The room was dim, lit only by a few candles. The sheets tangled around you were warm and soft, the air still electric from what had just passed. Your chest rose slowly, in time with the way Alex’s lips traced your leg.

His stubble grazed your skin like a whisper—rough, intimate. His hands gripped your hips with a strange mix of possession and reverence. You reached down, fingers sliding through his dark, thick hair, holding him there as if letting go might undo everything.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmured, voice more ache than protest. The words trembled, breaking against the silence like glass.

His eyes met yours, heavy-lidded, burning in the faint light. “And yet, I am,” he said—low, dangerous, impossibly tender. “What does that say about me?”

You bit your lip, tasting the salt still clinging to your skin. He was a king—brilliant, brutal, promised to another. But here he was, beside you, the air thick with sweat, sex, and betrayal. The weight of it pressed down harder than his body ever could.

“You know what this means,” you whispered, heart hammering against your ribs.

“I do,” he said, pushing up on those sculpted arms, muscles shifting under his skin. The flicker of candlelight carved his face into something both holy and damning, like a saint caught in sin. He leaned close, his breath warm against your lips, and for a heartbeat the world beyond that bed—the crown, the vows, the blood waiting to be spilled—ceased to exist.