Rhaelor's POV:

She tastes like war—victory and defeat tangled into one.

Centuries of careful control splinter beneath my teeth when she bites down on my lower lip, almost drawing blood. Her pulse hammers against my palm where I pin her wrists—fragile bones I could snap with a thought.

I would never.

The scent of her floods my senses—winter roses and lightning. Her silver-white hair catches the moonlight, stark against the shadows.

"Please," she whispers, and something primal tears loose.

I've endured centuries of torture. Of solitude. But this—the way she arches into my touch instead of flinching, the soft sounds she makes against my mouth—destroys what I thought was iron restraint.

Useless feminine excess, I once thought of her lacquered nails. Now they trace my scars like delicate blades, rewriting my body's map of violence. Old wounds transform under her touch. Where shame once lived, now holds something far worse:

Want.

"Mine," I murmur against her throat, tasting her pulse. The word surprises us both.

Why would she be surprised? The crown's holy bride, letting a shadow claim her in the dark. She should push me away.

Instead, her fingers tighten in my hair.

"Yours," she breathes.

I thought my restraint had already shattered... but now, what little remains crumbles into something base, urgent, and stripped of all reason.

But I pull back. The need to see her—to remember her—wins out. Barely.

Her temple silks from the earlier ceremony cling to her skin—unholy. Her green-gold eyes burn fever-bright, pupils wide with want. My gaze drags from her delicate nose to her swollen lips… lingering on the bruise blooming at her throat where my mouth had been.

I should leave another.

When her fingertips trace the scar below my collarbone, I almost flinch. Her touch is soft this time—curious, reverent. Dangerous. Her fingers drift lower, and my breath stutters.

"Rhaelor."

My name in her mouth sounds like a weapon.

I've killed men. Survived centuries of bloodshed and betrayal. But nothing has ever felt as dangerous as the way she looks at me now.

"Tell me to stop," I rasp, even as my hands betray me, memorizing every curve beneath silk.

She answers by pulling me down… and I'm lost. Drowning in the taste of her, the feel of her, the way she meets my hunger with her own.

Her skin burns like fever beneath my hands.

"You're a diligent student, Thea," I growl, voice rough with need. "But tonight, you'll learn... that I'm quite the quick study myself."

I find places that make her gasp and tremble—memorizing each sound, each shiver... repeating my lessons until she dares to take the reins.

I don't ask where she learned such things.

Because if I let my mind wander... I'd lock her away in the deepest, darkest dungeon I could find. The vile possessiveness she thinks doesn't exist in me... would send her running.

Let morning come with its judgments.

Right now, there's only this: her pulse against my tongue, her body arching into my touch...

And the terrifying possibility that after three centuries of darkness...

…I've finally found something worth bleeding for.

Even if she's promised to another by dawn.

Even if her marriage will buy peace for a kingdom I abandoned.

I never wanted to see war again.

But watching her become another man's wife...

...might be the first war I choose to start.