NSFW Warning:This chapter contains explicit sexual content and mature themes. Reader discretion is advised. If you're not comfortable with graphic adult material or need to skip for any reason, feel free to jump ahead to the next chapter or revisit when you're ready.
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The Vessant estate was quiet, but it wasn't peaceful. The air felt thick. Heavy. Every room held the echo of something that used to be important.
Alaric paced the length of the study like a caged animal. A wine stain spread across the fine rug under his boots. Shattered glass from a broken decanter glittered near the hearth. A portrait lay facedown on the floor, its frame cracked from where he had ripped it off the wall.
"She left," he muttered again. "Walked away like it didn't matter."
Evelyne stood by the tall window, arms folded across her chest. Her posture was straight, her tone even. "She didn't just leave. She made it a message. Public. Clean. Deliberate. You didn't just lose a wife. You lost the court's sympathy."
Alaric turned sharply toward her. "They backed her. Thalion stood beside her like it had all been planned. The Empress didn't even blink. And I stood there looking like a fool."
"You're not a fool," Evelyne said as she stepped away from the window. "You're just not used to being on the losing side."
His hands curled into fists. "I was supposed to have everything. The marriage. The image. The influence. She was supposed to support the structure, not dismantle it."
He grabbed the nearest glass off the shelf and threw it into the fireplace. The sound of it shattering was loud in the room.
"And now it's all gone."
"You still have this estate. You still have loyal houses. You lost her, not the war."
He laughed, bitter and humorless. "Do you think I give a damn about the estate? Or the titles?"
She crossed the room slowly. "No. I think what you miss is the control. You never thought she'd actually leave."
Alaric didn't respond. He looked at the floor for a long moment. When he finally looked up again, his anger had shifted into something else. Regret. Frustration. Something rawer.
"She used to look at me like I meant something," he said quietly. "Even when things were tense. Even when we fought. She looked at me like I still mattered."
Evelyne moved closer. "Do you want comfort, or do you want a fight?"
He stared at her.
She didn't wait for an answer. She pressed her hand to his chest. He didn't move. Then she leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn't soft.
It wasn't slow.
He didn't pull away.
They reached for each other fast, without hesitation. Her hands clawed at his shirt, dragging it up and over his head. His hands gripped her waist tightly, pulling her closer. The kiss turned rough, desperate.
Breathless.
He pushed her back until her thighs hit the desk. She sat on the edge and pulled him between her legs. His hands slid up her thighs, feeling the heat of her skin, the pressure of her legs tightening around his hips.
He kissed her neck, her shoulder. His mouth left marks on her skin. She arched into him, nails scraping along his spine.
He shoved everything off the desk. Papers, pens, half-finished letters, all of it went crashing to the floor.
She didn't care. Neither did he.
Her dress rose higher as she leaned back. His pants dropped low as he pressed against her. Their bodies met in a collision of heat and urgency.
"Harder," she whispered, lips against his ear.
He didn't wait. He thrust into her with force, his pace fast and punishing. The desk creaked under them, its legs shuddering with every movement. She clutched him tighter, meeting his thrusts with just as much force.
She bit his lip. He growled in her mouth. His forehead pressed against hers. Sweat slid down his back as their bodies collided again and again.
It was fast.
It was intense.
It was the kind of release that came from too much pressure and nowhere to put it.
Her body trembled first, legs locking around his hips. Her moan was low but broken. Her fingers grabbed the back of his neck.
He followed right after, his hands bruising her hips as he came, breath ragged against her shoulder.
But they didn't stop.
After a few moments, their rhythm returned.
Slower this time.
Less violent.
He kissed her deeper. She held his face with both hands. Their bodies moved together with a new focus, one that replaced urgency with clarity.
Still driven by need, but no longer chasing pain.
They knew each other.
They had done this before.
There was no confusion. No guessing.
Just the same mix of power, ambition, and bitterness that had always followed them.
They were both used to taking what they wanted.
And right now, what they wanted was each other.
No one spoke.
No one needed to.
He pressed into her again. She gasped, her lips parting against his. Her nails dragged lightly down his chest now. Not clawing anymore. Touching.
His pace changed again. He slowed. Stayed deep. Focused more on connection than conquest.
Her eyes stayed locked on his.
He kissed her neck again. Not biting this time. Just breathing her in.
She slid a hand along his back. Held him close. Not possessive. Not clinging.
Just holding.
They didn't pretend it meant more than it did.
But they both knew why they were here.
Not because of love. Not because of healing.
Because nothing else made sense anymore.
And this was something they understood.
Her voice broke the silence after a while. "You want to forget her?"
He didn't answer.
She pulled him tighter. "Then don't stop."
He didn't.
They kept moving until the last edge burned off.
Until the shaking passed.
Until their bodies could not take more.
Then they stayed like that. Close. Still. Breathing heavily. Letting the silence settle again.
She traced her fingers along his back. He kissed her shoulder.
His forehead rested against hers.
Neither said a word.
This wasn't about forgiveness.
And it wasn't about fixing anything.
It was about what they had left.
About what they still knew how to do.
About the power they once shared and didn't want to give up just yet.
They stayed connected. Not clinging.
Not needing to say more.
For tonight, this was enough.