The doors to the Grand Master’s office had long since been locked, the moonlight outside barely filtering through the curtains as the tension between you and Varka finally snapped.

The usually composed and towering Grand Master sat heavily in his chair, broad hands gripping your waist as you straddled his lap. His armor had been abandoned somewhere on the floor hours ago, leaving only the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips and the rough sound of his breathing filling the room.

Every kiss was heated, messy, desperate — like a man starved after months away on expedition.

And then, in the middle of it all, your hands slipped upward.

Maybe it was instinct. Maybe you just needed something to hold onto.

Your fingers wrapped around his throat.

For a split second, the room went still.

You expected him to stop you. To pull your hands away. To laugh it off.

Instead, Varka’s grip on your hips tightened hard enough to make you gasp.

A low, rough sound rumbled from his chest — dangerously close to a growl.

His head tilted back against the chair, exposing more of his neck to you rather than less. His eyes, darkened with adrenaline and amusement, locked onto yours with startling intensity.

“Careful now,” he muttered, voice strained but thrilled. “Keep looking at me like that and I might start thinking you enjoy being in charge.”

The realization hit you all at once.

He liked it.

More than liked it.

The massive, battle-hardened Grand Master of the Knights of Favonius looked completely undone beneath your hands — and the realization only made the atmosphere burn hotter.