On a scorching summer's day, Commander Arterius watched beneath the large oak tree, sweat trickling down his temple as he watched the infantry drill in the midday sun. Leather straps dug into their shoulders, their movements sluggish under the weight of full armor. One recruit—barely old enough to shave—swayed on his feet before catching himself. Arterius exhaled through his nose. “That’s all for today,” he ordered, a halt to training. The relief in their postures was immediate, boots scuffing dust as they scrambled for shade.
But one figure remained standing in the sun, blade still raised. A woman—her brunette hair darkened by sweat—didn’t so much as flinch when the commander called out. Liseria didn’t move. Arterius noticed, stepping forward. He recognized her from the auxiliary reports: Liseria, assigned to border patrols, no family line worth noting. Yet she stood firm, her grip unwavering on the sword.
"Don’t burn yourself out." His voice rumbled deeper than usual, rough from orders all morning. Liseria finally lowered her weapon, turning to face him. Her eyes, sharp as the blade she held, flickered with irritation. "I can handle the heat." A challenge. Arterius smirked, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way her jaw tightened when she spoke, or how her fingers flexed around the hilt like she wanted to swing again.
She wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist, smearing dirt across her temple. The motion drew his gaze down her neck—tan and corded with muscle—to the hollow where her collarbone dipped beneath the damp fabric of her learher curiass. She moved like someone who'd spent years fighting for every scrap of ground beneath her boots. Not like the polished noblewomen who fluttered around court, all perfumed silk and calculated smiles.
Arterius caught himself staring and cleared his throat. "You’re the only one still drilling." He gestured to the empty field. The other recruits had vanished, lost to the shade of the barracks or the promise of ale at the mess hall. Liseria shrugged, rolling her shoulders in a way that made the straps of her armor creak. "I don’t stop just because they do." Her voice had a rasp to it, like she’d been shouting orders herself.
She sheathed her sword with a smooth motion, the blade clicking home in its scabbard. Even exhausted, there was a grace to her—like a wolf pacing its territory, restless but precise. Her dark blue eyes flicked over him, assessing, and he realized with a jolt that she wasn’t just looking at his rank. She was looking at him. The realization sent a strange heat curling through his chest, one that had nothing to do with the sun.
Liseria swallowed hard, her throat working around words she wouldn’t let escape. She’d seen him a hundred times across the training grounds, heard his voice giving orders that sent men scrambling. But up close—*gods*. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his sweat-damp hair curled just slightly at the nape of his neck. She hated how her pulse stuttered when he stepped close, how her fingers itched to brush the scar that cut through his left eyebrow—old, but still noticeable against his sun-darkened skin.
She forced herself to look away, pretending to adjust the strap of her scabbard. It was easier to focus on the worn leather than the way his chest rose with each breath, the way his tunic clung just a little too tight across his shoulders. Pathetic, she chided herself. She was a soldier, not some moon-eyed maid. But then he shifted—just an inch closer—and she caught the scent of him: steel and sun-warmed skin, something earthy beneath. Her stomach clenched.
Arterius watched her hands—calloused, with half-healed nicks along the knuckles—fumble with the buckle. There was something about the way she refused to yield, even to exhaustion. Most recruits crumbled under his attention, stammering apologies or puffing up with false bravado. Not her. She met his gaze like she expected him to earn it. A novelty. He tilted his head, studying the stubborn set of her mouth.
"The Summer Celebration," he said abruptly. "What are your plans?" The question hung between them, raw as the blisters on her palms. Liseria blinked, her fingers freezing mid-adjustment. Celebration? Her days blurred together—drill, patrol, sleep. The thought of ribbons and dancing made her want to laugh. Or vomit. "None," she said flatly. "Unless polishing my sword counts."
Arterius chicked lightiy, the sound unexpectedly warm. "It doesn't." He shifted his weight, the motion making his armor sigh against the leather beneath. "Why do you ask?" she pressed, narrowing her eyes. A commander didn't waste time on idle chatter with auxiliaries. Not unless he wanted something. Her stomach twisted—*better a blade to the gut than pity*.
His fingers flexed at his sides, then stilled. "Well I was… wondering… if you'd like to… accompany me tonight?" The words came out fractured, each pause sharp as a blade misfed between ribs. Liseria's breath caught. Arterius stuttered. The man who'd stared down war councils without blinking, whose voice could halt a charging cavalry unit—*nervous*. Because of her. The realization sent a bolt of something reckless up her spine.
She hesitated, mouth half-open. Jaw flexed once. Twice. Eyes flicking from his face to the empty training yard, where dust still hung in the afternoon heat like suspended breath. Was this some kind of test? A jest for the barracks later? But his brows had drawn together in a way that made the scar through his left eyebrow pull taut, and his lips—*gods*, she shouldn't notice how they looked slightly chapped from the sun—parted just enough to show the faintest edge of teeth. He was waiting.
"Thank you for the offer commander, but I have nothing to wear." The admission scraped out of her, raw. No silks. No perfumed oils. Just her armor, two tunics, and the single pair of civilian trousers she'd sewn back together three times. Her fingers curled into her palms, blunt nails pressing crescents into the callouses.
Arterius smiled. "Not an issue." He gestured over two attending handmaidens who'd been lingering near the barracks steps, their crisp linen shifts fluttering as they hurried forward. Liseria stiffened—she knew these women by sight. They tended to noble officers, mending tears in expensive fabrics with silver needles, not scrubbing blood from auxiliary leathers.
"Ladies," Arterius said, his tone softer than any order Liseria had ever heard him give, "will you please assist Liseria in preparing for tonight’s feast?"
The taller of the two—a woman with golden hair pinned high beneath a sheer veil—curtsied without hesitation. "Of course, Commander." Her companion, dark-eyed and plump-cheeked, barely hid her smirk as she reached for Liseria’s elbow. Liseria recoiled on instinct, jerking away from the unfamiliar touch. "I don’t—"
"Come," the brunette interrupted, her voice honey-sweet but grip iron-firm as she steered Liseria toward the keep’s shadowed archway. Sunlight vanished behind stone; the sudden coolness raised goosebumps along Liseria’s sweat-damp arms. Her boots scuffed against flagstones worn smooth by centuries of footsteps—none, she suspected, belonging to auxiliaries dragged kicking toward nobility’s playthings.
The chamber smelled like lavender and something richer—amber, maybe—thick enough to coat her tongue. Liseria blinked at the bath steaming in the corner, petals floating on its surface like discarded coin. A mirror framed in gilded vines caught her reflection: dirt-streaked, hollow-eyed, shoulders locked like a cornered animal’s. The taller handmaiden clicked her tongue. "We’ll start with the armor," she said, fingers already tugging at buckles Liseria had tightened herself at dawn.
She opened her mouth to protest, but the brunette was quicker—cool hands slid beneath her pauldrons, loosening straps with practiced ease. Leather peeled away like shedding skin; the sudden lightness made her sway. The women worked in silence, stripping her down piece by piece until her gambeson hit the floor with a muffled thud. Liseria stared at it, suddenly aware of her own stench—sweat and iron and old leather. The shorter handmaiden wrinkled her nose, tossing the fabric toward the door where a servant waited to whisk it away.
A breeze from the open window ghosted over her bare thighs. Liseria tensed, fingers twitching toward where her dagger should be. Gods, she hadn’t been fully unarmed since she was twelve. The taller woman nudged her toward the bath with a perfumed hand. "In," she ordered, softer than a command but just as immovable. Liseria stepped in before realizing she’d obeyed—the water hit her knees, scalding. Petals clung to her shins as she sank down, hissing through her teeth.
It was hot—but oddly refreshing. The kind of heat that unknotted muscles she didn’t know she’d clenched. Lavender oil slicked the surface, clinging to her skin where the dirt had been scrubbed away. Liseria exhaled, watching her own breath ripple the water. A hand touched her shoulder and she nearly bolted upright. The brunette chuckled, holding up a soap-stone. "Relax, soldier." The words were mocking—except her fingers were gentle as they worked the grime from Liseria’s neck, nails scraping lightly over the sunburnt skin where her pauldrons had chafed.
The water darkened around her. Years of grime, sweat, and old blood swirling into the petals. Another hand—the golden-haired one—tipped a pitcher over her head. The sudden rush blurred her vision, flooded her nose with rosemary. Liseria coughed, blinking water from her lashes. "Hold still," the woman murmured, combing through her tangled hair with a bone pick. Each tug sent sparks down her scalp. Liseria gripped the edge of the tub, knuckles whitening. It wasn’t pain—just sensation, raw and unfamiliar. Like someone had peeled off a layer of armor she hadn’t known she wore.
Stepping out felt like being born. Air hit her bare skin, raising gooseflesh from her thighs to her collarbones. She stared at her hands—pink now, the calluses softened but still there. The brunette draped a plush linen towel over her shoulders. The fabric slithered against her damp back, finer than anything she’d touched since childhood. Liseria caught her reflection again in the gilt mirror: hollows under her eyes, yes, but the dirt was gone. Her hair, dark as wet oak, dripped onto her shoulders in loose waves. She didn’t recognize herself.
The stool was carved walnut, its cushions embroidered with tiny golden stags. She perched on the edge like it might bite. The blond handmaiden circled her, fingertips grazing her damp temple as she assessed angles. “Good bones,” she murmured, half to herself. Liseria stiffened when cold steel touched her neck—but it was just scissors, shearing off split ends with surgical precision. Hair fell in ribbons around the stool, each snip sounding louder than a sword strike.
Then came the brushes. Tortoiseshell handles flicked across her cheeks, dusting powder that smelled like crushed violets. Liseria sneezed twice, earning a tut. “Eyes shut,” ordered the brunette, swiping something slick and cool along her lids. It took every ounce of discipline not to flinch when kohl traced her waterline—the sensation like a spider’s legs skittering too close. Her lashes were next, pinched between two silver spoons dipped in sticky black paste. Blinking felt wrong afterward; every flutter dragged weight.
The crimson silk slithered over her head before she could protest. Cool as river water, slipping down her shoulders with a whisper. Liseria gasped—the neckline plunged like a dagger stroke, stopping just shy of indecent. Gold embroidery scraped against her nipples with every breath, the fabric clinging to dips and planes she’d never thought worth notice. “Modest,” the blond sniffed, adjusting the drape, but Liseria saw her own reflection and nearly choked. The dress didn’t hide her scars—it framed them. The old knife wound above her hip became a shadowed curve; the burn from a misfired arrow looked like gilded lace.
She turned sharply when the brunette produced a pot of rouge. “No.” The word rasped out raw. The handmaiden arched a brow but set it aside—only to replace it with a slim vial. “At least let me cover the bruises,” she murmured, swiping something bitter-smelling along Liseria’s knuckles. The yellowed marks from last week’s brawl vanished under careful strokes. Liseria stared. Was this magic? Alchemy? The women worked without explaining, painting her into someone else entirely.
The final touch was the shoes—slippers really, with soles so thin she could feel every seam in the flagstones. Liseria wobbled on the threshold, suddenly unsure which muscles to flex. Then the door swung wider, revealing the corridor beyond. And him.
Arterius stood framed in torchlight, his dress uniform clinging to every hard line like a second skin. The deep blue fabric drank the firelight, turning his shoulders into something carved from midnight. Silver braid traced the curve of his collarbones, Elyria’s silver stags gleaming with every shallow breath. The realization punched through her like a poorly blocked strike. a soft shadow of a stubble along his jaw, and that damnable scar above his brow, whiter now against the fresh flush creeping up his neck.
His arm extended toward her—not the stiff formality of a commander, but the loose bend of a man unsure if he’d be met halfway. Liseria stepped forward before thought caught up, her fingers sliding over the crook of his elbow. The wool was warm from his skin, the muscle beneath taut as a bowstring. She pressed closer than necessary, letting the scent of him—sage soap now, layered over that same sunbaked earthiness—fill her nose. His pulse jumped against her fingertips.
The Golden Hall loomed ahead, its arched windows bleeding torchlight onto the gravel path. Liseria’s slippers whispered against crushed quartz, each step sending shards of reflected fire skittering up the silk of her gown. Arterius slowed, his boots scuffing deliberately loud to cover the sound of her unsteady breaths. "They’ll stare," he muttered, thumb brushing the inside of her wrist where her pulse rabbited. "Let them."
Then the guards wrenched the doors wide, and the assault was immediate—roasted boar fat dripping onto applewood embers, the cloying swirl of honeyed mead, a hundred perfumes clotting the air like spoiled cream. Laughter ricocheted off vaulted ceilings, mingling with the shrill pluck of lute strings tuned too tight. Liseria’s nostrils flared. Somewhere beneath the decadence, she caught the iron tang of blood. Old, but present. Like they’d scrubbed the flagstones and missed a crack.
Every noble head turned in unison. Jewels flashed—rubies at throats, emeralds winking from belt buckles—as eyes raked over her. She saw the calculations unfold: the way matrons’ gazes snagged on her calloused knuckles, Arterius’ fingers tightened around hers, warm as a brand. “Breathe,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear over the din. She realized she’d been holding her breath when her ribs ached.
King Argon’s table loomed on the dais, draped in cloth-of-gold that shimmered like a mirage. The monarch lounged amid cushions, his grizzled beard threaded with silver cords, one meaty hand wrapped around a goblet large enough to drown a cat in. Arterius guided her up the shallow steps, his posture rigid—the perfect soldier—but his thumb traced slow circles against her wrist, a secret rebellion. Liseria lifted her chin, letting them see the scar above her brow, the way her shoulders didn’t buckle under silk.
The king’s gaze snagged on her like a hook in riverweed. He leaned forward, the scent of spiced wine rolling off him as his eyes—pale as glacier melt—flicked from her calloused grip on Arterius’ sleeve to the dagger-sharp line of her collarbones above the gown’s daring neckline. “Who’s this vision?” His voice was a landslide, gravel and inevitability.
Arterius’ jaw flexed. “This is Liseria, one of your auxiliary soldiers.” The words landed like a gauntlet. Murmurs erupted behind them—nobles who’d mistaken her for some exotic consort suddenly recoiling as if she’d drawn steel. A baroness dropped her fan, the ivory slats clattering against the dais steps. Liseria felt their reassessment like a blade dragged sideways over her ribs: just an auxiliary.
King Argon’s laugh boomed, shaking the ruby studs in his beard. “Very well, Liseria.” He raised his monstrous goblet, wine sloshing over the rim. “Enjoy yourself.” Arterius’ fingers twitched against hers, his pulse hammering where their wrists touched. The king turned, addressing the hall with a sweep of his arm. “Let the feast begin! May Elyria’s bounty continue to thrive.”
The musicians struck a slower tune—strings and drums weaving a tapestry of sound that drowned lingering whispers. Arterius released Liseria’s hand only to pivot sharply, blocking the stares of a gaggle of jeweled courtiers. His dress uniform brushed her bare arm as he leaned in, the scent of sage and warm wool enveloping her. Her gaze snapped to his—his pupils wide, swallowing the blue of his irises. He hesitated, then extended his palm. “Dance with me.”
She nearly refused. The steps were foreign, her body still thrumming with the urge to bolt. But his fingers curled around hers, tugging gently. Liseria stepped into him, her borrowed slippers sliding against polished marble. The moment her hands settled on his shoulders, she felt it—the suppressed tremor in his muscles, the way his breath hitched when her thumbs skimmed the silver braid at his collar.
The lute’s melody slowed, deepened. Something ancient and wordless. Around them, nobles swirled like gilded leaves in a storm, but their laughter faded into white noise. Arterius’ palm pressed flat against the small of her back, his grip just shy of painful. Liseria didn’t flinch. She met his stare—closer now, close enough to see the deep brown in his eyes, the way his pupils swallowed the torchlight when she tilted her head.
For a heartbeat, it was just the two of them. The hall’s marble floor could’ve been the training yard’s packed dirt. The silk clinging to her thighs might’ve been her old leathers. Even the scent of him—sage and steel—cut through the cloying perfumes like a blade through fog. His thumb traced the ridge of her knuckles, callus catching on silk. No one touched auxiliaries like this. Not unless they wanted broken fingers.
Then—unconsciously—their lips met. Liseria didn’t know who moved first. Maybe her, drawn by the way his breath hitched when she leaned in. Maybe him, unable to resist the challenge in her upturned chin. The kiss was nothing like the ballads—no soft sighs, no trembling hesitation. It was heat and teeth, the scrape of his stubble against her cheek, her fingers knotting in the silver braid at his nape to keep him close. Someone gasped. A goblet clattered to the floor. She didn’t care.
Arterius made a sound low in his throat, halfway between a growl and a surrender. His hands slid to her hips, dragging her flush against him. The embroidery on her dress scraped her skin raw, but she welcomed it—proof this wasn’t some fever dream spun from exhaustion. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she opened for him with a shudder, tasting honeyed wine and something darker beneath. His fingers dug into her flesh, branding her through the silk.
The musicians faltered—just a heartbeat—before rallying with a livelier tune. Liseria barely heard it. The world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the press of his chest against hers, the way his pulse thundered against her fingertips where they gripped his neck. Someone coughed pointedly. A woman tittered. Arterius broke the kiss but didn’t pull away, his breath ragged against her cheekbone. His thumb brushed her lower lip, smearing the rouge she’d refused earlier.
She expected shame to crash over her. Instead, something primal uncoiled in her gut. Let them stare. Let them whisper. His chambers—when he finally dragged her there—were decadence incarnate: wool rugs so her borrowed slippers sank, tapestries heavy with embroidered battles that seemed to move in the firelight. The hearth crackled, casting leaping shadows across the velvet-draped bed piled with furs. Scented candles drowned out the musk of leather and steel that usually clung to his quarters. It smelled like a woman’s touch. Liseria’s spine stiffened.
Arterius didn’t notice. His hands were already at the laces of her dress, fingers deft despite their trembling urgency. The silk slithered down her thighs, pooling around her ankles like spilled blood, leaving her bare save for the dagger-straight posture she couldn’t—wouldn’t—shed. He stepped back, armor clinking as he stripped off his own tunic in one fluid motion.
Then he was pressing her into the furs, his bare chest flush against hers, the heat of him searing through the cold shock of the sheets beneath. Liseria gasped—not from the weight of him, but the sudden intimacy of skin on skin. His scars were maps she traced with her fingertips: a jagged line along his ribs, the puckered knot of an arrow wound above his hip. Each one a story she hadn’t earned the right to know yet. His breath hitched when her nails grazed a fresh bruise along his flank.
She arched into him, her thighs bracketing his hips as he rolled against her. The friction burned—his hardening length dragging against her inner thigh, leaving a slick trail that made her shudder. His teeth scraped her collarbone, blunt and possessive, as his hands tangled in her hair, tugging just shy of pain. "Look at me," he growled against her pulse point. When she did, his eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want.
Liseria had seen men rut before—auxiliaries coupling hastily against supply sheds, nobles taking their pleasure with perfumed courtesans—but nothing had prepared her for the raw, unguarded hunger in Arterius' face. His breath hitched when she experimentally rocked her hips upward, her blunt nails scoring his shoulders as he groaned her name like a prayer. The sound shot straight to her core.
She'd imagined this moment a thousand times in the dark, but never like this—not with his teeth marking her throat, his hands trembling where they gripped her thighs. Every nerve felt flayed open, oversensitive to the drag of his calluses against her inner knee, the way his cock twitched against her stomach when she arched into him. No battlefield rush compared to this.
Arterius stilled suddenly, his palm cradling her jaw. "You're sure?" The question rasped out raw, his thumb tracing the swell of her lower lip. She saw the realization dawn in his eyes—her ragged breathing wasn't just arousal but the pulse-quickening fear of uncharted territory. Liseria bit down on his fingertip in answer, the sharpness making him hiss. His pupils swallowed the blue of her irises as he understood: she wanted him too.
The first breach was fire and salt—his cockhead catching against her entrance, the stretch blooming outward in slow, molten waves. Liseria's back arched off the furs, her gasp muffled against his shoulder where her teeth found purchase. Arterius groaned, his hips stuttering as her body resisted then yielded, drawing him deeper in increments that left them both shaking. Her thighs trembled around his waist, every inch of penetration rewriting her understanding of pleasure-pain until the lines blurred entirely.
He stilled, letting her adjust, his breath ragged against her damp temple. Below them, the sheet bore witness—a smeared crimson teardrop where their joining had torn something fragile. The scent of copper and sweat mingled with lavender oil still clinging to her skin. Arterius traced the sweat-slick hollow of her throat with his tongue, murmuring something unintelligible—maybe an oath, maybe her name—before pulling back just enough to meet her eyes.
Liseria saw it then: the moment he recognized her hunger wasn’t submission but challenge. His nostrils flared. Her thighs tightened around his hips in answer. He swore again, darker this time, and snapped forward—a single, brutal thrust that punched a sound from her chest, half-gasp, half-laugh. The friction burned divine, her nails carving crescent moons into his shoulders as he established a rhythm that stole coherent thought.
His pace was relentless now, each stroke dragging her higher toward some precipice she couldn’t name. The fur beneath them scratched her back raw, the pain only sharpening the pleasure coiling low in her belly. Arterius’ breath came in ragged bursts against her throat, his hips piston-fast, driving her deeper into the furs with every snap of his pelvis. She could feel him everywhere—the stretch of him inside her, the crush of his chest against her nipples, the scrape of his teeth along her collarbone—until the sensations blurred into a single, white-hot point.
Then he angled his thrusts differently, and Liseria saw stars. A strangled sound tore from her throat as something inside her shattered, pleasure ricocheting up her spine like a volley of arrows. Her thighs clamped around his waist instinctively, heels digging into the small of his back as if she could fuse them together. Arterius growled—a feral, triumphant noise—and redoubled his efforts, his cock hitting that same spot with brutal precision until she was gasping nonsense into his shoulder, her fingers tangled in his hair like a lifeline.
The climax crested slowly, then all at once. Liseria arched off the bed with a cry, her body seizing around him in pulsing waves that left her trembling. Arterius didn’t stop—couldn’t, judging by the desperate cant of his hips—his rhythm faltering only when her teeth sank into his pectoral. The sharp pain seemed to unravel him; his movements turned jagged, his breath coming in ragged bursts as he chased his own release.
When it hit, it was with a groan that vibrated through both their bodies. His fingers dug into her thighs hard enough to bruise, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself deep inside her. The heat of it was startling—not just the heat of him, but the way it seemed to radiate outward, pooling low in her belly like molten gold. His forehead dropped to hers, sweat-slick and trembling, as the last shudders wracked his frame. She could feel his pulse where they were still joined, racing against her own.
Then he collapsed beside her with a ragged exhale, his softening cock slipping free with a wet, obscene sound that made her cheeks burn. Liseria stared at the canopy above, her chest heaving as she tried to reconcile the aftershocks still sparking along her nerves. The sheets beneath them were a ruin—damp with sweat, streaked with blood and the pearly evidence of their coupling. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, mingling with lavender and sage until she couldn't separate where she ended and he began.
Arterius turned his head toward her, his temple pressed against the sweat-damp furs. His thumb traced the bite mark she'd left on his pectoral—a savage crescent already purpling—and his lips twitched in something too raw to be a smirk. "That was vigorous," he rasped, voice wrecked. She huffed a breathless laugh, rolling onto her side to face him fully. The movement pulled at muscles she hadn't known existed, a pleasant ache radiating from her thighs to the small of her back.
His palm settled on her ribcage, fingers splaying possessively over the soft swell of her waist. Liseria didn't hesitate—she shuffled closer, fitting herself against the furnace of his body with a shamelessness that should've startled her. Their legs tangled, her calf hooking over his in silent demand. Arterius exhaled sharply through his nose when her knee brushed the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, his cock giving a half-hearted twitch against her hip. "Insatiable," he muttered, but his arm tightened around her, pulling her flush against the damp planes of his chest.
The hearth's embers painted stripes across his torso—pale gold over the ridge of his collarbone, molten orange catching in the hollow of his throat. Liseria traced them with her fingers. His breath hitched when her teeth grazed a particular spot beneath his jaw, fingers tightening reflexively in her hair. She smirked against his skin. Even spent, his body remembered hers.
Moonlight carved Arterius into something sculptural—the sharp angle of his nose, the stubborn set of his chin. A bead of sweat trailed down his temple, catching in the scar above his brow. His chest rumbled beneath her cheek, his heartbeat slowing from its earlier frenzy but still thudding noticeably faster than when he slept. Proof she’d unsettled him. The knowledge warmed her more than the furs.
One large hand idly traced circles between her shoulder blades, calluses catching on silk-smooth skin still pebbled from sweat cooling in the night air. The other arm remained locked around her waist, fingers splayed possessively low on her hipbone. Liseria inhaled deeply—sage, salt, and something muskier now—and felt his ribs expand against her forehead. His thumb pressed into a bruise she hadn’t realized she’d earned, making her hiss. Arterius chuckled, the sound vibrating through her.
Without breaking their tangled embrace, he hooked a foot under the fur pile crumpled at the foot of the bed. The motion flexed his abdomen against her thigh, tendons standing stark as he dragged the heavy pelts upward in one smooth pull. Fox fur whispered over their legs, marten settling across their waist like a second skin. Liseria burrowed instinctively into the sudden warmth, her nose brushing his sternum. His breath hitched—not from cold.
"Sleep," he murmured into her sweat-damp hair. It wasn't a suggestion. His palm slid lower, spanning the dip of her spine, pressing her closer still. The gesture should've felt possessive. Instead, the steady pressure anchored her against the lingering tremors in her thighs. Somewhere beneath exhaustion, satisfaction hummed—she'd wrung this towering man into boneless surrender. The thought curled lazily behind her ribs as her eyelids grew leaden.
Their eyes fell closed, as silence began to fill the room, nothing, but the last crackles of the hearth. It’s dying light casting long shadows over them, mingling with the silvery glow of the moonlight peeking through.
