you. Still holding."

She nodded, unable to speak. The fullness was a constant pressure, a deep ache that was less pain than presence, the proof of him lodged in the deepest part of her. She could feel the slow trickle of him trying to escape, the wet warmth sliding against his palm, and she clenched around nothing, trying to hold him, trying to keep every drop.

His hand pressed harder, sealing her shut. "Don't. Let it come. I want to see it."

He shifted his weight, easing himself up onto his elbow, and she felt the loss of his body heat against her skin. But his hand stayed, his thumb still moving in that slow, maddening circle, and she watched his face as he watched his seed leak down her thigh. A thin ribbon of it escaped from beneath his palm, tracing a path through the fine hairs on her skin, and he followed it with his eyes, tracking its progress to the crease of her hip.

"There," he breathed. "There it is."

Ellanor's cheeks burned. She was spread open beneath him, her legs wide, his come running down her skin, and he was watching it like it was the most precious thing in the world. And maybe it was. To him, it was the proof of his claim, the physical evidence of the four hundred years he'd waited. She could see it in his face—the reverence, the hunger, the desperate need to mark her, to fill her, to make her his in every way a body could be claimed.

"Glorfindel," she whispered, and she didn't know if it was a question or a plea or just his name falling from her lips because she couldn't hold it in.

"I know." He leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers, and she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin. "I know. I can't stop looking at you either."

His thumb pressed harder against her clit, a firm, deliberate pressure that made her hips buck. She gasped, her hands flying to his wrist, but she didn't push him away. She held him there, her fingers wrapping around his forearm, feeling the corded muscle beneath his skin, the strength that could hold her down or lift her up or do anything he wanted.

"You're going to be so full today," he murmured against her mouth. "Every time you walk, every time you sit, every time you move, you're going to feel me inside you. You're going to remember this moment. You're going to remember me watching you leak."

She made a sound, something between a whimper and a moan, and he swallowed it with a kiss. His mouth was hot and demanding, his tongue sliding against hers, and she tasted herself on him—the salt of her skin, the musk of his come, the sweetness of the dawn. She kissed him back desperately, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to drown in him.

When he pulled back, his eyes were burning, the gold molten in the morning light. He looked at her like she was the only thing in the world, like the four hundred years of his life had been nothing but a waiting room, and she was the door he'd been staring at the whole time.

"I'm going to keep you like this all day," he said, his voice rough. "Full of me. Dripping with me. And tonight, I'm going to fill you again."

His hand moved, pressing his come back inside her with a firm, deliberate pressure, and she felt the slickness of it, the wet slide of his palm against her skin. She was so sensitive, so raw from the night, that every touch was a shock, every press a wave of pleasure that made her toes curl.

"I want that," she breathed. "I want everything."

He smiled, slow and possessive. "You have it." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then her lips, soft and almost tender. "You have all of me."

The tenderness of it undid her more than the filth had. She lay beneath him, his hand still cupped over her, his weight warm and familiar along the length of her body, and she felt the slow, stubborn pulse of him inside her—the third load he'd poured into her, held there by the seal of his palm. The dawn had brightened while they moved, the gold light spilling across the sheets, catching the sweat cooling on her skin, and she could hear the first sounds of the hall stirring beyond the door—distant voices, the clatter of something metal, the muffled rhythm of a day beginning without them.

"They're awake," she whispered. The words came out raw, scraped clean by everything he'd done to her. "The whole court. They're going to see me—"

"See you full of me." He said it simply, without shame, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her clit that made her hips twitch. "See you carrying me. That's the point, love."

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks again, but she didn't look away. His gold eyes held hers, steady and burning, and she saw the truth of it there—he wanted this, wanted the world to know, wanted every elf in Lindon to look at her and understand exactly whose she was. Four hundred years of waiting had made him shameless, and she loved him for it, loved the raw, unvarnished need that he laid bare for her and her alone.

"Four hundred years," she said, testing the weight of it. "You waited four hundred years for me."

"And I'd wait four hundred more." His voice dropped, rough as stone. "I'd wait until the world ended and started again, Ellanor. I'd wait through every age of this valley just to have one more morning like this."

Her heart clenched, a sharp, sweet ache that had nothing to do with the fullness between her thighs. She reached up, her fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the stubble rough against her palm, and she felt him lean into her touch like a man starving for it.

"You don't have to wait anymore," she said. "I'm here. I'm yours."

"I know." He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm, his lips warm and reverent. "That's what I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving to you."

His hand moved, shifting his weight off her, and she felt the absence of his palm against her cunt—the sudden, shocking rush of him starting to escape, warm and wet against her skin. She gasped, her thighs clenching instinctively, trying to hold him in, and he laughed, low and dark.

"Easy," he murmured. "Let me see it first."

He rolled onto his side, propping himself on one elbow, and she watched his eyes track the slow spill as it ran down her thigh—a thick, glistening ribbon of him, tracing a path through the fine hairs on her skin, pooling in the crease of her hip. The dawn light caught it, made it gleam, and she felt her cheeks burn as he watched it with that same reverent hunger.

"There it is," he breathed. "There's my claim."

"Glorfindel—"

"Shh." He leaned down, pressing his lips to the inside of her thigh, just above where the come had run. His tongue swept out, catching the trail of it, licking it back up her skin in a slow, deliberate stroke that made her shudder. "You're not losing a drop of this. Not today."

He pushed two fingers back into her, scooping the spill deep, and she cried out, her back arching off the bed. He worked them in and out of her slowly, deliberately, coating her walls with himself, pushing it back where it belonged, and she felt herself getting wetter, her body responding to the invasion even though she was already so full, already so sensitive.

"I can't—" she gasped. "I'm so—"

"I know." His fingers curled inside her, pressing against that spot that made her see stars. "That's the point. I want you so full you can't think straight. I want you walking through that hall with nothing in your head but me."

She whimpered, her hands fisting in the sheets. He pulled his fingers out, and she felt the loss, the emptiness, the start of another spill. But before it could run far, he lowered his head, and his mouth was on her.

His tongue swept up her cunt, licking her clean, tasting himself on her. She gasped, her hips bucking against his face. He lapped at her slowly, deliberately, cleaning up every trace, his tongue sliding through her folds, dipping inside her to scoop out more. She was so sensitive, so raw from the night, that every stroke was a shock, every press a wave of pleasure that made her toes curl.

The flat of his tongue dragged up the seam of her, slow and wet, and she felt him groan against her skin—a vibration that traveled straight up her spine. He was not merely cleaning her. He was savoring, the way he might linger over the last of a fine wine, and the thought made her hips roll against his mouth. His hands came up to grip her thighs, spreading her wider, and the new angle let him press deeper, his nose brushing her clit as his tongue pushed past her entrance once more.

She cried out, her fingers twisting in his midnight hair, and she could feel herself clenching around nothing, desperate for him to stay, to push deeper, to fill her again. But he pulled back with a wet sound, his lips shiny with her, and he looked up at her through the fall of his dark hair. His gold eyes were molten, half-lidded, and there was a smear of his own come on his chin that he made no move to wipe away.

"You taste like us," he said, his voice a low rasp. "Like the night. Like everything I've waited for."

She shuddered, the words hitting her somewhere deep and primal. He crawled up her body, his weight settling over her, his skin hot against hers, and she felt his cock—hard again, insistent—slide through the wet mess between her thighs. He didn't push inside her, not yet. He just rocked against her, the head of him catching on her clit with every pass, and she whimpered, her nails raking down his back.

"Please," she breathed. "Please, Glorfindel."

"Please what?" His mouth found her throat, teeth grazing the pulse point there. "Tell me what you need."

"You. Inside me. I need you inside me."

He lifted his head, and the look in his eyes was feral, possessive, a hunger that had been banked for four centuries and now burned without end. "You have me," he said, and he pushed inside her in one slow, inexorable thrust.

She screamed, her back arching off the bed. He was so deep, so impossibly full, and the slickness of his own seed coating his cock made the slide obscene, wet, perfect. He pulled out until only the head remained, then thrust back in, grinding against her cervix, and she felt the pressure build again, the pleasure coiling tight in her belly even as her body trembled from the sensitivity.

"Again," she begged. "Please, again."

He gave it to her, a rhythm that was slow and deep and devastating, each stroke pushing his own come deeper into her, sealing it inside her with every thrust. The dawn light spilled across them, catching the sheen of sweat on his shoulders, the flex of muscle in his back as he moved, and she watched him through half-closed eyes, memorizing the way he looked at her—like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking for four hundred years.

Three days later, the honeymoon ended the way all good things did—with a steward knocking.

Ellanor heard it first, the sharp rap against the outer door, and she surfaced from a dream of warm water and warmer hands to find Glorfindel already awake beside her, propped on one elbow, watching her like he'd been doing it for hours. Which he probably had. The man did not seem to require sleep the way ordinary people did.

"They've come for you," she murmured, her voice still thick.

"They've come for us." He didn't look at the door. He looked at the sheet pooled at her waist, at the pale curve of her shoulder, at the bruise he'd left on her collarbone two nights ago that had faded to the color of old honey. "The valley doesn't run itself, and I've been neglecting it shamefully."

"Shamefully," she repeated, and he smiled—that slow, private smile that meant he was remembering something specific.

"Shamelessly, then. Better word."

She laughed, and the sound of it surprised her. She'd laughed more in the last three days than in the whole of her twenty-two years, she thought. Something about being thoroughly ruined and thoroughly adored did that to a person.

The knock came again, more insistent. Glorfindel sighed, a long, put-upon exhale, and rolled off the bed. He crossed to the wardrobe naked, entirely unbothered, and Ellanor watched the play of muscle across his back—the old scars, silver-white against his skin, the ones he never explained and she never asked about. Four hundred years of a life she was only just beginning to touch.

He pulled on trousers and a loose tunic, then came back to the bed and leaned down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside her head. His hair fell forward, dark and sharp, and his gold eyes held hers.

"Get dressed," he said. "Something you can work in. I'll deal with the steward."

"Work," she said, tasting the word. It felt foreign after three days of nothing but skin and candlelight and the slow discovery of what her body could be made to do.

"You have a seat on the council now, Lady Ellanor. Wives of the valley lords do not lie abed all day." He kissed her forehead, quick and warm. "No matter how much they'd like to."

He left. She heard voices in the outer chamber—the steward's clipped, apologetic tone, Glorfindel's low rumble cutting through it—and then the door closed and the rooms went quiet again. Ellanor lay there a moment longer, her hand pressed flat over her own belly, feeling the faint, remembered ache of him. Three days. He'd kept his word. Every time she'd moved, every time she'd sat, every time she'd stood, she'd felt the ghost of his claim. And he'd filled her again each night, and each morning, and once in the bath on the second day when she'd reached for the soap and he'd reached for her instead.

She got up. Her legs were steady now, at least.

She dressed in the plain grey wool of a council assistant—she'd insisted on keeping her own seat, her own work, when the marriage contracts were drawn, and Glorfindel had agreed with a speed that had surprised her, though she suspected he'd agreed because the alternative was an argument and he'd rather have her in his bed than in his way. The gown was nothing like the silver silk. No one would look at her twice in it. That was the point.

She found him in the corridor outside their chambers, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching her approach with that unhurried, predatory stillness. He'd pulled his hair back, and the sharp lines of his face were fully visible in the morning light—the high cheekbones, the hard mouth, the eyes that tracked her like she was the only thing worth looking at.

"Ready?" he asked.

"For what, exactly?"

"The council convenes at midday. Your first session back." He pushed off the wall and fell into step beside her, his hand finding the small of her back. "I have an inspection of the eastern watchtowers this morning. Paperwork after."

"So we part ways."

"For a few hours." His thumb pressed into the dip of her spine, a small, proprietary pressure. "The court will be watching you today. They'll want to see how the new bride carries herself."

"And how should the new bride carry herself?"

He stopped walking. They were in a side corridor, narrow and shadowed, the morning light blocked by a pillar. He turned her to face him, his hand still on her back, and looked down at her with an expression she couldn't read—something between amusement and hunger.

"Like she's full of her husband and doesn't care who knows it," he said, low.

Ellanor's breath caught. She glanced past his shoulder, down the corridor. Empty. The sound of the hall was distant, muffled, a world away.

"Glorfindel—"

He moved before she finished the word. His hands caught her waist and turned her, pressed her back against the cold stone of the wall, and then his body was against hers, hard and hot, and his mouth was on her throat. She gasped, her hands flying up to grip his shoulders, and he made a low sound against her skin—approval, or hunger, or both.

"We don't have time," she whispered, even as her hips tilted into him.

"We have exactly enough."

His hand slid down her front, over the grey wool, and found the hem. He pushed it up her thigh, his callused palm scraping over her skin, and she shuddered, her head falling back against the stone. His fingers found her—already slick, already ready, because her body had learned to answer him in three short days, and it answered him now without consulting her.

"Look at that," he murmured against her ear. "Three days, and you still open for me like you've been waiting all morning."

"I have been," she breathed. "You're—you're in my head."

"Good." He pushed two fingers into her, deep and slow, and she bit down on her lip to keep quiet. "That's where I intend to stay."

He worked her open with his fingers, his thumb circling her clit, and she could hear the wet sound of it in the quiet corridor, obscene and unmistakable. Her hands fisted in his tunic, her hips rocking into his palm, and she could feel the pressure building already, embarrassingly fast, her body greedy and well-trained.

"Please," she whispered. "Please, before someone—"

He pulled his fingers out, and she bit back a whimper at the loss. He unfastened his trousers one-handed, never taking his eyes off her face, and then he was lifting her, her legs wrapping around his waist, her back scraping the stone, and he pushed into her in one long, relentless thrust.

The sound she made was not quiet. He covered her mouth with his own, swallowing it, and fucked her against the wall with a controlled, punishing rhythm—deep strokes that ground against something inside her that made her see white, each one pushing a wet, obscene sound out of her cunt that seemed impossibly loud in the narrow corridor.

She could feel the cold of the stone through her gown, the heat of him inside her, the roughness of his tunic against her breasts. He broke the kiss to look at her, his gold eyes half-lidded, his jaw tight with the effort of holding back, and she saw the hunger there—the same hunger that had driven him through the whole of their wedding night, that had not dimmed at all in three days.

"You're going to walk into that council chamber in a few minutes," he said, his voice low and rough, "and you're going to sit there with my come inside you, and every time you shift in your seat you'll feel it."

She moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders, and he drove into her harder, faster, the rhythm losing its control. She was close—she could feel it coiling in her belly, sharp and urgent, and she was just about to crest when he pressed his mouth to her ear and said, "Not yet. Wait for me."

She didn't know if she could. But he held her there, on the edge, with a ruthlessness that bordered on cruelty, his thrusts slowing to a deep, grinding pace that kept her teetering without letting her fall. Sweat beaded at his temple, his breath came fast and hot against her cheek, and she could feel him swelling inside her, feel the moment approaching.

"Now," he said. "Come on my cock, Ellanor."

She shattered. Her cunt clenched around him, hard, and she buried her face in his neck to muffle the cry, her whole body shaking with it. He followed a heartbeat later, a low groan torn from his chest, and she felt him pulse deep inside her—hot, thick, filling her again, and she was so full already that she could feel the overflow, the slick of it running down her inner thigh as he held her pinned to the wall.

He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them breathing hard, her legs still locked around his waist. Then he eased out, slowly, and she felt the rush of his come following him, spilling down her skin. He caught it with his thumb—unhurried, deliberate—and pressed it back up into her with two fingers, pushing it deep.

"Hold that," he said, and his voice was not a request.

He set her down. Her legs were unsteady, and she had to brace a hand against the wall to keep from swaying. He tucked himself away, straightened his tunic, and looked her over—her flushed face, her bitten lips, the dark wet patch on the front of her grey gown where she'd pressed against him.

"You'll want to change," he said.

She looked down at herself and felt the heat flood her cheeks. "You did that on purpose."

"I did." He leaned in, kissed her once, hard and quick, and then stepped back. "I'll see you at midday, Lady Ellanor."

He walked away without looking back, his boots echoing down the corridor, and Ellanor stood there for a long moment, her hand still braced on the wall, feeling him start to leak out of her and clenching to hold it in. Then she gathered herself, smoothed down her gown as best she could, and went to find a clean dress.

The council chamber was a long, high-ceilinged room with windows that looked out over the valley, and Ellanor took her seat at the end of the table with as much dignity as she could muster. She'd changed into a deep green gown, one that hid the evidence, and she'd pressed her thighs together the whole walk there to keep him from running down her leg. The seat was hard wood, and the moment she settled into it she felt the fullness of him shift inside her, a slow, insistent pressure that made her breath catch.

She kept her face still. She had learned that much from her mother, who had spent a lifetime keeping her face still.

The session dragged. Reports on grain stores, on the eastern watchtowers, on the trade road that ran south through the pass. Ellanor listened, took notes, asked two questions that made the councilmaster's eyebrows rise—she'd done her reading, quietly, in the months before the wedding—and all the while she could feel Glorfindel's seed working its way out of her, warm and slow, and every time she shifted in her seat it spread a little further, and she had to press her hand flat on the table to keep from making a sound.

He was not in the chamber. He had his own duties, his own inspections, and she had not seen him since the corridor. But she felt him anyway, a constant, low hum under everything else, and she understood then why he'd done it. Not just the possession of it—the practical, physical fact of walking around with him inside her—but the way it kept her tethered to him, even here, even surrounded by the business of the valley. He was in her head. He'd said so. And he was right.

The session broke at midday, and Ellanor gathered her papers and made her way to the small office she'd been given—a narrow room on the second floor, with a desk, a window, and a single wooden chair. It was not much. It was hers.

She was halfway through the first page of the trade-road report when the door opened behind her.

She didn't turn. She knew the weight of his step, the particular stillness of him in a doorway.

"You're late," she said, to the page.

"I'm exactly on time." He closed the door. The latch clicked. "I told you I'd come at lunch."

She turned then. He was leaning against the door, arms crossed, watching her with that unhurried, predatory stillness. He'd taken off his cloak, and there was dust on his boots from the watchtowers, and he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth his attention.

"I'm working," she said.

"I can see that." He crossed the small room in three strides and stopped in front of her desk, looking down at her. "How was the council?"

"Long. Boring." She set down her pen. "I could feel you the whole time."

"Good." He reached down, took the report out of her hands, and set it aside. "Stand up."

She stood. He moved around the desk, and then his hands were on her waist, turning her, and he walked her backward until her hips hit the edge of the desk. The wood was hard against her, and he pressed into her, his body warm and solid, and his mouth found hers.

This kiss was not like the corridor. It was slower, deeper, his tongue sliding against hers like he had all the time in the world, and his hands moved over her body—down her sides, over her hips, gathering the fabric of her gown. She made a small sound against his mouth, and he swallowed it, and then his hands were under her skirts, pushing them up, and he was lifting her onto the desk.

She landed on the wood with a soft thud, her papers scattering, and he stepped between her knees and pushed her thighs apart.

"Glorfindel—someone could—"

"The door's locked." He was working at his trousers, his eyes on her face, and she saw the hunger there, banked but not dimmed. "And you're mine, and I've been thinking about this since I left you in that corridor."

He pulled her to the edge of the desk, her legs hanging over the side, and pushed into her with a single, deep thrust. She cried out, her hands flying back to brace on the desk, and he covered her mouth with his palm—not to silence her, she realized, but to feel her breath on his skin, her lips moving against his hand as he fucked her.

The desk creaked with every stroke. He was deeper at this angle, the head of his cock grinding against something that made her whole body jerk, and she could feel his come from that morning still inside her, slicking the way, mixing with her own wetness until the sound of it was almost obscene. He pulled his hand away from her mouth and gripped her hips instead, pulling her onto him with each thrust, and she watched his face—the concentration, the raw hunger, the way his jaw tightened as he held back.

"You feel that?" he said, low. "That's me. Still in you from this morning. Still mine."

"Yes," she gasped. "Yes—"

He drove into her harder, faster, and she felt the edge approaching again, sharp and urgent. He leaned down, his mouth at her ear, and his voice was a rough whisper. "Come for me. Now."

She did. Her cunt clenched around him, hard, and she bit down on her own hand to keep from screaming, her whole body arching off the desk. He followed her over, a low groan in her ear, and she felt him pulse deep inside her—hot, thick, filling her for the second time that day, and she was so full that the overflow spilled out around him, running down the curve of her ass onto the wood.

He stayed inside her, both of them breathing hard, his forehead pressed to hers. Then he eased out, slowly, and she felt the rush of him following—more than before, a thick, warm spill that she couldn't hold. He watched it, that same reverent hunger on his face, and caught what he could with his fingers, pressing it back into her.

"I'm going to need a cloth," she said, her voice unsteady.

"There's one on the shelf." He didn't move. He was still looking at her—flushed and spread open on her own desk, her papers scattered, his come running down her thighs. "You look like a painting."

"I look like a mess."

"Same thing." He kissed her forehead, then stepped back and finally reached for the cloth himself, wetting it from the water pitcher on the shelf and returning to clean her up with a gentleness that undid her more than the fucking had. He wiped her thighs, her cunt, the wet spot on the desk, methodical and unhurried, and then he straightened her gown and kissed her once more, soft.

"Tonight," he said, "I'm going to take you in the bath again. And then I'm going to put you on your stomach and fill you until you can't remember your own name."

She laughed, breathless. "You're insatiable."

"Four hundred years, Ellanor." He said it simply, like it explained everything, and maybe it did. "I told you. I'm not done with you."

He picked up her scattered papers and stacked them neatly on the corner of the desk, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and Ellanor sat alone in her small office with the afternoon light slanting through the window and the evidence of him still warm inside her.

She picked up her pen. Her hand was not quite steady. But she had a report to finish, and a council to attend, and a court to walk through, and she would do all of it full of him, and everyone would know.

She smiled, and got back to work.