Page 57 of Burning Her Beautiful
Boot-steps cross the mosaic floor. I turn as Varok closes the balcony doors, latching them against the wind. Armor gone, he wears only loose dark trousers and an open linen shirt. Moonlight traces the line of a scar that arcs across hiscollarbone, a souvenir from battles he never boasts about. His horns catch the glow, polished obsidian curving with austere grace. Yet it is his eyes that hold me fast—molten silver now tempered by tenderness.
“Your pulse races,” he murmurs, voice velvet over stone. “I feel it from across the room.”
“I cannot seem to slow it,” I admit, pressing a hand to my throat where the resonance pendant rests. “So much changed in a single day. The charter passed, our bond was recognized, and storm lines were redrawn. Part of me fears I will wake and find it a dream.”
He steps closer, heat rolling from him. “Dreams fade. This stands.” He lifts my hand, placing it against his chest—firm muscle yielding to a heartbeat that thuds in time with mine. “Feel that? Flesh and truth.”
My palm tingles with each beat; his skin beneath the shirt smells faintly of smoke and mountain pine. I curl my fingers, anchoring.
Outside, a bell chimes midnight, its bronze tone drifting through shutters. The hour evokes an ache; tomorrow Tovor and his faction will meet to draft countermoves. Yet right now the city rests, and we must feed our strength.
I slide my cloak from my shoulders, letting it fall across the arm of a nearby chaise. His gaze trails down the emerald-silk tunic I still wear, lingering on the crimson guard sash cinched at my waist. A half-smile pulls his lips. “When you first arrived, chains clasped your wrists. Tonight the color of command wraps you instead.”
“And you removed your plate to meet me unarmed,” I note.
“For you I never need armor.” The honesty in his tone sends nerves humming.
I close the distance until only a breath separates us. The air between our skins sparkles—static born of lightning and songmerged. My fingertips rise, tracing the line of his scar. “Tell me the story of this mark,” I whisper.
“South-ravine rebellion,” he answers, voice low. “A spear found me when I shielded a wounded recruit.”
“Did it hurt?” I already know it did, yet I wish to hear him share.
“Pain told me I was alive.” He lifts my chin with a gentle thumb. “Tonight pain has no place here.” He leans forward, brushing his lips along the faint slave-collar scar at my throat. Warm breath chases a shudder down my spine.
I exhale slowly, meeting his mouth halfway. The kiss is unhurried—exploration rather than conquest. He tastes of cinnamon and dusk. My hands climb to tangle in his hair, silky around the base of his horns. He groans softly, deepening the angle. Lantern-light flickers, painting golden streaks across his cheekbones.
When we part, my lungs burn with need and wonder. I draw back just enough to gauge his eyes. Vulnerability lies bare there—no mask of rank, only a man who gave up glory for his heart.
“I want you,” I say—the confession a river bursting through a dam—“not because fear looms, but because life feels bigger beside you.”
Silver irises soften to pewter. “And I want you, not as victory’s prize, but as equal flame.” He slides his palms down my arms, thumbs circling the soft underside of my elbows. “Will you share your light with mine tonight?”
Rather than answer with words, I reach for the sash knot. His hands still mine. “Allow me,” he murmurs, voice husky. Fingers work slowly, loosening the crimson fabric. He draws it aside, then presses his lips to the hollow beneath my ear while slipping tunic ties. I tremble, knees suddenly unsure. Every brush of linen against skin heightens sensation.
The tunic falls in a whisper to the floor, pooling like spilled moonlight. Cool air ghosts over bare shoulders, pebbling flesh. Varok’s gaze roams from throat to hips—reverent rather than possessive. He traces the line of my collarbone down to the swell of a breast, a fingertip feather-light. Heat floods.
I slide his linen shirt off broad shoulders, palms gliding over runed tattoos etched in deep silver-blue spirals down his arms. Their patterns pulse faintly, reacting to my touch. Among them, fresh ink from two nights ago—twin leaves intertwined around a lightning bolt—marks our unity. I brush my lips over those new lines; his breath staggers.
He lifts me effortlessly, cradling my thighs around his waist and carrying me to the bed draped in ivory sheets. The mattress sinks beneath our weight. He settles on his knees between my legs, moonlight spilling through the skylight—painting a tableau woven from dreams and prophecy both.
He pauses, eyes asking permission though his body yearns. I answer by cupping his cheek, drawing him down. The kiss turns hungry, tongues mapping familiar yet always-novel terrain. Fingers roam: mine exploring ridges of abdominal muscle, his tracing the curve of my hip, thumb sweeping the sensitive skin where thigh meets flank. Sparks ignite nerves.
Clothing slips away in increments guided by mutual patience. He worships each reveal—pressing lips to a scar on my rib from a Velinth whip, kissing the inside of my wrist where a manacle once bruised. I mirror that devotion, mouthing a path along the dusky line where winged muscle meets back, feeling him shudder under the gentle scrape of teeth.
Connection deepens. At its apex we bare ourselves entirely, nothing hidden. He steadies above me, bracing on his forearms, forehead resting against mine. “Say stop if ever you need,” he breathes.
“I will only say more,” I reply, my voice trembling with truth.
He guides himself slowly, cock thick and hot as it presses into me, stretching the slick walls of my pussy inch by inch. I gasp, a soft cry slipping past parted lips as he eases deeper, the ache sharp and sweet all at once. My thighs tremble where they cradle his hips. I feel the fullness, the deliberate drag of every ridge as my body adjusts to take all of him.
Varok groans, low and guttural, like the sound is torn from somewhere ancient in his chest. “Fuck, Iliana… you feel like fire wrapped in silk.”
He stills when he’s fully inside, his forehead pressing to mine. Our breath tangles, erratic, the only sound beyond the crackle of the braziers and the distant hum of river song outside the balcony. His cock pulses inside me, deep and unmoving, and I can feel his heartbeat through it—wild, reverent.
“Are you all right?” he murmurs, lips brushing mine.
I nod, barely able to speak. “You feel… perfect.”
