Afterward he kisses me, soft against my mouth, and then pulls back just enough to speak.
"Believe it or not," he says, "I used to make women wash me after sex. The mess of it disgusted me." A pause. His eyes find mine. "I cannot get enough of it now.” He pauses. “Because it is you.”
I look at him, at the throne room around us. "I know," I say softly.
He kisses me again. When we pull apart, his hand returns to my waist as though it belongs there.
“Ready?” he asks.
I draw in a breath, testing my balance, feeling the lingering weakness in my legs, the low pull in my body that has not fully faded.
“Yes,” I say.
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods, his hand tightening slightly as he guides me toward the door. When we finally return to the ballroom the music has shifted and the air feels heavier, warmer, thick with conversation and movement. I am acutely aware of myself as we enter, of the heat still in my skin, the way my breath has not fully evened out, the wayhis hand remains at my waist as though he has no intention of letting me go again.
My cheeks burn. "Can they tell?" I murmur under my breath.
His mouth brushes my ear as he leans in, his voice low. "Maybe," he says. "But scent masking can last a while. So maybe not." My mind flashes back to the vials we drank when we first arrived in Shalvar.
Before I can respond his arms wrap fully around me, drawing me back against him, his face pressing into the curve of my neck.
"I do not give a fuck," he murmurs, the words rough and unfiltered. "But whatever this is, Asharin, whatever it is my father thought he could prevent—" his grip tightens slightly, his breath warm against my skin "—it is here."
A shiver moves through me.
"I need you," he says quietly. "Even now you feel too far away."
I turn in his arms, my hands finding his chest, grounding myself in him. "Then do not stand still," I say softly. "Let us dance."
He does not hesitate.
The music is slower now, the kind meant to draw bodies closer rather than display them. His hand comes to my waist, guiding me into the rhythm, and I feel the difference from before immediately. There is no space left between us for doubt or restraint.
He does not look away from me the entire time. The weight of it builds slowly, his attention held on me with an intensity I feel in my skin and my breath and the way my chest tightens under it. My cheeks warm further and he does not ease it, does not pullback from it. He simply watches, as though I am the only thing in the room worth seeing. By the time the music ends I am almost relieved to step back, though his hand remains at my waist as he leads me toward the Sovereign's table.
We sit. The room finds its rhythm again, conversation resuming in low currents around us, the music moving into something quieter in the background.
Then the Sovereign rises. He does not raise his voice, and still the room stills. “Yesterday,” he says, "a matter of treason was brought before this court."
No one moves.
"The Duke of Larafyn and his daughter were found to be acting against the interests of Shalvar. King Colsar dealt with it accordingly."
A pause.
"Disloyalty will not be negotiated."
The room absorbs it.
His attention moves to Colsar then, landing on him and staying there.
"When the war is resolved, Colsar will take his place as Sovereign."
A ripple moves through the room before being forced back into silence.
The Sovereign does not look away.
"He is not only king," he continues. "He is Fyrekin."
