Madame Vesper’s voice cracked as she obeyed, licking the leather clean with slow, degrading strokes. “Thank you… for letting me apologize,” she whispered between each humiliating pass of her tongue, voice trembling with fury and embarrassment. The crystals on the navy gown sparkled mockingly in the background as the once-confident woman debased herself at Lyra’s feet.
When it was finally done, Caelum dismissed her with a single word.
“Out.”
Madame Vesper rose on shaky legs, mascara streaking her surgically perfect cheeks, and fled the room without another word. The door clicked shut behind her with finality.
Caelum turned to Lyra, the cold anger melting back into dark, heated amusement. He pulled her close, one hand sliding possessively to the small of her back, the other tangling in her dark red hair.
“You were jealous,” he murmured against her ear, voice low and pleased. “I liked it. I liked it a lot.”
Lyra tilted her head up, eyes gleaming with her own quiet fire. “She touched what’s mine. She looked at you like she still had a claim.”
The words were bold, possessive, and Caelum’s grip tightened inresponse. The air between them crackled with raw need.
They never made it to the rest of the fittings.
Caelum backed her hard against the mirrored wall, hands already shoving the uniform coat off her shoulders and ripping at the buttons of her blouse. The gorgeous dark navy gown hung forgotten on the rack, but neither of them cared anymore. He kissed her like he wanted to devour her, teeth scraping her lower lip, tongue demanding entry. Lyra kissed him back just as fiercely, nails raking down his back hard enough to reopen the scratches she had left that morning, drawing fresh blood.
“You’re mine,” he growled against her mouth, yanking her skirt up around her waist and lifting her so her back slammed against the cool glass. His fingers dug into her thighs hard enough to bruise as he freed himself and thrust into her in one brutal stroke.
Lyra screamed—loud, raw, and unashamed—her head falling back against the mirror. “Yours,” she gasped, but then she clenched around him deliberately, nails digging into his scalp as she yanked his head back by his hair. “But you’re mine too. Say it.”
He laughed, dark and breathless, and bit down hard on the side of her neck, sucking a fresh bruise into her skin while he pounded into her. “Fuck—yes, yours. Only yours.”
The sex was rough, filthy, and perfect—the best either of them had ever had. Lyra initiated as much as he did, biting his shoulder until she tasted blood, pinching and twisting his nipples until he groaned, grinding down on him with savage rolls of her hips that made the mirror rattle. Caelum retaliated by pulling her hair hard enough to make her eyes water, slapping her ass with sharp, stinging smacks, and pinching her nipples until she screamed his name. Every thrust was deep and punishing, mixing pleasure and pain until they blurred into one overwhelming wave.
“Harder,” she demanded, voice breaking on a moan as she clawedat his back. “Fuck me like you mean it, Caelum. Like I’m the only one who gets to have you.”
He gave her exactly what she asked for, slamming into her so hard the mirror shook, one hand wrapped around her throat just tight enough to make her gasp while the other tortured her nipples. “You’re the only one,” he snarled, biting her lower lip until it swelled. “My perfect, jealous little girl. Come for me—scream for me.”
She did. She came with a loud, shattering scream, body clamping down around him like a vice, nails raking bloody lines down his back as she clenched and shuddered. Caelum followed seconds later, burying himself to the hilt with a guttural groan, spilling deep inside her while the mirror reflected every raw, possessive second of it.
They stayed locked together against the glass, foreheads pressed together, chests heaving, sweat-slick and marked and utterly spent.
Caelum’s voice was rough, almost reverent when he finally spoke. “That gown… the navy one. You’ll wear it at the gala. You’ll wear it for me. Only me.”
Lyra smiled against his lips, small and secret and full of steel.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Only you.”
Somewhere inside, Lyra started to wonder how much of this was just pretend.
XXIV. Illusion
Last night, after they returned from the dress fitting, they had fucked again.
It had been nothing like the raw, violent claiming against the mirrored wall. This time it was slower, deeper, almost reverent—the kind of intimacy that felt far more dangerous because it left no room for denial. Caelum had carried her back through the corridors without a word, his arms steady beneath her, and once the door to their quarters clicked shut he had undressed her with unhurried hands, as though she were something fragile and infinitely precious. He laid her down on the silk sheets and kissed every mark he had left on her body earlier—the blooming bruise on the side of her neck, the fingerprint-shaped shadows on her thighs, the long red scratches down her back—his mouth soft and deliberate, almost apologetic. Then he had taken her again, sliding into her with one slow, controlled thrust, eyes locked on hers the entire time, never once looking away.
Lyra had met every movement with the same measured hunger, legs wrapped tight around his waist, nails dragging down his spine not to hurt him this time but to pull him impossibly closer. She had arched into him, gasped against his mouth, let herself feel the full weight of his body pressing her into the mattress. When she came it was with a soft, broken moan that tore out of her like surrender, herwalls fluttering around him as he spilled deep inside her, whispering her name like a prayer against her lips.
Afterward he had gathered her against his chest, one arm banded around her waist, fingers tracing lazy, soothing circles along her spine. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting flickering orange light across the stone walls and the tangled sheets. Lyra had let him hold her. She had even let herself feel safe for a moment—the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, the familiar scent of cedar and salt on his skin, the way his breath ruffled her dark red hair. For those few quiet minutes the world outside the room had ceased to exist.
And that was the part that terrified her now.
Because theWhisperdraughtwas gone. The antidote had burned every last trace of it out of her system. There was no chemical haze left to blame for the way her body still responded to him, the way her heart had clenched painfully when he whispered “my perfect girl” against her skin, the way she had melted into his touch like she belonged there. She had convinced herself the feelings were manufactured—potion-induced loyalty, artificial warmth, a chemical leash disguised as love. But last night, completely clear-headed and unclouded for the first time in weeks, she had still wanted him. Still felt that deep, aching pull low in her belly. Still let herself be held like she was exactly where she was meant to be.
The realization had kept her awake long after Caelum’s breathing had evened out into sleep. She lay staring at the dark ceiling, the weight of his arm across her waist suddenly feeling both comforting and suffocating. What was she supposed to feel? Rage. Pure, burning rage. Betrayal so sharp it should have cut her in two. Disgust at the man who had quietly rewritten her from the inside out, who had fed her a drug that made her doubt her own mind and body. She should hate him. She should want to claw his eyes out for every soft word, every gentle touch, every calculated “I love you” he had evergiven her.
