My erection flags at her words, the need to comfort her winning out over my needs. I drape my body over hers, holding my weight on my elbows, my lips inches apart from hers.
“I love you, Esme. We don’t have to do anything right now, protected or not. I wish I could take all of your pain away. Every moment of mistreatment, every harsh and hurtful word uttered your way, every horrible memory,” I say, brushing my lips against hers, feeling her breath hitch at my words.
Esme wraps her legs around my waist, her wet pussy stirring my dick to life once more. She looks me in the eyes and smiles, a smile that lights up her face, that chases away the shadows. “Then take it away, Sam. Fuck me.”
I throw all my worries to the wind as I slide inside her, feeling her tight heat envelop me. I make love to her all night, our bodiesmoving in sync, our hearts beating as one. We forget about the problems that await us, lost in the pleasure of one another, lost in the love that binds us together.
For now, she’s here, in my arms, and that’s all I need.
CHAPTER NINE
LOCKE
For the fourth night in a row, I stand guard outside her door like some lovesick statue, stone-faced, sleepless, and seething with a fury that burns hotter each passing hour. The enchanted torches along the corridor cast dancing shadows that seem to mock my stillness, their flames flickering in rhythm with the sounds spilling from behind the heavy oak doors. I grit my teeth for what must be the hundredth time tonight as Esme’s sensual moans drift through the silence, clear as crystal bells in the pre-dawn quiet. His name on her lips, loud and unmistakable, like a brand seared into my consciousness.
Sam. I’m cumming, Sam. Oh, Gods, Sam.
Goddamn my hearing. Well, honestly, I don’t need supernatural auditory capabilities to hear her screaming out in ecstasy, half the wing could probably catch fragments of their passion. I am privy to it all, every breathless note of their carnal delights playing out mere feet from where I stand, rigid as a sentinel carved from granite.
The soft thud of her bare feet against the enchanted marble floor, quick and desperate. The rhythmic creak of the massive four-poster bed that’s probably older than some kingdoms.The breathless laughter that bubbles up between gasps, sweet and unguarded in a way that makes my chest constrict. The muffled gasps that build and crescendo into cries that become blessed silence. Then, just when I think I might find peace, it starts again, slower this time, more deliberate, punctuated by whispered endearments I strain not to decipher.
Fuck the wolf. He knows I can hear every damn second of it. In fact, I’d bet my best dagger, the one with the moonstone pommel passed down through three generations of Erron warriors, that he wants me to hear it. His actions are deliberate as a declaration of ownership and a warning wrapped in the most salacious bow imaginable. Every thrust, every gasp he coaxes from her lips is meant to remind me exactly where I stand in this tangled hierarchy of hearts.
I hear you loud and clear, wolf. Unfortunately for him, his desperate attempts at staking his claim only make me want to prove that I belong by her side right along with him. The ache in my chest, sharp, persistent, like a blade lodged between my ribs, is my own verification of that truth. Esme is mine as well. I know it in my bones, in the very marrow of my being, in the way shadows bend toward her when she passes and the way my pulse synchronizes with her breathing when she’s nearby.
Yet with every whimper that escapes those doors, every whispered word of encouragement, every sigh that spills from her lips, the sound reaches me like a perfectly aimed blade sliding between my ribs and twisting.
I don’t move from my post. My boots remain planted on the cold stone, weight distributed exactly as I was trained, ready to spring into action at the first sign of threat. I stay rooted like the soldier I was forged to be, even as everything inside me screams to either burst through those doors or flee to the farthest corner of the realm. Duty above everything else. I’m a soldier first,sworn protector second, and a man slowly unravelling a distant third.
For four days now, she’s been dragged from one end of Castle Noire to the other like a prized mare being prepared for auction. They’ve armored her in silk the color of midnight skies, cinched her into corsets that could double as defensive gear, draped her in velvet so deep purple it’s nearly black, and paraded her past every courtier with a title worth mentioning. Names have been thrown at her from every direction, bloodline histories, political alliances, marriage prospects, and Esme has absorbed it all with the kind of rapt attention that makes me suspect she’s cataloging every detail for future use. Smart girl.
Handmaids stream in and out of her chambers like devoted worshippers tending a shrine, fawning over every detail as she’s measured and pampered and polished in preparation for her formal introduction to court tomorrow. They bring her perfumes from the Summer Courts, jewelry that predates the current dynasty, and gowns that cost more than most fae see in a lifetime. The entire castle has been buzzing with anticipation, gossip spreading like wildfire through every corridor and alcove.
Even with all the pageantry and fuss, I’ve maintained my duties without faltering. I’ve escorted her to private meetings with King Ayla, standing at perfect attention while she navigates questions about her heritage with a diplomacy that would impress seasoned ambassadors. I follow at the prescribed distance while she walks the moonlit garden terraces with Rue, my childhood brother-in-arms who has taken to her company like a moth to flame. Of course, he eats up her attention with eager teases and theatrical flourishes, making the wolf bristle and pace like a caged predator as he trails behind them through the sculpted hedgerows. I stand at attention throughout it all, no clever remarks, no flirtatious words, not a single cutting jab ather mate that might betray the jealousy eating me alive from the inside out.
My father’s spies are always watching, their eyes like winter frost on every interaction, and stepping out of line would be unacceptable in General Erron Erron’s unforgiving estimation. I’m a soldier, and now her sworn protector, nothing more. If I keep telling myself that mantra, maybe I’ll eventually believe it, and my soul will finally get the message.
So, I stand back and watch them try to transform her into something she fundamentally is not. I can tell with every fiber of my being that she despises all of this ceremony and performance.
The woman behind those doors isn’t made for gilded halls and political theater. She bristles under the crushing weight of protocol like a wild creature forced into a too-small cage. She doesn’t know what to do with a silver tray displaying ten different imported perfumes, each one worth a small fortune. She scowls when the head seamstress addresses her as “Your Highness” with that particular blend of reverence and calculation. She flinches visibly when too many hands touch her at once during fittings, her shoulders going rigid as boards. I’ve noticed every sign of her discomfort with razor-sharp clarity, and begrudgingly, so has Sam, though he seems torn between protective instinct and his own fish-out-of-water bewilderment in this realm.
She hasn’t voiced a single complaint aloud, but I read the truth in the language of her body like scripture. I see it in the way her shoulders tighten when someone uses her title. In the way she thanks every servant with excessive politeness, as if their service is a personal favor rather than their duty. In the way she instinctively ducks behind the silvery curtain of her hair when compliments come too fast and too calculating.
She’s trying with everything she has. I’ll give her that much credit. But this place, this glittering, beautiful, treacherous court is going to devour her alive if she’s not careful. Or if I’m not careful.
Especially with Queen Lucelle’s final, poison-wrapped threat still echoing through my thoughts like a death knell. I wouldn’t be surprised if the queen’s extended silence is exactly what she has planned, lulling us into false security before she strikes. Although notably, Her Dark Majesty hasn’t shown her face since that tense afternoon in the king’s private study, when her glamour slipped just enough to reveal the venom beneath.
No one’s dared speak the word treason aloud, but it hangs in the air like an executioner’s blade waiting to fall. Rumors swirl through the court like autumn leaves caught in a whirlwind, every whispered phrase a fresh variation of the same burning questions: who is she, what is she, and why now? Some courtiers are already calling her a prophesied savior, the answer to prayers they didn’t know they’d been praying. Some call her an existential threat to the established order, a half-breed aberration that could destabilize everything they’ve built. Others refuse to call her anything at all, pointedly declining to acknowledge her royal blood or her claim to anything beyond basic courtesy.
Me? I just want to call her Esme. Let her name fall from my lips like the prayer I never had the courage to utter, for fear that I might actually be blessed with such a vision made manifest. Yet here she is, against all odds and expectations. My unexpected gift from whatever gods still listen to desperate soldiers’ pleas. I only need to reach out and claim her with both hands and never let go, if she’ll have me. If she’ll choose me. Calling her ‘princess’ sits wrong in my mouth, tastes like ash and distance. It feels impersonal, a title meant to elevate her beyond my reach, to remind me of the chasm between her bloodline and mine.Her name, though, Esme, just Esme, that name stays low in my throat like a secret. Mine to whisper. Mine to treasure.
“You’re not exactly subtle, you know.”
Rue’s familiar voice draws me from my spiraling thoughts like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. He leans with studied casualness against the far wall, elegant even in his midnight wanderings, fanning himself with a folded bit of court parchment like we’re suffering through a summer heat wave instead of the perpetual cool of the East Wing.
“I mean, honestly,” he continues, amber eyes twinkling with barely contained mischief, “you’ve been standing out here like a twelve-foot chastity belt for how many nights now? Four? Five? People are starting to talk, darling.”
I scowl, the expression settling into familiar grooves. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Some gossip to collect? Some scandal to orchestrate?”
