Beatrice was already heading for the exit of the small hall. She didn't look back. She walked slowly, as if nothing special had happened—as if she hadn't just thrown down a challenge that could burn them both. Theodor stood behind her, unmoving. He was fighting.
Fighting himself. With every step Beatrice took, the tension in the air pulled tighter, like a drawn bowstring.
And just as she was almost at the door, he snapped.
Theodor crossed the space between them in two strides. Sharp. Silent. No warning. His hand closed around her wrist—not roughly, but with such strength that Beatrice felt her skin flare under his fingers. He pulled her to him, not letting her escape.
Close. Dangerously close. She barely had time to inhale before his voice was at her ear, low, ragged, almost a growl:
— You want to play, Beatrice? You want to see how much longer I can last?
His breath burned her skin. His fingers trembled on her wrist.
Beatrice froze. Her heart was pounding in her throat. Her stomach tightened at the sound of his voice.
Theodor ran his fingers along her cheek—slow, agonizingly gentle, sending a shiver down her spine. She could feel how tense his body was.
— Am I right about your intentions? Every muscle in him was shaking with the effort not to pull her closer, to give in.
And suddenly, he let her go. Just as abruptly as he'd grabbed her. He stepped back, drawing a rough, shaky breath. His eyes were a storm. But he was still holding on.
— Don't make me do this, he managed hoarsely, and turned away.
He started to walk off. And in that moment, Beatrice, her breath just returning, threw back at him—soft but clear—
— I'm afraid, Your Majesty, the next move will still be mine.
He stopped. Froze for a brief second, as if wrestling with himself. But he didn't turn around. Only his shoulders tensed, and his footsteps, as he walked away, sounded heavier.
Beatrice stayed where she was, her fingers trembling against her cheek, where his touch still burned. This wasn't going to plan. She'd thought she could hold out longer—drag the game out until he lost control. But the moment he touched her face, the moment she heard that broken voice at her ear, all the ice she'd worked so hard to keep just melted away.
She hurried down the corridor, not noticing the wind tangling her loose hair, or the surprised looks from the servants. Her blood was pounding in her temples. Her chest heaved with quick breaths. She couldn't wait any longer. She didn't want to.
She burst into her rooms, slammed the door shut, and rushed to the desk. Ink splattered the parchment as, with a shaking hand, she wrote: "I'll be at your door at midnight. Refuse me, and may you never know peace again, de Lancy!"
Her head spun, caught somewhere between laughter and rage. Just like that: reckless, bold, real. No fear, no titles, no pretending.
— Lynette!— she almost shouted.
Her lady-in-waiting rushed in, startled. But Beatrice was already holding out the folded note:
— Deliver this to His Majesty. In person. No questions.
Lynette nodded, pale with the weight of the moment, and hurried out. Beatrice exhaled. She turned to the mirror, only now seeing how flushed her cheeks were, how her fingers still trembled.
Lynette returned, bowed silently.
— Prepare me for the night, Beatrice said, leaning on the table, eyes on her own reflection. Her voice sounded strange—thick, hot. Lynette understood. Every bit of womanly instinct in her said not to ask.
Beatrice stood naked before the tall mirror while Lynette and Miren carefully rubbed her skin with fragrant oil, honey and white flowers.
Warm hands slid across her shoulders, arms, back, leaving a soft glow. Her skin was burning.
Her heart thudded so loud she thought it could be heard outside the walls. The dress for the night, a sheer silk the color of blushing roses, was already laid out. Translucent. Light as mist.
When Lynette gently settled the dress over her body, the fabric clung to her skin, outlining every curve. Beatrice ran her palm along her thigh and shivered. All or nothing. Tonight, or never.
She sat on the edge of the bed, watching the clock, and for the first time in a long time, felt like neither a Queen nor a grieving mother.
Just a woman, trembling with anticipation—and desire.
Midnight was close. And if Theodor opened the door, she knew she wouldn't stop.
When Lynette delivered the note, Theodor was in his study, lost in reports. He took the folded page without thinking, expecting another set of boring numbers. He unfolded it—and froze. Just a few lines. The handwriting messy, as if written in a hurry. And those words…
His fingers clenched the edge of the page. Everything else faded. Councils, business, wars—all gone. There was only her. And midnight.
He slowly set the note on the desk, staring into space. Part of him wanted to burn it, crush his own desire, remain what he'd always been—a king without weakness.
But another part, the one that had been silent for so long, strangled for so long, was pleading: Let yourself have her.
Theodor rose from his chair. Pulled the curtains closed, hiding from the world. Ran a hand through his hair, as if trying to rub away the tension—but it only grew.
The clock ticked in the quiet, mocking him. Three hours until midnight.
Three long, torturous hours, every minute spent wrestling himself. He didn't read reports. Didn't call for anyone. He just stood at the window, staring into the black night, counting his heartbeats,
waiting like a man condemned.
To refuse her now would be to condemn himself to emptiness. And this time, he didn't want emptiness. He wanted Beatrice.
The night was dark, starless, icy.
Drafts whispered down the long halls, torchlight flickered in high sconces.
Beatrice moved quickly but carefully, hugging her warm wool cloak to her shoulders. Underneath, the thin silk of her nightdress, almost weightless.
Without the cloak, she would have frozen after just a few steps.
The stone flags under her light shoes were cold as ice.
The very walls seemed to sweat with chill. Every step echoed dully in the silence. Her heart beat high in her throat.
Every turn of a corner felt like crossing an invisible border between her old life and something new.
When she reached his door, the cloak slipped from her shoulders.
She let it fall silently to the floor. No one else should see her like this. Only him. In the thin dress clinging to her body, she stood before the heavy door, as if the night itself had woven her from shadows and heat. Her fingers, trembling more from inner fire than cold, touched the wood. The door opened from within.
And there was Theodor.
He stood in the half-dark, leaning against the doorframe. His white shirt hung open at the chest, exposing part of a body forged by war and sword. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run his hands through it in impatience.
But Beatrice barely noticed any of that. Because the moment he saw her, he froze, staring. At Beatrice, in the thin nightdress that hid nothing. The fabric clung to her form, trembling with her breath. Drops of torchlight slid over her skin, as if touching her for him. And for a moment, Theodor forgot how to breathe.
She stepped forward. He didn't back away. He didn't say a word. He just watched her—as if trying to memorize her forever.
Beatrice lifted her hand, slowly, confidently, and traced her fingers along his exposed throat, down where the shirt opened to warm skin. His throat worked under her touch. And in the next second, he shut the door behind her. The thud of wood in the frame echoed through both their bodies, like a gunshot. There was no way back now.
He came closer, so close she could feel the heat of him.
With one motion, he caught her hand in his—tight, but not rough. Their fingers laced together.
Theodor bowed his head, his forehead resting against her temple—heavy, hot, trembling. And only then did he speak. Quiet. Hoarse.
— Last chance to walk away, Beatrice. Say the word and I'll let you go.
She looked up at him. And in her gaze was everything: hunger, challenge, absolute desire.
Beatrice shook her head.
— I didn't come here to leave.
And Theodor held back no longer. His lips found hers, hungry, rough, the kind of kiss you give after a long war. His arms slid around her, pulling her in. She answered him with the same intensity—not shy, not passive, but fierce, burning, greedy for him, as if this night was their whole world.