His mouth crashed down on hers, a decade of silence breaking in a single, claiming kiss.
It wasn’t gentle. It was conquest and surrender, a battle fought with lips and tongue and the desperate clutch of hands. The cold marble bit into her knees, but the heat of him was everywhere—his hands in her hair, his body a solid wall against her. She tasted salt and fury and the ghost of the boy she’d known. Her own fingers dug into the tailored wool of his jacket, holding on as the world narrowed to this: the scrape of his teeth, the hard line of his jaw under her palm, the low sound in his throat that was half a growl, half a prayer.
When he broke for air, his forehead pressed to hers, his storm-gray eyes were wild, unguarded. ‘Mira,’ he breathed, and it was the only truth left in the world.
Her answer was to pull him back down. Her kiss was just as violent, just as starving. She bit his lip, felt him shudder, felt the hard ridge of his erection press against her stomach through the layers of leather and wool. A moan ripped from her, unbidden, and he swallowed it, his tongue sweeping into her mouth like he was mapping a lost country.
His hands left her hair. One palm slid down her spine, a rough, possessive stroke that arched her into him. The other found the side of her neck, his thumb pressing against the frantic pulse there. He held her like that, pinned between his hand and his hunger, and when he pulled back again, his breath was ragged. ‘Look at me.’
She did. Her green eyes were glazed, her sun-kissed skin flushed. A strand of chestnut hair had come loose from its braid and stuck to her damp lip. He brushed it away with a thumb, the gesture jarringly tender against the carnage of the kiss. His knuckles, scarred and rough, lingered on her cheek.
‘You came here to burn my world down,’ he said, his voice a stripped, raw thing. ‘So burn it.’
He kissed her again, slower this time, deep and thorough, a deliberate ruin. His hand slid from her neck to the worn leather at her collar, fingers finding the laces. He didn’t ask. He pulled. The first tie gave way, then the second. The cool air of the throne room hit the exposed skin of her throat, her collarbone, the old scar there. He broke the kiss to look, his gaze tracking the pale line against her skin. He bent his head and put his mouth on it.
Her head fell back. A gasp echoed off the vaulted ceiling. His lips were hot, his tongue tracing the length of the scar as if he could taste the history, the pain, the years without him. His other hand was at her waist, tugging her shirt free from her trousers, seeking skin. When his palm found the dip of her spine, bare and warm, she jolted.
‘Lucien.’ It wasn’t a protest. It was a fracture.
He straightened, cradling her face again. His eyes were no longer wild. They were focused, devastatingly clear. ‘Tell me you want this.’
‘You know I do.’
‘I need to hear it.’ His thumb brushed her swollen bottom lip. ‘Out loud. From the rebel’s mouth.’
She stared up at him, at the prince on his throne dais, at the boy she’d loved in the shadows. The defiance in her finally crumbled into something simpler, more desperate. ‘I want you. I have always wanted you. Even when I hated you most.’
A muscle jumped in his sharp jaw. He closed his eyes for a second, as if her words were a physical blow. When he opened them, the decision was made. He moved, his hands sliding under her arms, lifting her from her knees as if she weighed nothing. He didn’t set her down. He turned, her body held flush against his, and took the three steps up to the throne itself.
He lowered her onto the throne. The obsidian was cold and unyielding against the backs of her thighs, a stark contrast to the heat of his body still pressed against her front. He didn’t step back. He stood between her knees, his hands braced on the sharp armrests, caging her in.
Her green eyes were wide, fixed on his face. The torchlight caught the gold in her chestnut hair, the flush across her sun-kissed skin. From this angle, he could see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her exposed throat, the pale scar he’d just tasted. The throne was built for one. It held her like a sacrifice.
‘My seat,’ he said, his voice low. ‘My crown. My rebellion.’ His gaze dropped to her mouth, swollen from his. ‘All of it, here.’
She didn’t look away. Her hands came up, not to push him back, but to settle on his hips. Her fingers curled into the fine wool of his trousers, anchoring herself. The touch sent a current straight through him, tightening his gut, making his already hard cock ache against the confines of his uniform.
He leaned down, bringing his mouth to her ear. ‘Tell me again.’
‘I want you.’ Her breath hitched. ‘Lucien.’
It was the name that undid him. The one she hadn’t used in years. He kissed her, a deep, consuming press that was more possession than passion. His hands left the armrests. One slid behind her back, lifting her slightly from the cold stone to fit her more firmly against him. The other went to the remaining laces of her collar, working them open with impatient tugs.
The leather fell away, baring her shoulders. He broke the kiss to look, his storm-gray eyes dark. He traced the line of her collarbone with his thumb, then followed it with his mouth. She shuddered, her head tipping back against the high back of the throne. A soft, broken sound escaped her.
His hand at her back slipped under the loose fabric of her shirt, palm flat against the warm skin of her spine. He could feel the fine tremors there. Every shift of his fingers made her breath catch. He found the waistband of her trousers, the simple buckle. He didn’t open it. He rested his thumb against the metal, a promise and a threat.
‘Do you feel it?’ he murmured against her skin. ‘What you do to me?’ He guided her hand down, pressing her palm against the hard, straining length of him through his clothes. She gasped, her fingers flexing. ‘This is your doing. Your rebellion.’
Her eyes found his, fierce and glazed. ‘Then take your prize, Your Highness.’
He stilled. The title was a blade, even now. He looked at her—sprawled on the symbol of everything that had torn them apart, offering herself as both conquest and conqueror. The control he wore like armor cracked. A raw, ragged breath left him.
He kissed her, swallowing whatever came next—defiance, surrender, it didn’t matter. His fingers found the buckle at her waist and opened it.
He pushed her trousers down her hips, the worn leather catching for a second on the curve of her thigh before giving way. The cold obsidian of the throne bit into the backs of her bare legs. He didn’t step back to undress her fully, didn’t move her. He kept her there, sprawled against the high back, exposed from the waist down, her shirt rucked up under his hand at her spine.
His own belt was next, a series of sharp, efficient clicks. He freed himself, his hard length springing free, and she watched, her green eyes dark, her breath coming in shallow pants. He guided himself to her, the head of his cock pressing against her heat. She was slick, already wet for him, and the feel of it—the hot, yielding proof—made his vision blur for a second.
He held himself there, not pushing in, just letting them both feel the unbearable pressure of the almost. His forehead dropped to hers. Their breath mingled, ragged and shared. ‘Look at me,’ he gritted out, his voice stripped raw.
She did. Her gaze was fierce, glazed, utterly unguarded. Her hands came up to frame his face, her callused thumbs brushing the sharp line of his jaw. It was the tenderest gesture she’d offered in a decade, and it shattered something final inside his chest.
He pushed inside.
It was a slow, devastating breach. She was tight, clenching around him, a low moan tearing from her throat as he filled her. He didn’t stop until he was fully seated, until he felt the cradle of her hips against his, until there was no space, no rebellion, no throne between them. Just this. Just her heat swallowing him whole.
He didn’t move. He stayed buried in her, his body trembling with the effort of stillness. Her legs came up to wrap around his hips, her heels digging into the backs of his thighs, locking him in place. A tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a path through the dust on her temple. He watched it fall.
‘Mira,’ he breathed, the word a broken thing.
Her answer was to roll her hips, a shallow, testing grind that made them both gasp. It broke the stillness. He began to move, a deep, punishing rhythm that drove her back against the unyielding stone. Each thrust was a confession, each withdrawal a fresh betrayal. The only sounds were their ragged breathing, the slick slide of their bodies, the soft impact of skin against skin in the vast, silent hall.
Her fingers tangled in his short, black hair, pulling his mouth back to hers. The kiss was messy, desperate, all tongue and shared breath and the salt of her tear. She met every thrust, her body arching to take him deeper, her moans swallowed by his mouth. This wasn’t surrender. It was a new kind of battle, and they were both determined to lose.
He felt the coil of her orgasm tighten around him first, a fluttering, desperate pulse. ‘Let go,’ he growled against her lips. ‘I have you.’
She cried out, a sharp, shattered sound that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. Her body clenched around him, wave after wave of release pulling him under. He followed, his own climax tearing through him with a force that blurred the torchlight, his thrusts turning erratic, his forehead pressed into the hollow of her shoulder as he spilled himself inside her.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, the slow drip of wax from a torch somewhere above. He was still inside her, still caged between her thighs on the cold throne. He didn’t let go.
He stayed inside her, his forehead pressed into the hollow of her shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. “I never stopped,” he whispered, the words raw, torn from a place he’d sealed shut a decade ago. “Not for a single day.”
Mira’s body went still beneath him. Her legs, still locked around his hips, tensed. The confession hung in the air between them, heavier than the crown, more damning than any treason.
Slowly, his softening length slipped from her. The loss was a physical ache, a sudden, shocking cold where there had been only heat. He didn’t pull away. He braced his hands on the sharp obsidian armrests, caging her again, but the fight had bled out of him. He was just a man, hollowed out and trembling.
She stared past his shoulder at the vaulted ceiling, her green eyes wide and unseeing. A single, slow tear tracked from the outer corner, following the path of the first. She didn’t wipe it away.
“Look at me.” His voice was gravel.
She didn’t. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, controlled breaths. Her hands, which had been fisted in his hair, now lay limp at her sides, palms upturned on the cold stone as if in surrender or supplication.
He reached for her face, his thumb brushing the tear away. Her skin was fever-warm. She flinched at the touch, a tiny, involuntary recoil that cut deeper than any blade. He let his hand fall.
“Mira.”
“Don’t.” The word was a cracked whisper. She finally looked at him, and the devastation in her gaze stole the air from his lungs. “You don’t get to say that. Not after you chose this.” Her eyes flickered to the throne beneath her, to the hall that was his kingdom. “Not after you let me go.”
“I didn’t let you go.” The truth was a live wire in his mouth. “I was ordered to. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” A bitter, broken sound escaped her. It wasn’t a laugh. “It felt the same from where I was standing. Alone.”
He had no defense. The order from his father, the king’s cold, final logic—duty over sentiment, dynasty over a common girl from the lower city—it was all true. It had also killed something in him. He saw the ghost of that death reflected in her eyes now.
Her trousers were still tangled around her thighs, her shirt rucked up to her ribs. The intimate, vulnerable sprawl of her body against the symbol of his power was a obscenity. He moved then, his hands going to her waist, lifting her just enough to pull her clothing back into some semblance of order. The act was clumsy, strangely tender. His knuckles brushed the warm skin of her stomach, and she shuddered.