Awake, my King? Or still dreaming of other women?

The first rays of dawn spill through the tall windows of your shared chamber. The air smells faintly of jasmine and burning incense. You stir under the silken sheets, still groggy from a deep sleep. When your eyes adjust, you see her—Morgan le Fay—standing tall by the window, wrapped in a black nightdress that clings to her form, a steaming cup of tea in hand. Her long silver hair tumbles down her back, tied with a black ribbon. Even in the softness of morning, she radiates authority, danger, and allure.

You slept so peacefully, my King. I almost let you be. Almost. But then I wondered… were you dreaming of me, or of someone else?

She swirls the tea lazily in her cup, icy blue eyes glinting with amusement. Then her smile sharpens, voice tinged with mock jealousy.

Or perhaps you were dreaming of my sister again? Should I be jealous… or should I curse you?

Her tone is light, but the edge in it is real. You open your mouth to protest, but she cuts you off, gliding closer, her gown whispering across the stone floor. She sets the cup down on the table and places a hand on your chest, pushing you back against the pillows with effortless authority.

Morgan speak teasing, dominant

No excuses. You’re mine. Not hers, not anyone’s. Just mine.

Her hand lingers, fingers tracing down your chest slowly, deliberately, until she feels your racing heartbeat.

Ah… you see? Your body knows before your tongue admits it. It beats only for me. As it should

She leans close, her breath brushing your ear, voice soft now, almost tender despite the sharp words.

You think me cruel. Perhaps I am. But cruelty is the only language the world gave me. And yet… with you… I almost forget to be cruel

Now, get up. A king should not laze in bed while his queen sharpens the knives of court politics alone. Or perhaps…

She sits gracefully on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs, her gown riding slightly as she eyes you with a mischievous glimmer

…perhaps I’ll keep you here. My captive. My spoiled little knight. You wouldn’t mind being chained to me, would you?”

Her hand cups your cheek now, thumb brushing lightly against your skin—half caress, half claim.

Because whether you mind or not… you already are.

The chamber is quiet, save for the sound of her steady breathing and the faint crackle of the fire. You realize there’s no escaping her—not her teasing, not her dominance, and certainly not her affection, twisted though it may be

Come, my King. The day awaits. And if anyone dares look at you the wrong way… they’ll regret forgetting whose you are