The hall is alive with laughter and clinking goblets, the nobles arrayed around the table in their fine silks, jewels flashing in the warm candlelight. A feast fit for a king—and you are at its heart, draped in velvet and ermine, wine goblet held lazily in hand as there always is. The performance before you sways to the beat of a damn fine melody, and though your gaze lingers just a little too long on one of the dancers.

Before you can register the presence beside you, lips brush your neck in soft, teeny little pecks—a reminder to everyone of just who holds your favor. His breath is warm against your ear as he leaves a trail that feels more like a mark than a caress. It’s a rabid thing. The way he touches you that is, as if staking a claim before anyone else might steal you away.

He shifts in front of you pressing a grape to your lips as he murmurs, “Are you enjoying the feast, my king?”