When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his breathing harsh.
“My chambers,” he said. “Now.”
Sabine stepped back. “Lucien. If we do this, there is no walking it back. The palace will know. The court will use it. And we will have given them exactly the weakness they need to destroy us both.”
“I know.”
“Then say it. Say you understand what this costs.”
He met her eyes. “I understand that wanting you makes me vulnerable. I understand that the palace will weaponize it. I understand that I am making the same mistake I made with Isolde, which is believing that feeling something real might be enough to override a system built to consume it.” His voice dropped lower. “And I am choosing it anyway. Because three years of trying to protect myself from this has only proven that I cannot.”
For three seconds neither of them moved.
Then Sabine took his hand. “Show me where your chambers are.”
Lucien’s chambers occupied the eastern tower, private and heavily warded. He locked the door behind them and turned to face her.
For a moment neither of them moved.
Then Sabine crossed to him and began unfastening his coat.
His hands caught hers, stopping her. “Sabine. Last chance. If you walk out now, I will let you go. But if you stay—”
“I am staying.”
His hands released hers.
She pulled his coat off, then worked the fastenings of his shirt, her fingers steady even though her pulse hammered. When she pushed the fabric off his shoulders, she saw scars. Old wounds. A life written in violence across skin she had only felt, never seen.
Lucien’s hands moved to the laces of her gown, working them open with controlled precision that felt like effort rather thanease. When the fabric loosened, he pulled it down, then her chemise, until she stood before him with nothing between them but want and fear and the mark pulsing hot on her palm.
His gaze traveled down her body slowly. Not leering. Not detached. Hungry in a way that made her feel seen rather than assessed.
“You are sure,” he said.
“Yes.”
He lifted her, carrying her to the bed and laying her down on dark sheets. Then he stripped off the rest of his clothing and settled between her thighs.
Sabine’s breath caught.
She had felt him before, in corridors and alcoves, but seeing him was different. He was lean and scarred and hard in ways that told stories of exile and border campaigns and survival that had nothing to do with palace elegance.
He braced his weight on his forearms, careful not to crush her, and kissed her slowly. Not urgent yet. Just deliberate. As if he were memorizing the shape of her mouth.
His hand slid down her body, fingers finding her already slick. He stroked her carefully, watching her face, learning what made her breath hitch and her hips lift toward his hand.
When her breathing turned ragged, he positioned himself at her entrance.
“Slow,” he said. “Tell me if it hurts.”
Then he pushed forward.
The stretch burned. Sabine gasped, her hands clutching his shoulders, and Lucien stopped immediately.
“Too much?”
“No. Keep going.”
