Two weeks had passed since the bath chamber. Two weeks since Adil's hands had been on her skin, since his voice had scraped low against her ear, since the creaking floorboard had sent ice down her spine. Two weeks of council meetings and state dinners and the crown sitting heavier on her head with every dawn. Two weeks of him being gone—training exercises in the northern garrison, the dispatches said. She'd read the words a dozen times, looking for something between the lines, some hint of when he'd return.

The bed was too large. It had always been too large, a relic of her father's reign, built for a king and queen who had never shared it. But tonight it felt cavernous, the silk sheets cool against her bare legs, the lamp on the nightstand casting long shadows across the ceiling. She'd dismissed her ladies hours ago, pleading fatigue. The fatigue was real, but it wasn't the kind they'd understand.

Her fingers found the buttons of her shirt, working them loose one by one. The fabric fell open, and the evening air touched her skin—cool, almost cold against the heat that had been building under her sternum all day. Her red bra was a scandal against the cream of the sheets, the lace cut low enough that her breasts swelled at the top of the cups. She'd worn it for him, knowing he wouldn't see it. Wearing it anyway.

The fan in the corner turned slowly, stirring the air, and the breeze found her chest. She shivered, but it wasn't the cold that made her nipples tighten into hard points against the lace. It was the thought of his hands—broad, callused, the hands of a man who'd spent years gripping a sword. The thought of them cupping her, thumbs dragging across the sensitive peaks, his mouth following where his hands had been.

She pushed the fabric of her bra down. The lace caught on her nipples for a moment, a small resistance that made her breath hitch, and then her breasts were bare, heavy in the open air. The fan caught her again, and the sensation was almost enough. Almost.

Her hand moved before she'd fully decided to let it. Fingers found her nipple, pinched lightly, rolled it between thumb and forefinger. A small jolt ran through her, pleasure and the ghost of something more. It felt good. It wasn't good enough.

She pushed her breast up with her palm, the weight of it settling against her hand, and bent her face down. Her tongue touched her own nipple, a tentative stroke, and she closed her eyes, pretending it was his mouth. Pretending the stubble she imagined scraping her skin was real. She licked again, slow, deliberate, torturing herself with the difference between this and what she actually wanted.

Her other hand drifted down, fingers trailing across her stomach, the waistband of her skirt. She'd forgone stockings tonight, and the fabric of the skirt was thin, almost sheer. Her fingers slid across her thigh, the skin warm and smooth, and she bit her lip to stop the sound that wanted to escape. The trail continued upward, slow, savoring the anticipation, her fingers dancing across the top of her panties before slipping beneath.

She was already wet. Of course she was. She'd been wet since the moment she'd dismissed her ladies, since the thought of him had first curled through her mind. Her fingers stroked through the slick heat, barely touching where she needed it most, and a choked sound escaped her throat. She pressed her head back into the pillow, as if it could offer some kind of support for what she was feeling.

The panties were a barrier, and the skirt was worse. She pulled her hand out, sat up, and stripped both off with a violence born of frustration, throwing them across the room. They landed in a heap by the door, a discarded accusation. The knowledge that she was almost naked—just the shirt, open, and her bra pushed down—made her breath come faster. She lay back down and put her hand exactly where it had been.

Her right hand found her breast again, cupping it, thumb stroking the nipple in rhythm with the circles her left hand was tracing around her clit. Slow at first, teasing, the way he would do it—if he were here, if he would just walk through that door. She'd left it unlocked. She'd told herself it was habit, but she knew better. She knew exactly what she was hoping for.

The circles tightened, sped up. "Ahh." The sound escaped before she could stop it, and she didn't try to stop the next one. "Ahhh." Her hips lifted off the bed, chasing the pressure, and she let her legs fall open wider. The cool air touched the heat between her thighs, and she imagined it was his breath, his mouth, his tongue tracing the same path her fingers were taking.

She was making sounds now, soft sighs and mmm sounds that didn't quite sound like her. The queen's voice, the one she used in council, was gone. This was Esme's voice, the one only Adil had ever heard, and even he hadn't heard it like this. Alone. Desperate. Two weeks of nothing, and her body was starving.

Her fingers moved faster, the circles tighter, and she felt the pressure building low in her belly. Not yet. Not yet. She wanted to draw it out, to make it last, because when it was over, he would still be gone. But her body had other ideas. Her hips rolled, her thighs clenched, and she pressed two fingers inside herself, curling them the way he would, stroking that spot that made her see stars.

"Adil." His name came out as a gasp, a prayer, a curse. She pumped her fingers faster, her thumb grinding against her clit, and the pressure crested. Her back arched off the bed, her mouth open in a silent cry, and the orgasm crashed through her in waves. Her cunt clenched around her fingers, milking them, and she rode it out until the last tremor faded.

She lay there, breathing hard, her hand still between her thighs, the evidence of her need cooling on her skin. The fan turned. The lamp flickered. The room was exactly as empty as it had been before.

And then—a knock. Three sharp raps at the door.

Her heart seized. She sat up, grabbing for the sheet, pulling it to her chest. The door was unlocked. She'd left it unlocked. "Who is it?" Her voice came out steadier than she felt.

"It's me."

The voice was low, rough, familiar as her own heartbeat. Relief flooded through her, so intense it made her dizzy. She was off the bed before she'd decided to move, crossing the room in three strides, her hand on the latch. She opened the door.

Adil stood in the corridor, still in his travel leathers, dust on his boots, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes. He looked like he'd ridden hard to get here. He looked like he'd been gone two weeks and hadn't slept since.

His gaze swept over her—the open shirt, the pushed-down bra, the bare legs. The sheet she'd left on the bed. His jaw tightened, and something dark and hungry flickered in his eyes.

"You're back," she said. It came out breathless, almost accusing.

"The garrison was a day's ride out. I made it in eight hours." His voice was rough. "I had to see you."

She stepped back, letting him in, and he closed the door behind him. The lock turned with a click that seemed louder than it should have been. They stood there, a breath apart, and she could smell him—sweat and dust and leather, the scent of the road.

"What happened?" he asked, his eyes dropping to the marks her fingers had left on her thighs, the flush still high on her chest.

"What do you think happened?" She didn't try to hide it. There was no point. He could see the evidence of what she'd been doing, smell it in the air. "Two weeks, Adil. You left me here, with nothing but my hand and the memory of you."

His eyes darkened. "It was supposed to be a week."

"It was two."

He reached for her, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone. The touch was electric, a live wire running through her, and she leaned into it despite herself. "I know," he said, low. "I counted every day."

"Then why didn't you come back?"

"Because I had to be sure." His thumb traced down, across her lips, and she parted them without thinking. "The night watch roster. I found the name."

The words landed like a stone in a still pond. She stilled, her breath catching. "Who?"

"A page. A boy named Tomas. He was supposed to be on the east corridor that night, but he swapped shifts with a friend." Adil's jaw tightened. "He's the one who paused outside your door."

Esme's mind raced. A page. A boy. Not a courtier with political ambitions, not a rival faction looking for leverage. Just a boy who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. "What did he hear?"

"Enough." Adil's voice was grim. "I questioned him this morning, before I rode out. He heard your voice. He heard mine. He heard—" He stopped, and something flickered across his face. "He knew what was happening. He's young, but he's not stupid."

"And?" Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"And he's scared. He knows what happens to servants who carry secrets in a palace. He swore he hasn't told anyone, and I believe him, but—" Adil's hand dropped from her face. "He can't be trusted to keep this secret forever. Not with the kind of pressure a court can apply."

Esme felt the weight of it settle over her, the crown pressing down on her brow even though she wasn't wearing it. "What do you propose?"

Adil was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured. "He's young. He's scared. He could be loyal, if we give him a reason to be."

"Or he could be a liability," she said. "A loose thread that unravels everything."

"He's a boy, Esme. Not a threat."

"He's a witness." She met his eyes. "You said it yourself, in this very room. The secret could become leverage against my reign."

"And I meant it." Adil stepped closer, his hands finding her waist, pulling her against him. "But I also meant what I said about keeping you safe. Killing a boy to protect my own—" He shook his head. "I won't be that man. Not for this."

She wanted to argue. The queen in her, the one who'd been raised on her father's lessons about power and its costs, wanted to point out that mercy was a luxury she couldn't afford. But the woman in her, the one who'd spent two weeks starving for the touch of this man, couldn't find the words.

"What do you want to do, then?" she asked.

"I want to give him a choice." Adil's hands slid up her back, pulling her closer. "I want to make him ours. Give him a reason to keep this secret that has nothing to do with fear."

"And if he refuses?"

"Then we'll deal with that when it comes." He lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "But not tonight. Tonight, I came back for you."

His lips found her throat, and she tilted her head back, a soft sound escaping her. The conversation could wait. The politics, the threat, the weight of the crown—all of it could wait. He was here. He was finally here.

"I missed you," she breathed.

"I know." His mouth traced down her collarbone. "I could smell you from the corridor."

A flush crept up her chest. "You could not."

"I could." His hands found her breasts, cupping them, his thumbs stroking the nipples that were still hard from her earlier torment. "You think I don't know the scent of you, Esme? I've been dreaming of it for two weeks."

She moaned, low in her throat, as he lowered his head. His mouth closed over her nipple, hot and wet, and she gasped, her hands fisting in his hair. "Adil—"

"Tell me," he murmured against her skin, his tongue tracing a slow circle. "Tell me what you were doing when I knocked."

"I was—" She broke off as he sucked, hard, and pleasure shot through her. "I was touching myself. Thinking about you."

"Where?"

"Here." She guided his hand down, between her thighs, and he found her slick and ready. "I was thinking about your mouth."

A sound rumbled in his chest, a low growl of approval. "Show me."

She didn't need to be asked twice. She pressed his hand against her, showing him the rhythm she'd been using, the circles that made her see stars. He watched her, his eyes dark and intent, and then he pulled her hand away and replaced it with his own.

"Like this?" He mimicked the motion, his fingers sliding through her folds, finding her clit with unerring precision. "Is this what you were doing?"

"Yes," she gasped, her hips bucking against his hand. "Just like that. I was—ahh—I was thinking about your mouth, your tongue, the way you—"

He cut her off with a kiss, hard and demanding, his fingers never stopping their work between her thighs. She tasted the road on his lips—dust and salt and something darker, something that was purely him. Two weeks of absence collapsed into the press of his mouth against hers, and she opened for him like a door she'd been holding shut.

His free hand fisted in her hair, tilting her head back, and he broke the kiss to drag his mouth down her throat. Teeth scraped her pulse point, and she moaned, loud and unguarded, the sound echoing off the marble walls of the bath chamber. He didn't shush her. He never did. The risk was part of the pleasure, the knowledge that anyone could hear them, that the queen's voice—the one that commanded councils and signed decrees—was reduced to this, to breathless pleas and broken cries.

"You were touching yourself," he said against her skin, his voice rough as gravel. "Two weeks, and you couldn't wait for me."

"I waited." She arched into his hand, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "I waited every night. I just—I couldn't—"

"Couldn't what?" His fingers circled her clit, slow and deliberate, and she shuddered. "Couldn't stop thinking about me?"

"Couldn't stop thinking about your cock." The words came out raw, desperate, stripped of all pretense. "About the way you fill me, the way you—Adil, please."

"Please what?"

"Please fuck me."

Something dark and hungry flickered in his eyes. He pulled his hand away, and she whimpered at the loss, but he was already moving, his hands finding the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head in one rough motion. The fabric caught on her wrists for a moment, and then she was bare before him, her breasts heavy and aching, her nipples tight from the cool air and her own need.

He looked at her like he was starving. Like two weeks of duty and distance had been a famine, and she was the only meal that could save him. His hands came up to cup her breasts, thumbs dragging across the sensitive peaks, and she gasped, her head falling back.

"You're so beautiful," he said, low and rough. "Every time I see you, I forget how beautiful you are. And then you open a door, and I remember."

"Adil—"

He kissed her again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against hers, and she tasted herself on his lips—the evidence of her own need, shared between them like a secret. His hands moved down her body, over her ribs, her waist, her hips, and then he was lifting her, his arms banded around her thighs, and she wrapped her legs around his waist without thinking.

He carried her to the low bed by the lamp, the one where they'd first lain together, and laid her down on the silk coverlet with a gentleness that belied the hunger in his eyes. Then he was on top of her, his weight a familiar comfort, his leathers rough against her bare skin.

"Too many clothes," she breathed, her fingers working at the laces of his tunic.

He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. "Let me."

She went still beneath him, her breath coming fast. There was something in his voice—a command, a promise—that made her core clench with anticipation. He released her wrists and sat back on his heels, his eyes never leaving hers as he pulled his tunic over his head.

Her breath caught. She'd seen him bare before, but it never got easier. The breadth of his shoulders, the planes of his chest, the way his muscles shifted under his bronze skin like something sheathed and waiting. The scars—a thin white line across his ribs, a faded mark on his shoulder—told stories she'd never asked him to share. She traced them with her eyes instead, memorizing them like scripture.

He unbuckled his belt, and the sound of it—metal and leather—made her thighs press together. His trousers followed, and then he was naked, his cock hard and thick, curving up toward his stomach, the head flushed and glistening. She licked her lips without thinking, and he saw it.

"You want this?" he asked, his voice rough.

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I want your cock inside me." She held his gaze, unflinching. "I want to feel you stretch me, fill me, fuck me until I can't remember my own name."

A sound rumbled in his chest—low, possessive, almost animal. He crawled over her, his body covering hers, his cock sliding against her thigh, leaving a slick trail of pre-cum. He kissed her hard, his tongue plunging into her mouth, and she tasted his hunger, raw and undeniable.

"Roll over," he said against her lips.

She didn't hesitate. She turned onto her stomach, pushing herself up onto her elbows and knees, presenting herself to him like an offering. She heard him exhale, a shaky breath that sounded almost reverent, and then his hands were on her ass, kneading the flesh, spreading her open.

"God, Esme." His voice was barely a rasp. "You have no idea what you do to me."

"Show me."

He didn't need to be asked twice. His hands gripped her hips, and she felt the head of his cock press against her entrance, slick and hot. He held there for a moment, teasing, letting her feel the pressure, the promise.

"Please," she whispered.

He slammed into her.

The force of it drove her forward, her hands slipping on the silk, her breath leaving her in a choked cry. He filled her completely, his cock stretching her, reaching deep, and for a moment she could only feel—the fullness, the burn, the exquisite pressure of him inside her.

"Adil—" His name came out broken, a prayer and a curse.

He pulled out, slow, almost all the way, and then thrust back in, harder this time. The sound of it—wet, obscene—filled the room, and she moaned, her fingers fisting in the coverlet.

"Is this what you needed?" he growled, his hips slapping against her ass. "Is this what you were thinking about when you touched yourself?"

"Yes—ahh—yes—"

"Tell me." Another thrust, deeper. "Tell me what you imagined."

"I imagined—" She broke off as he hit a spot that made her see stars. "I imagined your hands on me. Your mouth. Your cock."

"And?" He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, slick and swollen. "Did you imagine this?"

She cried out, her hips bucking against him. "Yes—yes—Adil, please—"

"Please what?" His fingers circled her clit in time with his thrusts, relentless. "Please make you come? Please fuck you harder?"

"Both," she gasped. "Both, please—"

He gave her both. His thrusts quickened, losing their rhythm, becoming something wilder, more desperate. His fingers worked her clit with brutal precision, and she felt the pressure building, coiling low in her belly like a spring wound too tight.

"I'm close," she breathed. "Adil, I'm—"

"Not yet." He pulled his hand away, and she whimpered at the loss. "Not until I say."

"Adil—"

"You'll wait." His voice was a command, rough and unyielding. "You'll wait, and you'll take what I give you, and you'll come when I tell you to."

She should have bristled at the order. She was a queen, after all. But the words sent a thrill through her, a spike of heat that made her core clench around him. She nodded, her forehead pressed to the coverlet, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"Good girl."

The praise undid her more than the command. She moaned, loud and wanton, and he thrust into her harder, his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to bruise. She didn't care. She wanted the marks. She wanted to carry him with her into the council chamber, into the throne room, into every damn meeting she'd have to sit through tomorrow.

"You feel so good," he growled, his voice strained. "So fucking tight. Like you were made for me."

"I was." She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts. "I am. Only you, Adil. Only ever you."

He groaned, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, and then he was pulling out, turning her over, his hands on her thighs spreading her wide. He looked down at her for a moment, his eyes dark and hungry, his chest heaving, sweat slicking his skin in the lamplight.

"I need to see you," he said, his voice rough. "I need to watch your face when you come."

He thrust into her again, and she cried out, her back arching off the bed. He was deeper like this, the angle different, and she felt every inch of him, every ridge and vein, as he moved inside her. His hands found hers, lacing their fingers together, pinning them beside her head.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She did. His eyes were dark, almost black, and there was something in them she couldn't name—something raw and vulnerable and terrifying. He thrust into her, slow and deep, and she felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. Not from pain. From the sheer overwhelming intensity of being seen like this, of being wanted like this.

"Esme," he breathed, her name a prayer on his lips.

"Adil."

He kissed her, soft and desperate, and then he moved faster, harder, his hips slapping against hers with a rhythm that bordered on frantic. She felt the pressure building again, rising like a tide, and she clung to him, her nails raking down his back.

"Please," she begged. "Please, Adil, I need—"

"Come," he said, his voice a growl. "Come for me, Esme. Now."

She shattered. Her cunt clenched around him, milking him, and she cried out his name, her body convulsing beneath him. He followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, a guttural groan torn from his throat as he emptied himself inside her, his cock pulsing with each spasm.

They lay there, tangled together, breathing hard, the silence broken only by the sound of their shared breath and the distant drip of water somewhere in the bath. The lamp flickered. The fan turned. The world outside the door—the court, the coronation, the threat of Tomas the page—waited, patient and hungry.

Adil was the first to move. He pulled out slowly, carefully, and she felt the loss acutely, a hollow ache where he'd been. He rolled onto his back beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest still heaving.

Esme turned onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, and traced a finger down the center of his chest, following the line of sweat that glistened on his skin. "You rode eight hours to do that?"

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. "I rode eight hours to see you. The rest was a bonus."

She smiled, a small, private thing. "The garrison was a day's ride out. You said so yourself."

"I made it in eight hours." He pulled his arm away from his eyes, looking at her. "I told you that."

"Why?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then he reached up, his hand cupping her jaw, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone. "Because I couldn't stop thinking about you. Because every night in that garrison, I lay awake and imagined you here, alone, waiting for me. Because I needed to know you were safe."

"I'm safe." She leaned into his touch. "I'm always safe. You made sure of that."

"The palace isn't safe." His voice hardened. "Not with Tomas knowing what he knows."

The name landed between them like a splash of cold water. Esme's hand stilled on his chest, and the warmth that had been pooling in her belly since he'd walked through the door cooled by a degree. She pulled her hand back, wrapping her fingers around the edge of the silk coverlet instead.

"Tomas." She said the name slowly, testing its weight. "The page. How old is he?"

"Fourteen. Maybe fifteen." Adil's jaw tightened. "Old enough to understand what he heard. Young enough to be terrified of what it means."

"And you believe him? That he hasn't told anyone?"

"I believe he's scared." Adil sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist, the lamplight catching the sweat still slick on his shoulders. "I questioned him in the guard room at dawn. He was shaking so hard he could barely hold his cup of water. He swore on his mother's grave he hasn't breathed a word."

"His mother's grave." Esme's voice was flat. "That's a heavy oath for a boy who doesn't know what he's swearing to."

"He knows." Adil's eyes met hers, dark and serious. "He knows exactly what he heard. He knew the moment he paused outside that door, the moment he heard your voice—the queen's voice—crying out my name. He knew, and he ran."

The image of it—a boy, frozen in the corridor, hearing the sounds of their passion through the crack of the door—made Esme's stomach turn. She'd invited the risk that night. She'd wanted to feel it, the danger, the thrill of being caught. She hadn't thought about what it would mean for the one who actually caught them.

"What did he say, exactly?" she asked. "When you questioned him."

"He said he was walking the east corridor, checking the lamps, when he heard—" Adil stopped, a muscle in his jaw twitching. "He heard a woman's voice. He didn't know it was you at first. He thought it was a servant, someone's guest, someone who shouldn't be there. He paused to listen, to make sure no one was in trouble. And then he heard my voice. And then he heard your name."

"And he recognized it."

"He recognized it." Adil's voice was grim. "He's served in the great hall. He's poured your wine. He knows your voice, Esme. Everyone in the palace knows your voice."

Esme pressed her palm against her sternum, feeling the rapid beat of her heart. The coronation was tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would stand before the court, before the council, before every lord and lady in the kingdom, and swear to rule with wisdom and justice. And somewhere in the crowd, a boy named Tomas would be standing, holding a tray or a candle, carrying the knowledge of what his queen did in the dark.

"What did you tell him?" she asked.

"I told him the truth." Adil's voice was quiet. "I told him that what he heard was a private matter between two people, that it was not his place to speak of it, and that if he did, there would be consequences not just for me, but for him."

"You threatened him."

"I gave him a reason to be afraid." Adil met her gaze, unflinching. "Fear is a language he understands. He's a servant in a palace. He's grown up knowing that secrets are currency, and that some secrets are worth more than others. I made sure he understood that this one was worth more than his life."

Esme held his gaze, the weight of his words settling into her bones. A boy of fourteen or fifteen, carrying a secret worth more than his life. She'd been raised on her father's lessons about power—how it flowed, how it pooled, how it crushed those who stood beneath it. Tomas was standing beneath it now, and she could feel the shadow of it falling across them both.

"And if fear isn't enough?" she asked. "If he wakes up tomorrow, the day of my coronation, and decides that the queen's secret is worth more traded than kept?"

"Then he'll find out what I meant." Adil's voice was flat, but there was something beneath it—a current she recognized. He would do what needed doing. He would hate himself for it, but he would do it.

"I don't want that." She said it before she could stop herself. "I don't want a boy's blood on my crown."

"Then give him a reason to keep it that isn't fear." Adil reached for her hand, his fingers warm and rough around hers. "You're the queen. You can make him more than a page. You can make him yours."

"You said that before." She looked down at their joined hands, the contrast of his bronze skin against her olive. "What does that mean, exactly?"

"It means you call him to your chambers tomorrow, before the ceremony. You thank him for his service. You tell him you've noticed his diligence, his loyalty, and that you're promoting him to a position of trust—messenger to the crown, perhaps. Someone who carries your private correspondence."

Esme's eyebrows rose. "You want me to reward him for what he heard."

"I want you to bind him." Adil's grip tightened. "A boy who owes his rise to the queen's favor will think twice before he betrays it. And a boy who carries your letters will be watched by your enemies—they'll assume he's your creature, and they'll treat him accordingly. He'll have as much to lose as we do."

She turned the idea over in her mind, testing its edges. It was clever. It was ruthless in its own quiet way—not a threat, but a leash made of silk and opportunity. And it kept Tomas close, where they could see him, where they could measure his loyalty in the small betrayals of a glance.

"And if he refuses the promotion?"

"He won't." Adil's mouth curved, a grim approximation of a smile. "I've seen the way he looks at the other pages, the ones who've been given real duties. He wants to matter. He wants to be seen. You'll give him that."

Esme was quiet for a long moment, the lamp casting dancing shadows across the ceiling. Tomorrow, she would be crowned. Tomorrow, every eye in the kingdom would be on her, measuring her, testing her, waiting for her to falter. And somewhere in the crowd, a boy named Tomas would be watching, carrying the weight of what he knew.

"Do it," she said finally. "Call him to my chambers in the morning. I'll speak to him myself."

Adil nodded, a soldier's acknowledgment, but there was something softer in his eyes. "You're going to be a good queen, Esme."

"I'm going to be a queen who keeps her secrets," she corrected. "That's the first lesson, isn't it?"

"It's the only one that matters." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "The rest you can learn."

She should have felt the weight of it—the coronation, the threat, the boy whose life she was about to change. But all she could feel was the warmth of his mouth on her skin, the steady beat of his pulse where her fingers rested against his wrist. She leaned into him, her forehead against his shoulder, and breathed.

"I don't want to think about any of it tonight," she said, her voice muffled against his skin.

"Then don't." His hand came up to stroke her hair, slow and soothing. "Tomorrow is tomorrow. Tonight, you're just Esme."

"And you're just Adil?"

"I'm whatever you need me to be."

She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. The hunger was still there, banked but not banked out, and she felt her own answering heat stir low in her belly. Two weeks of absence, and one round wasn't enough. It would never be enough. She'd learned that the first time, in this very room, when the footsteps in the corridor had only made her want him more.

"I need you to fuck me again," she said, her voice steady. "I need you to make me forget my own name. I need you to remind me why I risk everything for this."

Adil's eyes darkened. "I can do that."

He kissed her, slow and deep, his tongue sliding against hers with a languor that belied the tension in his shoulders. His hands found her waist, pulling her onto his lap, and she straddled him, the heat of his skin searing against her thighs. She could feel him hardening beneath her, the length of him pressing against her slick folds, and she rocked her hips, a slow, teasing grind that made them both groan.

"I want to feel you come apart," he murmured against her mouth. "I want to watch you lose yourself, the queen gone, just Esme, just a woman who needs—"

"Don't talk about it." She cut him off, her hands fisting in his hair. "Don't talk about the queen. Don't talk about tomorrow. Just—" She broke off, her hips moving faster, the friction building. "Just make me feel something that isn't fear."

His hands gripped her hips, stilling her. "Look at me."

She did. His eyes were dark, intent, and she saw herself reflected in them—flushed, bare, desperate. She saw the woman he saw, the one who was more than a crown, more than a throne, more than the sum of her duties.

"You are not afraid," he said, his voice low and certain. "You are the bravest woman I know. You walked into a room full of lords who wanted your father's head and you made them kneel. You don't get to be afraid of a boy who heard you moan my name."

"That's different."

"It's not." His hands slid up her back, pulling her closer. "You've faced worse than Tomas. You've faced men who would have you married off to their sons, who would have you locked in a tower, who would have you crowned and then forgotten. You're still here. You're still standing. You're still you."

She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes, and she blinked them back, furious at herself for the weakness. "You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple." He kissed her forehead, her nose, the corner of her mouth. "You are mine. I am yours. Everything else is just noise."

She kissed him then, hard and desperate, pouring every fear and every hope into the press of her lips against his. He answered in kind, his hands moving over her body with a reverence that made her chest ache. He lifted her, positioning her over him, and she sank down onto his cock with a moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her soul.

He filled her completely, the stretch of him a familiar ache, a homecoming she hadn't known she'd been missing. She rode him slow at first, savoring every inch, her hands braced on his shoulders, her head thrown back. The lamplight caught the sweat on her skin, and she felt beautiful, powerful, alive.

"You feel—" He broke off, his hands gripping her hips, his voice rough. "God, Esme, you feel like—"

"Like what?" She rolled her hips, a slow, deliberate circle that made his breath hitch. "Tell me."

"Like the only thing I've ever wanted." His voice was raw, stripped bare. "Like the reason I get up in the morning. Like the reason I'd burn this whole kingdom down if you asked me to."

She kissed him, swallowing the rest of his words, and then she moved faster, her thighs burning, her body chasing the pleasure that coiled low in her belly. He met her rhythm, his hands guiding her hips, his cock driving deep with every thrust. The sound of their bodies, wet and obscene, filled the room, and she let herself feel it, let herself be nothing but this—two bodies moving together, two hearts beating as one.

"I'm close," she breathed, her nails raking down his chest. "Adil, I'm—"

"Not yet." His hand found her clit, his thumb pressing in tight circles. "Not until I say."

"Please—"

"You'll wait." His voice was a command, and she obeyed, her body trembling on the edge, her cunt clenching around him. "You'll wait, and you'll feel every second of it, and when you come, you'll come on my cock, and you'll scream my name loud enough for the whole palace to hear."

She whimpered, her forehead pressed to his, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The pressure was unbearable, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, and she clung to him, her body shaking with the effort of holding back.

"Look at me," he said.

She did. His eyes were dark, burning, and she saw herself in them—raw, undone, utterly his.

"Come," he said. "Now."

She shattered. Her body convulsed around him, her cunt milking him, and she cried out his name, the sound tearing from her throat like a prayer. He followed her over the edge, his hips stuttering, his own groan swallowed by her mouth as he came inside her, hot and deep.

They stayed like that, tangled together, breathing hard, the silence broken only by the sound of their shared breath and the dripping of water somewhere in the bath. The lamp flickered. The fan turned. And somewhere beyond the door, the palace waited, patient and hungry, for the dawn.

"I love you," Esme whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Adil went still beneath her. For a long moment, he said nothing, and she felt the weight of the silence pressing down on her, heavier than any crown.

Then his hand came up, cupping her jaw, his thumb stroking across her cheekbone. "I know," he said, his voice rough. "I've known since the first time you looked at me like I was more than a soldier."

"That's not—" She swallowed. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have." He kissed her, soft and tender. "I can't give you pretty words, Esme. I can't promise you a future. All I can give you is this—my body, my sword, my life. Everything I am, everything I have, it's yours."

She felt the tears prick at her eyes, and she blinked them back, pressing her forehead to his. "That's enough," she said. "That's more than enough."

They lay there, wrapped in each other, the night stretching out before them. And for a little while, the weight of the crown, the threat of Tomas, the fear of what tomorrow would bring—all of it faded, leaving only the warmth of two bodies, two hearts, beating together in the dark.