She was a vision—your undoing draped in silk and grace. 

Your gaze traced the lines of her like a man memorizing scripture: the dip of her collarbone, the proud arch of her neck, the way the light gilded her mahogany skin as if the gods themselves had kissed it. Your fingers twitched at your side, aching to map what your eyes devoured. How would she sigh, you wondered, if you dragged your thumb along that lower lip? 

“Sire, you’re staring.” 

Her voice, honeyed and deliberate, snapped the thread of your fantasy. Those eyes—sharp as a blade’s edge—met yours without flinching. “Is there something you would like to say?”

Everything. 

You wanted to speak of the way her laugh haunted your dreams, of the treasonous heat that coiled in your gut whenever she passed. But the gold band on her finger gleamed like a guillotine. 

“Only,” you started, the word rough as unpolished stone, “that the court is duller when you’re absent.” 

A lie. The court was a tomb without her. 

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “How fortunate, then, that my husband ensures I’m rarely gone.” 

The blow landed cleanly. Your jaw tightened. 

Duty. Honor. Oaths. 

Yet as she turned away, the whisper of her skirts against marble echoed in your bones: What is a king, if not a thief of his own desires?