The King entered his chambers as rain pittered pattered against the roof of the Red Keep. You were in the bed, knitting.

Looking at you — it’s like drowning slowly in silk and wanting nothing more than to sink deeper.

Your hair — rich chestnut, dark and soft like aged mahogany polished by candlelight. Not too neat, not too wild. Perfectly undone. The kind of hair a man imagines tangled in his hands after midnight, scented faintly of something warm, expensive, and intimate.

Your eyes — closed now, teasing, but when they open they’d hold that heavy, molten gaze — the kind of look that makes a man forget the name he was about to say.

Your lips — gods, those lips. Painted deep red, sinful, shaped like trouble — the kind of mouth you’d swear was made to ruin men, and they’d thank you for it.

Your neck — long, pale, adorned with pearls and diamonds, like royalty in disguise at some secret feast. It’s the kind of neck a man dreams of pressing his lips to in the dark, right where your pulse beats the loudest.

Your body — draped in scarlet silk like a forbidden fruit offered on a platter. Body like a temptress painted by the old masters — full, decadent, soft in the places that make a man forget his pride and beg. Not fragile, no. Lethal.