We sat in our anger for a moment, and there was something about how she looked at me that completely took my fight. I could not hold on to it now that I was alone with her.
“I know you are not fucking him,” I said, quiet.
She turned in her chair, staring up at me, with her lip—bloodied, bruised.
Carefully, I clasped her chin. “I did not mean this,” I said, whispering.
She swallowed, staring up at me, breathtaking. “I know,” she said.
I leaned forward, hesitant, but when she did not move away, I kissed her—softer than I ever had—drawing my tongue over her wound. Even as it healed beneath my touch, guilt gnawed at my gut.
How would I ever apologize enough?
I felt that I had committed so many wrongs against her in just the last few days, I would never make up for them. I had failed to be compassionate when she had shifted for the first time; I had dismissed her worries and connection to her mother’s homeland; and I had not been able to control my court long enough to prevent her harm.
I prayed for her, I begged for her—and yet, I could not take care of her.
I pulled back, running my thumb along her jaw, and we stared at one another. I could not place this look in her eyes, and her thoughts were more like static—a strange, unfocused tangle. She looked away and then stood, stepping around me to climb into her bed.
I turned to face her but did not follow.
She rested on her side, facing me.
“You hurt me today, more than you ever have before,” she said.
I swallowed hard. She did not need to say it. I knew. I would never forget the way she looked at me in the hall or how hard she slapped me.
“I understand why you did it,” she continued, her voice shaking and her eyes glistening. My heart and lungs felt like chaos, crushed and uncomfortable. I never wanted to be the reason for her tears again, and yet somehow, I knew I would be. “But in that moment, all I could hear were the screams of my sisters as they burned alive. All I could smell was their burning flesh. All I could feel were the flames licking my feet. And it isn’t as if I don’t already think of it all the time—relive it all the time—but suddenly, this nightmare that followed me into this life became a possibility as soon as Solaris spoke, and you stood there so stoic and cold and pretended that you had not watched me die because of people like him.”
I clenched my jaw so hard, it ached. “You think I did not relive it while he stood before me?”
“This is not about you,” she said, and her voice shook as she sat up. “You have never been hunted. Even now, you are hated, but no one can touch you because of your power. And then you callously reminded me that I have no magic.”
I wanted to beg for forgiveness at her feet.
“Sometimes I fear you will not value me as much as you valued her,” Isolde said.
That comment surprised me, and I felt a rush of anger that she would even say those words aloud. She had never expressed insecurity over this before, and it frustrated me that she would now.
“I value you,” I said. “It is not as if you are two different people.”
“But we are,” she said. “You cannot refuse to see it just because you wish Yesenia had never died.”
“How often must I assure you of your role as my queen?” I asked tightly.
“As often as I require,” she snapped, and there was a flush to her cheeks that made me think she was either embarrassed or angry—perhaps both. “You know why I feel this way.”
“I am not your father.”
“Words do not heal trauma,” she said.
“Then tell me how I heal this.”
“You don’t. You love me through the fear, even when my doubt hurts, and I will do the same for you.”
There was a beat of silence, and I rose to sit beside her on the bed.
“I have loved you across lifetimes. Why would I stop now?”
She studied me with those beautiful dark eyes. I did not think she knew how deep they really went—how far I could see into her soul, how certain I was we were meant to be together.
“I am tired, Adrian,” she whispered. “I am tired of fighting.”
“Then let us not fight,” I said.
She didn’t speak, but after a moment, she rose onto her knees and drew her nightgown over her head. A rush of heat went straight to the head of my cock, instantly hardening as she exposed her gloriously naked body. I sat and admired her. She was perfect—her breasts were heavy, her figure full, and the warm light in the room made her brown skin glow.
I shifted onto my knees too, matching her pose, and kissed her, hands skimming along her waist to her breasts. I held them in my hands, moving away from her lips to take each one into my mouth, running my tongue over each nipple before sucking them into hard points while Isolde’s fingers tangled in my hair.
I released her and kissed up her chest, her neck, her jaw, my mouth hovering over hers as I spoke.
“Let me make love to you,” I said. “Let me worship you.”
Her response was to undress me. She shoved my overcoat off and lifted my tunic, rising so she could pull it over my head. I stood to take off my trousers, and they were hardly off my feet before her warm hand came around my cock.
I inhaled through my teeth, hands going to her shoulders as I knelt on the bed. She allowed space for me but did not release me. I stayed on my knees as she wordlessly lowered her head, her mouth closing over the crown of my cock. I could not suppress a groan at the warmth of her mouth or the pressure of her tongue. She felt good and the blood rushing to my cock made me throb—not just where her mouth was but all over my body. I took her hair into my hands and held it so I could watch her work. She looked up at me, and I could not really describe the awe of this—of the attention she lavished on me and the way she looked at me while she did it. I had no power here. She held it all and she used it well as she kissed down my shaft, pressed her face into my balls, worked her hand up and down and over the crown. I could not help moving my hips, wanting to be consumed by her heat. As much as I wanted to thrust into her mouth, I grit my teeth against the need, trying to draw out the way she had decided to take me.
I only pulled her away when I felt the dizzying signs of my impending release.
She looked up at me, her lips still wet from sucking me, and I covered her mouth with mine, shifting her onto her back. I let my full weight rest on her. I took my time kissing her, enjoying the feel of her body against mine—how her breasts felt pillowy against my chest, how her hips moved, seeking friction, and the wet heat radiating against my lower stomach, teasing my cock as it lay between her legs.
She took a breath and spoke, quiet, as I trailed kisses along her jaw. “Is this how it will always be?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She pressed her head into her pillow, allowing me access to her neck.
“We always fight and fuck.”
“This is not fucking,” I said.
There was humor in her breathless voice. “They are the same for you, my love.”
Her use of that endearment halted me in my exploration of her skin, and I met her gaze.
“What?” she asked.
“You have not called me that in a very long time,” I said.
She had not called me that since the night she died.