The note was in his elegant, slashing script. Elara’s pulse hammered in her throat, a frantic bird against her ribs. She stood before his door, the castle silent around her, the thin fabric of her skirt a whisper against her thighs. Every breath made the low neckline of her top threaten to spill her completely. She was here because he’d seen. He’d seen everything.

The ancient oak door was cool and smooth under her palm, its iron latch heavy. From within, she heard the low crackle of a fire and smelled beeswax and clean linen. She lifted the latch. The door swung inward without a sound.

His chambers were a cavern of shadow and firelight. Bookshelves climbed to a vaulted ceiling, their contents lost in darkness. A great fireplace dominated one wall, flames dancing over logs. And in the center of the room, standing before a high-backed chair of black wood, was Prince Alistair Valerius.

He wore a shirt of dark silk, open at the throat, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His skin was pale as moonlight against the fabric. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into the fire, his profile sharp, utterly still. The stillness of a predator who has already sighted his prey and is waiting for the perfect moment to spring.

Elara’s mouth went dry. She dipped into a curtsy, the motion automatic. The skirt, already short, rode higher on her thighs. The cool air of the chamber kissed her exposed skin. “You summoned me, my prince?”

His head turned. Slowly. His eyes were obsidian, absorbing the firelight but reflecting nothing back. They traveled over her—not a glance, but a possession. They lingered on the desperate swell of her breasts above the crop top’s neckline, on the expanse of her bare midriff, on the shadowed space where her skirt ended and her thighs began.

“Close the door, Elara.” His voice was a low baritone, cultured, quiet. It brushed against her skin like velvet over a blade.

She turned, her movements stiff, and pushed the heavy door shut. The click of the latch echoed in the silent room. When she faced him again, he had taken a single step closer. The distance between them hummed.

“You’ve been in my service for three months,” he said, his gaze never leaving hers. “Your uniform is a violation of castle dress code.”

Elara’s breath hitched. She bit her lower lip, a nervous habit she couldn’t break. “I… I was issued the standard set, my prince. It… shrank in the wash.”

A ghost of a smile touched his mouth. It was sharp, knowing. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Liar.” The word was soft, almost affectionate. He took another step. Now she could smell him—old books, cold stone, and beneath it, something wild and ancient. “You wear it because it fits. Because it feels… revealing.”

Heat flooded her cheeks, but a deeper, treacherous heat pooled low in her belly. She couldn’t deny it. The bold awareness he saw in her was real. She had chosen this. She had leaned over dusting tables knowing the view she offered. She had felt his gaze like a physical touch from across the hall.

“You watch me,” she whispered, the accusation trembling in the air.

“I do.” He closed the final distance. He didn’t touch her. He simply stood, a tall, dark presence, his eyes drinking her in from inches away. “I watch the way you move. The way your body strains against that pathetic cloth. I watch the flush on your skin when you feel my eyes on you.” He inhaled, deeply, his nostrils flaring. “And I smell you, Elara. Soap. Sunshine. And something else. Something sweet.”

His gaze dropped to her chest. The neckline of her top had slipped with her rapid breathing. The upper curves of her breasts were fully exposed now, the shadowed valley between them deep and inviting. Her nipples were hard peaks pressing against the thin fabric.

“Milk,” he breathed, the word a dark caress. “You smell of warm milk.”

A shudder wracked her. It was a vulnerability she couldn’t hide, a biological truth that marked her as nourishing, as sustenance. His black eyes glinted with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

“Why am I here?” Her voice was barely audible.

Alistair lifted a hand. He didn’t grab, didn’t demand. He simply brought his fingertips to the strap of her top, where it dug into the slope of her shoulder. His skin was cool. He traced the line of the strap, down, following the edge of the fabric where it met her flesh. His knuckles brushed the swollen curve of her breast.

Elara gasped. The touch was electric, a jolt of pure sensation that made her knees weak. She leaned into it. Couldn’t help it.

“You are here,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her, “because I am tired of watching.” His fingers hooked under the neckline of her top. “And I am so very, very thirsty.”

He pulled.

The thin fabric of her top yielded without a sound, sliding down her arms to catch at her elbows. The cool air of the chamber washed over her bare skin, raising goosebumps. Her breasts spilled free, full and heavy, their pale curves glowing in the firelight. Her nipples were taut, dark peaks, already hardened from anticipation and the chill.

Alistair’s breath caught. A soft, almost imperceptible sound. For a being who never seemed to need air, it was a profound surrender. His obsidian eyes drank her in, the hunger in them shifting from predatory to something awed, reverent.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice thick.

He didn’t touch her yet. He simply stared, his gaze a physical weight on her skin. Elara felt exposed in a way she never had before. This wasn’t an accidental glimpse from a bent-over position. This was a deliberate offering, and he was studying every detail. The faint blue veins beneath her skin. The way her breasts curved and hung, full and ripe. The sweet, milky scent he’d named now hung palpable in the space between them.

“Please,” she whispered, not knowing what she was asking for. His touch. His mouth. An end to the agonizing, beautiful scrutiny.

“Please what, little maid?” His eyes flicked up to hers. The firelight danced in their black depths. “Tell me.”

She shook her head, words failing. Her arms were trapped by the fabric at her elbows, pinning her in a posture of helpless presentation. She was completely at his mercy.

He finally moved. One hand came up, his fingers cool as they traced the outer swell of her right breast. A shiver racked her frame. He followed the curve slowly, deliberately, his touch feather-light, mapping her. His thumb brushed over her nipple.

Elara gasped, her back arching of its own volition, pushing her breast more firmly into his hand. A soft, needy sound escaped her throat.

“So responsive,” he noted, his voice a dark purr. He circled her nipple with his thumb, watching it pucker tighter under his attention. “So ready.”

His other hand came up to cup her left breast, weighing it in his palm. He squeezed gently, testing the fullness. A bead of moisture, clear and glistening, welled at the tip of her nipple.

Alistair went utterly still. His eyes locked on that single drop. The hunger on his face was primal, stripped of all royal pretense. He was a starving man staring at a feast.

He bent his head.

His mouth was cool and soft as it closed over her nipple. He didn’t suckle, not yet. He licked, a slow, flat stroke of his tongue that collected the bead of moisture. He tasted her.

A low, guttural groan vibrated from his chest into hers. The sound was pure, undiluted pleasure. “Sweet,” he breathed against her damp skin, his hot breath a shocking contrast to his cool lips. “So sweet.”

Then his mouth sealed over her. He drew her deep, his suction firm and insistent. A sharp, electric pull shot from her nipple straight to her core, making her clench around nothing. Her knees buckled. A cry tore from her lips, half-surprise, half-overwhelming relief.

He fed. His hands came up to cradle both breasts, supporting their weight as he drank from her. The pull was rhythmic, deep, each draw sending waves of sensation crashing through her. It wasn’t just suction; it was his tongue working against her, coaxing the milk forth. The sound was intimate, wet, obscene in the silent chamber. She could feel the tightness in her breasts easing, a sweet release with every swallow he took.

Her head fell back, a moan spilling from her lips. One of his hands slid from her breast to the small of her back, holding her upright as her legs trembled. The other remained, kneading gently, encouraging the flow. Her hands, still bound by the top, came up to clutch at his shoulders, her fingers digging into the hard muscle beneath the silk.

He switched sides, his mouth leaving her right breast with a soft, wet pop. He lapped at the glistening nipple, then took the left into the same deep, consuming heat. Elara whimpered, her hips shifting restlessly. The ache between her thighs was a throbbing, desperate counterpoint to the pulling relief at her chest. She was wet, soaking through her thin cotton panties, the scent of her own arousal mingling with the milk in the air.

Alistair lifted his head. A trickle of milk escaped the corner of his mouth, white against his pale skin. His eyes were no longer just black; they held a faint, crimson glow from within. Sated, yet somehow hungrier. He looked utterly debauched, a prince brought low by a servant’ sustenance.

“Elara,” he rasped, her name a prayer and a curse. His cool thumb smeared the milk from his lips, then he brought it to her mouth. “Taste.”

She opened for him without thought. He pressed his thumb against her tongue. The flavor was rich, sweet, uniquely her own. It was the most intimate thing she had ever done.

He watched her taste herself, his glowing eyes holding hers. Then he kissed her. His mouth was cool, flavored with her milk. The kiss was deep, claiming, his tongue sweeping into her mouth to share the taste. She kissed him back, frantic, her bound arms straining to get closer.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard—a human gesture from an immortal thing. His hands went to the fabric trapping her arms. With a sharp tug, he ripped it free, letting the ruined top fall to the floor. She was naked from the waist up, marked by his mouth, her skin flushed and sensitive.

“The rest,” he commanded, his voice rough with want. His gaze dropped to the short skirt. “Now.”

“No,” Elara breathed, the word trembling in the air between them. She saw his eyes narrow, a flicker of dangerous surprise. She rushed on before he could speak. “You do it.”

Alistair went perfectly still. The fire crackled. The only movement was the faint, rapid rise and fall of her bare chest. Her nipples were still wet from his mouth, tight and sensitive in the cool air.

“You wish to command your prince?” His voice was a low, velvet threat. He took a single step closer. The space between them vanished, charged with heat and the scent of milk and her arousal.

“I wish for you to touch me,” she whispered, holding his burning gaze. Her hands, now free, hung at her sides. She didn’t reach for him. She offered herself. “You took the top. You should take the rest.”

A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. It was the first real smile she’d ever seen on him, and it held no warmth. Only hunger. “Bold little maid.”

His hands came to her hips. His fingers were cool through the thin fabric of her skirt. He traced the line of her hip bones, his thumbs pressing into the softness of her lower belly. She shuddered.

He found the side zipper. The sound of it parting was obscenely loud. The skirt loosened, sagging against her thighs. He didn’t push it down. He slid his hands inside, his palms flat against the bare skin of her hips. His cool touch on her feverish skin made her gasp.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice rough.

Elara forced her eyes up from where his hands disappeared under her clothing. His face was a mask of intense concentration, his black eyes drinking in every shift of her expression.

He pushed the skirt down. It slid over her thighs, a whisper of fabric, then pooled at her feet on the stone floor. She stood before him in only her plain cotton panties, soaked through at the center, transparent with her want.

Alistair’s gaze raked down her body. He took in the full curve of her hips, the swell of her thighs, the dark, damp triangle of fabric. A low, approving sound rumbled in his chest.

He knelt.

Elara’s breath caught. The vampire prince was on his knees before a maid. The sight was more shocking than any touch. He was eye-level with her navel, his aristocratic face stark and beautiful in the firelight.

His hands settled on her thighs. He pushed them apart, just a little. She let him, her muscles trembling. He leaned forward, his nose almost brushing the damp cotton. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closing. A shudder wracked his frame.

“You are drowning in it,” he murmured, his breath hot through the fabric. The sensation made her jump. “This sweet, desperate ache.”

He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties. He didn’t rip them. He drew them down with agonizing slowness, peeling the wet cotton from her skin. The air hit her, cool and shocking on her exposed flesh. She was completely bare.

He tossed the scrap of fabric aside. It landed near her ruined top. Then his hands were back on her thighs, spreading her wider. He looked his fill, his gaze a physical caress.

“So beautiful,” he said, the words reverent. “All this… for me.”

He didn’t kiss her there. Not yet. He turned his head and pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh. His mouth was cool, his tongue a hot stripe against her sensitive skin. He bit down, gently. The sharp pinch made her cry out, her hands flying to his shoulders to steady herself.

He soothed the spot with his tongue, then placed another claiming bite an inch higher. He was marking a path, a slow, torturous ascent. Each bite was a spark of pain that melted instantly into throbbing heat, pooling deeper, making her clench around emptiness.

Her fingers tangled in his dark hair. She didn’t push him away. She held on, her knuckles white. His mouth reached the crease of her thigh, where her leg met her body. He paused, his breath fanning over her core. She was dripping, the evidence of her need slick on her inner thighs.

“Alistair,” she begged, her voice breaking. It was the first time she’d said his name.

He looked up at her, his eyes glowing like banked coals from this angle. “Ask properly.”

“Please.” The word was a sob. “Your mouth. Please.”

He gave her that sharp, hungry smile again. Then he lowered his head.

His tongue touched her. A flat, slow lick from bottom to top. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure sensation that arched her back. He groaned against her, the vibration traveling straight to her spine.

He feasted. His mouth was relentless, his tongue delving inside her, then circling the aching peak of her pleasure. He drank her in, his hands gripping her hips to hold her still as she bucked against his face. The sounds were filthy, wet, open-mouthed. He was a man starved, and she was the only sustenance that mattered.

Her thighs shook. The orgasm built, a tight, coiling pressure at the base of her spine. She was so close, teetering on the edge, her cries filling the chamber. He felt it. He slowed, drawing back to gentle, maddening circles, keeping her suspended.

“Not yet,” he growled against her slick flesh. He stood in one fluid motion, his own breathing ragged. His lips were glistening. He wiped them with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. “I want you to feel me everywhere when you fall.”