Dawn bled through the curtains in long gold fingers, painting her bare skin in shades of honey. She was still straddling his hips, still full of him, but the air had cooled between their bodies—his hands roamed her back, reverent and restless, tracing the curve of her spine like he was memorizing a map he expected to lose.
He was waiting. She could feel it in the tension of his jaw, the way his golden eyes searched her face for something—fear, regret, the moment she'd see only a prince in the morning light and pull away.
She leaned down instead. Her teeth found his lower lip, and she bit until copper bloomed against her tongue.
His breath caught, sharp and animal.
"I want to watch you fuck me in the mirror," she whispered against the blood, her voice low and certain. "I want to see the beast watching me through your eyes."
His pupils blew wide. Something dark and feral curled in his chest—a thing he'd been trying to cage since the curse broke, since he'd woken with smooth skin and soft hands. She wasn't afraid of the dark. She was starving for it.
He moved without words. His hands found her hips and lifted her off him, the slide of his cock leaving her empty and aching. He turned her, guided her across the room, his palm flat against the small of her back until she stood before the tall mirror framed in gilded wood—the one that had hung in his mother's chambers, that had watched him pace as a beast, that now watched her chest rise and fall in the morning light.
"See?" she said, her reflection meeting his. Her hand reached back, fingers tangling in his hair. "Still there. Still gold."
He pressed against her from behind, his cock sliding between her thighs, not inside—not yet. His mouth found her shoulder, teeth grazing the mark he'd left the night before. "You don't flinch."
"I never did."
His hand came up, fingers spreading across her throat—not squeezing, just holding. Possessing. His reflection stared back at her, and she watched the beast surface in his eyes, in the way his jaw tightened, in the growl that rumbled through his chest into her spine.
His other hand slid down her stomach, fingers finding her wet and swollen. He circled her clit once, twice, collecting the slick and spreading it along his cock. "You want to watch?"
"Yes."
He pushed inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust. Her palms flattened against the mirror, breath fogging the glass as he filled her, deeper than she'd expected, the angle different like this—standing, bent forward, watching his face shift in the glass from prince to something older.
His hand tightened on her throat as he withdrew and thrust again, harder, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room. "Look," he growled, his voice scraping against her ear. "Look at what you do to me."
She watched. His eyes were locked on hers in the mirror, dark and golden and burning—the beast wearing a prince's face, watching her through the glass with raw hunger that hadn't softened or faded.
"I see him," she breathed.
His rhythm stuttered. His grip on her hip turned bruising as he drove into her, faster, deeper, the mirror fogging with every gasp she pressed against it. Her fingers curled against the glass, and she didn't close her eyes—she watched him, watched the beast in his gaze, watched the possession and the terror and the desperate need to stay.
His mouth found her ear, teeth grazing her lobe before he bit down, hard enough to make her gasp. "Who fucks you?"
"The beast."
"Who makes you come?"
Tongue tracing the sting of his bite. "Only him."
His hand slid from her throat to her jaw, tilting her face toward the mirror. "Watch yourself take me."
She watched. Her own reflection—flushed, lips parted, chest heaving—staring back at her as he filled her again and again. The woman in the glass wasn't afraid. She was radiant, undone, a creature of hunger and heat.
His thumb found her clit, pressing hard circles in rhythm with his thrusts, and she felt herself climbing, the pressure building in her belly, her thighs trembling against the mirror's frame.
"Come for him," he said, and the word *him* catching in his throat like he didn't know if he meant the prince or the monster. "Come for me."
She shattered with her eyes open, watching herself break in the glass, his name—both of them, all of him—falling from her lips as her body clenched around his cock. He followed a heartbeat later, thrusting deep and holding, his groan low and raw against her neck, his reflection flickering with something like relief.
They stayed like that, her palms against the mirror, his chest heaving against her back, both of them watching the two people in the glass—beast and woman, prince and witch, something new and nameless between them.
His hand came up to cover hers on the mirror, fingers lacing through her own. "You see him." Not a question.
Her thumb traced his knuckle in the reflection. "I've always seen him."
His hand stayed on hers against the mirror, warm and steady, their reflections breathing together in the gold light. She felt him soften inside her, felt the slow pulse of his release still settling, and then he shifted—withdrawing with a slowness that made her clench around the emptiness he left behind.
The air hit her skin where his body had been pressed, cool and sudden. She turned from the mirror, and he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her face toward his.
"Don't move."
His voice was sand and gravel, dark and low. He released her chin and stepped back, his eyes dropping from her face to where his seed was already sliding down the inside of her thigh—a thin, white trail catching the morning light.
Her breath caught. Not from shame. From the way he was looking at her—like she was something sacred and profane all at once, like the evidence of his claim painted across her skin was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
His hand came up, fingers brushing the trail just above her knee, following it upward with a touch so light it raised goosebumps along her legs. He spread what had escaped, his thumb smearing it against her skin, and the sound he made was barely human—a low, possessive rumble that vibrated through the quiet room.
"You're full of me." Not a question. A revelation.
Her thighs trembled under his touch, and she didn't look away. "Yes."
He lowered himself, slow, his knees finding the floor in front of her. His hand stayed on her thigh, thumb tracing the path of his release, his gaze fixed on where it still crept down her skin. He looked like a man at an altar, like he was memorizing a scripture written in his own seed.
"I want to watch it drip from you all day." His thumb pressed a little deeper, spreading the slick against her inner thigh. "I want every servant who sees you to know you were mine this morning."
She swallowed. Her hand found his hair, fingers threading through the dark, tangled strands. "They'd know without seeing."
His eyes flicked up to hers—gold and burning, the beast wide awake behind them. "Good."
He leaned in, his mouth finding the inside of her thigh just above where his seed marked her. His lips pressed there, open and warm, his tongue tasting the salt of her skin and the musk of both of them together. She felt his breath against the damp trail, felt the shudder that ran through his shoulders as he breathed her in.
"You still smell like the beast." His voice was thick, almost broken. "Even now. Even like this."
She tugged his hair, pulling his face up until his eyes met hers. "Because he's still here."
His jaw tightened. Her thumb traced the scar there, the one the curse had left even as it took everything else. He turned his face into her palm and kissed it—soft, reverent, a prince's gesture that still carried the weight of an animal's devotion.
"Then he stays," he said against her skin.
He grabbed her wrist. Not rough—inevitable. The pull of gravity, of tide, of something that had been decided before she drew breath. She stumbled after him, knees catching the edge of the mattress, and then she was falling forward into the sheets—still warm from their bodies, still damp with the night's work.
His hand pressed between her shoulder blades. Flat. Firm. A command without words. Her face met the pillow, linen cool against her flushed cheeks, and she felt him settle behind her—the dip of the mattress, the heat of his thighs bracketing her hips, the weight of his gaze on the curve of her spine.
He didn't speak.
The silence was its own language, thick and dark and full of things that didn't need naming. She felt his hand leave her back, heard the soft rustle of him shifting, and then his palm came down on her ass—not hard, not punishment. A claim. A statement. The sound cracked through the quiet room, sharp and wet against her skin.
She gasped into the pillow, her fingers gripping the sheets.
His hand smoothed over the sting, warm and heavy, before his fingers curled into the flesh of her hip. He pulled her up, adjusted her—a silent repositioning that left her on her knees, face still pressed into the bed, her ass raised for him like an offering.
His thumb traced the seam of her, slow and deliberate, finding her slick and swollen and ready. He gathered her wetness, spread it over her, and then his thumb pressed—just inside, just enough to make her breath stutter—before withdrawing.
She heard him spit. Felt the warm moisture land on her, felt his hand spread it, felt the thick press of his cock against her entrance, not pushing, just resting there, a promise held in suspension.
"Tell me." His voice was gravel dragged over stone. Two words, and they cost him everything.
She pressed her forehead into the pillow. "Take me."
He pushed inside her in one slow, unbroken movement—not fast, not rough, but inevitable, the same gravity that had pulled her to the bed, the same tide that had been rising since she broke the curse. She felt every inch of him, felt herself stretched and filled and claimed, felt the way he fit against her like he'd been made for this shape.
He stopped when he was fully seated. His hips pressed against the curve of her ass, his thighs against hers, his chest against her back. She felt his breath on her shoulder, felt the fine tremor running through his arms as he held himself still.
His mouth found her ear. "Look at you." A whisper, almost reverent. "Full of me. Still."
She clenched around him, and his breath caught—a sharp, broken sound that he tried to swallow.
His hand slid up her spine, fingers spreading across the back of her neck, pressing her gently into the pillow. Not hard enough to trap her. Hard enough to remind her who was taking.
Then he moved.
Slow at first—deep, dragging thrusts that pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in, each one a deliberate act of possession. The bed creaked beneath them, the headboard knocking against the wall in a rhythm that matched her pulse. She buried her face in the pillow, muffling the sounds she couldn't stop—whimpers, gasps, his name breaking apart on her tongue.
"Don't hide." His hand tightened on her neck. "I want to hear you."
She turned her face, cheek against the damp linen, and let the noise come—the moans, the broken pleas, the way she said his name like a prayer and a confession all at once.
His rhythm shifted. Harder. Faster. The slap of skin against skin filling the room, wet and raw and honest. His hand left her neck, found her hip, pulled her back onto him with each thrust, using her body like she was made for this—for him, for the beast, for the thing that lived in his chest and roared when she took him.
"Whose are you?" The words punched out of him between breaths, rough and desperate.
"Yours."
"Say it."
"The beast's." She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, her voice breaking. "I'm the beast's."
His hand slid around her hip, fingers finding her clit, pressing hard circles that matched his pace. She felt herself climbing, felt the pressure building low and tight, felt the way her body was clenching around him, pulling him deeper.
"Come on me." His voice was wrecked, raw, barely human. "Let me feel you."
She shattered with her face in the pillow, her cry muffled by linen, her body convulsing around him as he drove into her through every wave. He followed a heartbeat later, his grip bruising on her hip, his groan low and animal, his release hot and deep and endless.
He stayed inside her, breathing hard, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades. His weight settled over her, heavy and warm, and she felt his lips press against her spine—soft, reverent, a prince's kiss on the beast's work.
His hand found hers on the sheets, lacing their fingers together.
"Still here," he said, his voice cracked open. "I'm still here."