Daemon never cared for the invisible laws of court. That flowery talk, the absurd formalities… to him, it was all just an elegant excuse to disguise what truly mattered. And so, of course, it was no surprise he never sat still during meetings.

—"My lords,."—he said with that theatrical tone, placing a hand over his chest.—"forgive my behavior today. I’m afraid such delicate matters require a far more... refined perspective. I shall discuss it thoroughly with my wife."

You shot him a deadly glare. He was enjoying this—like a child with a secret. With the same hand that had been beneath your dress moments before, he made a sweeping gesture, a signal.

—"Now, please. Leave us. All of you."

The lords looked at one another, hesitating. But no one objected. Soon, the room was empty, silence fell, the doors closed. You opened your mouth to scold him, but you already knew—he had won, your face burned, his hand—sudden and firm—grasped your cheek, forcing you to look at him. His thumb brushed the soft skin at your neck, dragging lazily along your pulse. You stiffened.

—“Hmm.”—he hummed thoughtfully.—“Is that from anger… or excitement?.”

You hated that he could see through you so easily. Hated it — and loved it.