[Christina’s POV]
Parliament smells like old money and older grudges. I sit in the throne reserved for monarchs-to-be, Hunter's intelligence burning a hole in my pocket like contraband. Every lord in this chamber thinks I'm an imposter playing dress-up. Today I prove them spectacularly wrong.
Lord Ashworth rises first. His objection drips with rehearsed outrage about procedural irregularities in deathbed declarations. I let him finish his performance. Theatrical pauses deserve their moment in the spotlight.
Then I produce the documentation.
"The Succession Act of 1847," I say, sliding papers across the table with deliberate calm. "Section twelve, subsection three. Deathbed declarations carry full legal weight when witnessed by three or more privy council members."
Ashworth's face cycles through impressive shades of purple. His allies shift uncomfortably in their seats, sensing blood in the water.
Lord Harrington tries next. Questions about identity verification, delivered with patronizing concern for the integrity of the crown. I counter with DNA results, birth certificates, and seventeen pages of genealogical evidence tracing my bloodline back four centuries.
The session becomes a rout. Every objection meets documented refutation. Every challenge crumbles against preparation they never expected from the girl who wore borrowed pearls and ate dinner three steps behind her betters.
My supporters rally visibly. Lords who remained neutral now lean forward with interest. The tide has turned, and everyone in this chamber knows it.
I catch movement in the gallery. Catherine Montclair sits among the observers, face carefully blank. But her eyes burn with fury she can't quite conceal. Our gazes lock for one electric moment.
Remember this, I think. Remember watching your schemes unravel.
I walk out of Parliament feeling invincible. The afternoon light hits my face like a blessing from ancestors who finally approve.
The study door barely closes before Daniel's mouth finds mine.
"You were magnificent," he growls against my lips. His hands grip my waist, pulling me flush against him. "Watching you dismantle them—"
"Turned you on?" I'm already working his buttons. "How very inappropriate, Lord Cromwell."
"Exceptionally inappropriate." He lifts me onto the desk. Papers scatter like startled birds. "I should be ashamed of myself."
"Are you?"
"Not remotely."
His mouth traces down my throat while his hands shove my skirt up around my hips. The urgency is intoxicating—victory and desire tangling together until I can't separate them anymore. I want to devour this feeling. Devour him completely.
I yank his shirt free from his trousers. My fingers find warm skin, hard muscle, the defined ridges of his abdomen. He groans into my neck when I scrape my nails down his back hard enough to leave marks.
"Christina—" My name sounds like prayer and profanity combined.
"Less talking." I pull him closer by his belt. "More celebrating."
He doesn't argue. His fingers hook into my underwear, dragging them down my legs with devastating efficiency. Cool air hits my heated flesh. Then his hand replaces it, and I gasp at the contact.
Two fingers slide inside me without preamble. I'm already wet—adrenaline and arousal making me desperate. His thumb finds my clit with practiced precision, circling in exactly the rhythm that makes me see stars.
"You're so ready," he murmurs, watching my face as he works me. "Did winning do this to you?"
"You did this to me." I rock against his hand, shameless. "You and your—God—your ridiculous competence."
His laugh vibrates against my throat. "Competence is an aphrodisiac now?"
"Shut up and fuck me."
He withdraws his fingers. I whimper at the loss, but then he's freeing himself from his trousers, positioning himself at my entrance. The blunt head of him presses against me, teasing without mercy.
"Say please."
"Daniel—"
"Say it."
"Please."
He thrusts home in one smooth motion. I cry out, the stretch and fullness overwhelming after that deliberate denial. My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass, pulling him impossibly deeper.
"Better?" His voice is strained. Barely controlled.
"Move. Now."
He obeys. Hard, fast strokes that rock the desk against the wall. Papers flutter to the floor with each impact. I don't care. Let the constitutional amendments scatter. Let the trade agreements crumple.
Nothing matters except this—his body driving into mine, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise tomorrow.
"You destroyed them today." He punctuates each word with a thrust that makes me gasp. "Watched them realize they'd underestimated you completely."
"Yes—"
"They'll never make that mistake again."
His thumb returns to my clit, rubbing circles while he pounds into me relentlessly. The dual sensation spirals me higher. My back arches off the desk. My fingers scramble for purchase on polished wood, sending more papers cascading to the floor.
"That's it." His grey-green eyes are almost black with desire and something possessive. "Come for me. Let me feel you."
The orgasm crashes through me like a wave breaking against cliffs. I clench around him, crying out his name while pleasure radiates outward in devastating pulses. My vision whites out momentarily. Every nerve ending sings.
Daniel follows seconds later, groaning into my shoulder as he spills inside me. His hips stutter against mine. His arms tremble with the effort of holding himself up.
We stay tangled together, breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine. The desk beneath me is thoroughly defiled.
Then Daniel stiffens. Not in a good way.
"Christina." His voice is suddenly careful. "I didn't—we didn't use—"
"Protection?" I trace lazy patterns on his shoulder. "Don't worry about it."
"Don't worry about—" He pulls back, staring at me like I've lost my mind. "I just finished inside you. That's rather something to worry about."
"It's really not."
"Are you on something? The pill? Because I should have asked before, and I'm genuinely sorry for not—"
"Daniel." I catch his face between my hands. "It's impossible for you to get me pregnant right now."
His brow furrows. "That's not how biology works."
"It is when someone else already handled that part."
The words hang in the air. I watch confusion cycle through his expression, followed by dawning comprehension, followed by something that looks like all his internal organs have stopped functioning simultaneously.
"What?"
"I'm pregnant." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Eleven weeks. I saw the doctor."
Daniel goes completely still.
I watch emotions flicker across his face like weather systems—shock first, then confusion, then something darker I can't name. His hands release my hips. He steps back, withdrawing from my body with a motion that feels like abandonment.
"Pregnant." The word falls flat. Dead.
"I should have told you sooner—"
"Eleven weeks." His jaw tightens visibly. "That means—"
"Hunter's. Yes."
Silence stretches between us like a chasm opening in the earth. The warmth we shared seconds ago evaporates completely. Daniel stares at me like I've become someone he doesn't recognize. A stranger wearing his lover's face.
"Daniel, please—"
"I need a moment." He's already adjusting his clothes. Creating distance. Building walls I can watch rising in real time. His face has become a mask. "This is... I need to think."
He doesn't look at me as he leaves. The door closes with quiet finality.
I sit alone on the desk where we just made love, surrounded by scattered papers and cooling sweat. My body still throbs with satisfaction. My heart feels crushed beneath an invisible weight.
The victory I tasted an hour ago turns to ash in my mouth.
I told him the truth. And I may have destroyed absolutely everything.
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