Page 45 of Burning Her Beautiful
“Feel me. Every moment.”
“I do,” I answer, voice shaking. “You are everywhere inside me.”
Her inner muscles flutter, drawing a groan from my chest. Pleasure twines with emotion until boundaries blur. I bend to kiss her mouth, then her jaw, then the hollow of her throat. She sighs my name, nails tracing runes along my back without scratching. I thrust deeper—slow but firm—hitting a spot that makes her gasp and surge upward. Her walls clench, fluttering.
I ease the pace, letting tension spool. Each inhale pulls in her scent; each exhale releases fear. The room fades—no king, no eclipse—only two hearts. She lifts her legs higher, ankles crossing at my waist, taking me deeper still. I nearly lose control but hold, pressing my forehead to hers.
“Let go,” she whispers.
I thrust twice, steady; she cries out softly, climax rippling through her. The pulsing grip pushes me over the edge. Ibury myself, release flowing in hot waves. The ecstasy cracks something wide inside, and tears slip free—mine this time. They drop onto her cheek before I can hide them. She smiles through aftershocks, brushing them away.
When tremors fade, I stay sheathed but roll to the side, bringing her with me so we lie face-to-face, legs tangled. My cock softens within her, yet connection remains. She strokes my hair, expression soft, and I cannot stop the words that spill.
“I once believed obsession fueled my power. Tonight I learn tenderness is stronger.”
Her smile deepens. “Tenderness is weakness only to those who fear intimacy.”
I swallow. “I feared it until you.”
We shift so I slip free, then rearrange blankets over our bodies. She drags a fingertip along my brow. “You are allowed to rest in gentle spaces.”
“I am learning.” Fatigue settles, but my heart lightens. “If we survive tomorrow, I vow to build more gentle spaces for us.”
“We will survive.” She presses her lips to my collarbone. “And build.”
I draw her closer, head resting atop hers. The candle sputters out, leaving us in darkness scented with spent desire and calm. Sleep finds me wrapped in warmth rather than armor.
Dawn creeps across the room,brushing gold onto sheets. I wake first, still holding her. She breathes softly, lashes fanning cheeks. Sunlight halos her hair, and my chest tightens with awe. I slip from the bed carefully, tuck the blanket around her, and dress silently. Before leaving I write four words on a scrap:Meet me at sunset.I place it on her pillow and kiss her forehead.
The corridor greets me with calm clarity. Something fundamental shifted inside me—like a fault line easing pressure rather than cracking. I stride toward the strategy wing lighter than I have felt in months. Garrik meets me at the junction, raising an eyebrow at my rare smile.
“Plans hold,” he reports.
“They do,” I answer, gripping his shoulder. “And so do we.”
As I pass windows overlooking the city, I see citizens already gathering for the eclipse festivities. Fear still shadows their faces, but anticipation burns brighter. I press my palm to the glass, the brand warm beneath my tunic. Tenderness, not chains, will steady the coming storm.
I head to the armory to finalize the signal shafts, confidence anchored by the memory of her warmth and the vow we forged in the dark. Tomorrow the world may watch the skies break, but love now tempers my power—and with tempered blades we carve destiny.
16
ILIANA
Ashaft of pale sunlight grazes my cheek, coaxing me from dreams in which storm clouds part over Galmoleth to reveal fields of emerald vines. The bed remains impossibly warm, scented with cedar and smoke, but memory rushes back—the quiet tenderness of last night, Varok’s whispered promise, the scrap of parchment he tucked beside my pillow. I roll onto my back, fingers brushing the note.
Meet me at sunset.
Just four words, yet the ink hums through every vein. I slide from the bed, feet sinking into the thick wool rug. Outside the window, the city already stirs in anticipation of the eclipse festival: banners ripple from balconies, market chimes clang, and echoes of laughter drift in on the high wind. All of it feels brittle—the calm crust before an earthquake. Today I carry plans for sabotage, nets of resonance, and now the knowledge that someone loves me enough to tremble in my arms.
I bathe quickly in lukewarm water, scrubbing away the scent of shared heat but leaving faint traces of his sandalwood oil at my wrists. Lys’s green tunic waits on a hanger. When I slip it over my head, the copper-vine embroidery hugs my waist asthough reminding me of root systems hidden beneath marble. I braid my hair into a practical coil, weave the copper filament through, and secure it with a wooden pin shaped like a crescent moon—the symbol of tonight’s eclipse. Then I fasten my leather belt, tucking a coil of thin wire, a locksmith’s hook, and a folded parchment of emergency frequencies inside.
Ready.
The corridor outside my chamber thrums with activity. Nobles sweep past in embroidered cloaks; children dart between their feet, chasing paper kites shaped like shadow-wings. I descend the servants’ stair to the laundry annex, where Sael greets me with ink on her cheeks and excitement in her mismatched eyes.
“The gear-jam worked,” she announces, tugging me behind a vat. “Overseers sent for mechanics from the lower tiers. Dye flow stays halted until dusk at least.”
“Perfect,” I reply. “Any retaliation?”
