I gave my body to one man while my soul belonged to another, and the betrayal felt like drowning from the inside out.
The day had been uneventful, political meetings where I smiled and nodded at appropriate intervals, formal dinners where I played the perfect consort, walks through sunlit courtyards where Luka spoke of trade agreements and border disputes.
But something had shifted in the way he looked at me, the way his fingers lingered when he touched my hand, how his gaze seemed to hold promises I wasn't ready to receive.
"You're especially beautiful today," he murmured as we stood together on the palace terrace, watching the sun set over the kingdom. His thumb traced across my knuckles with newfound intensity. "I keep thinking about what you said last week. About being ready for the next step in our relationship."
Had I said that? The words felt foreign, like something someone else might have spoken with my voice.
That night, he came to my chambers. I heard the soft knock and knew immediately who it was. Not the sharp rap of a servant or the hesitant tap of my ladies-in-waiting.
This was purposeful, patient, certain.
“May I come in?” Luka’s voice was low, barely more than a breath when I opened the door.
I stepped aside silently, my heart pounding like a drum against my ribs. He entered slowly, dressed in a silk robe over soft, loose-fitting nightclothes, his golden hair tousled by the night air.
He looked handsome in a way that felt crafted—like a statue come to life. But there was something else tonight too. A glimmer behind his gaze. Hunger. Controlled, careful, but unmistakable.
“Penelope,” he said, closing the distance between us with deliberate slowness. “I’ve been thinking… about us. About everything we’re meant to be.”
His fingers reached for mine, lacing them gently together. Then, one by one, he began to undo the fastenings of my gown. Each button freed with a reverence that made my breath catch. His touch was not timid, but measured, like a man who’d imagined this moment too many times not to savor it.
The silk slipped from my shoulders, fell over my hips, and finally pooled at my feet like moonlight melting into shadow.
I stood bare before him, flushed but unafraid, my skin buzzing beneath his gaze.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered against my throat, his lips brushing my skin as though he were afraid to leave a mark. “Truly mine.”
His hands caressed my body like I was something rare and delicate, tracing the lines of my waist, the soft swell of my breast, the curve of my hips. His palms were warm, steady. Comforting.
I let my eyes fall closed, willing myself to feel only the sensation of being touched, of being wanted.
He lifted me easily, carried me to the bed with the strength of someone used to holding a future in his hands. When he laid me down, he did it like placing something sacred.
“I’ve waited for this,” he said, shedding his robe with quiet grace. He slid into the sheets beside me, bare-chested, skin glowing in the candlelight. “I’ve dreamed of showing you what love should feel like.”
His lips found mine again, deepening with heat as he pressed his body to mine. The weight of him over me was solid, grounding, but not overwhelming.
His hands continued their exploration—now bolder, now sliding lower, fingertips brushing along my inner thigh.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured into my neck, his voice thick with desire. “I want to make you feel everything.”
His fingers parted me gently, and when he found me slick and ready, he groaned softly, as though the discovery undid something in him.
I let my legs fall open, breath catching as he moved between them. When he finally pushed inside me, I gasped—not from pain, but from the slow stretch, the strange intimacy of being filled for the first time.
He moved slowly, carefully, as though afraid to hurt me. His forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling, our bodies finding a gentle rhythm.
“My love,” he whispered, each word shaped with reverence. “My perfect love. You feel so good.”
His words should have melted me, should have wrapped around me like a dream. But as he moved within me, murmuring sweet nothings against my skin, I felt a strange tension building beneath the pleasure.
Because it didn’t burn. It didn’t sear. It warmed, like candlelight.
Not wildfire. Not like him.
Luka rocked into me, whispering my name like it was a vow, and though my body responded, though the pleasure swelled and broke gently over me like a tide, my mind wandered.
Silver eyes. Rougher hands. A voice that commanded rather than coaxed.
Rios.
My climax was soft, shallow. A shimmer, not a storm. And when Luka came a moment later with a quiet shudder and a sigh of my name, burying his face in my neck, I closed my eyes and tried not to feel like I had betrayed something I hadn’t yet claimed.
“I love you,” he breathed again as we lay tangled together. “I love you so much, Penelope. We’re going to be so happy.”
I couldn’t answer him. The words lodged in my throat like glass.
His arm draped over my waist, protective and warm, but it felt like a weight I hadn’t agreed to carry.
I lay still in the circle of his embrace, the scent of his skin clinging to mine—sandalwood and sweet wine—and felt the glow of what had just happened begin to fade.
I didn't move, didn't disturb his peaceful slumber. But I turned my face away from him, watching the moonlight trace patterns across the floor through the gauze curtains.
The silver light looked cold, distant, untouchable. For the first time since arriving in Aurelion, I felt truly, deeply alone.