⚠️ NSFW Warning:This chapter contains explicit sexual content, rough dynamics, and emotionally charged intimacy that may not be suitable for all readers. Please proceed with care, especially if you're sensitive to themes involving power imbalance, desperation, or toxic emotional dependency.
Reader discretion is advised.18+ only.
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"Something's shifting," Evelyne said.
Her voice was low, calm on the surface, but there was tension underneath. She stood near the tall window of the estate chamber, arms folded tight across her chest. She wasn't cold, but she felt the pressure closing in.
She watched the courtyard below. Couriers moved quickly. Guards walked past without glancing up. No one lingered. No one made eye contact.
"There's talk in the East Wing," she said. "No one's calling me out, not directly. But the silence is different now. They stop talking when I enter. Eyes drop. Heads turn the other way."
Alaric stood on the other side of the room, his back to the fire. His coat was still on. Damp from travel. He hadn't even bothered to remove it.
"They're moving against us," Evelyne continued. "Not openly. Not yet. But they're preparing."
She turned to face him.
"You feel it too," she added. "Don't pretend you don't."
Alaric's jaw tightened. He didn't look up.
"We move first," he said.
His voice was even, but it didn't carry weight. Not like it used to.
"We don't wait for them to tighten the noose."
The fire behind him crackled but gave off little warmth. Smoke clung to the ceiling. The air in the room felt heavy, not just with tension, but with something unspoken. Like all the sharp edges they had ignored were suddenly exposed.
Evelyne walked slowly toward the fireplace.
"They're not afraid of you anymore," she said. "You used to walk into a room and people stood straighter. Now they whisper. They hesitate. You've lost control of the narrative."
Alaric finally looked up. His eyes were tired. Shadows clung to them.
"They can talk all they want," he said. "Let them posture. We're still in the game."
"You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."
She wasn't being cruel. She was being honest. And that honesty was the one thing they still had between them.
"Seraphina isn't guessing," Evelyne added. "She's executing a plan. She has Caelan on her side. She has people backing her now. She's not playing defense. She's aiming for something permanent."
Alaric took a breath and let it out slowly. He turned to face her fully.
"Then don't hand it to her."
That should have sounded confident. It didn't. His voice cracked slightly at the end. He was trying to hold himself steady, but she could see the cracks forming.
It was the first time in weeks that he looked vulnerable.
And she hated it.
She crossed the room in three quick steps. She grabbed him by the front of his coat and shoved him back against the stone mantel. The thud echoed once. He caught himself, one hand braced on the edge.
He didn't fight her. He didn't flinch.
His eyes met hers.
"You can't fall apart now," she said. "We lose everything if you do."
"I'm not falling apart," he said through his teeth. "I'm recalibrating."
She didn't say anything. She stared at him, breathing hard. Then she tore his coat off and threw it aside. Her mouth crashed into his. There was no warning. No lead-up. Just heat and anger and need.
It wasn't about love. It never had been.
It wasn't about comfort, either.
This was about control. About holding onto something when everything else felt like it was slipping away.
Her hands ripped at his shirt. Her nails dragged across his back, leaving thin red lines. She pulled him closer. She needed to feel something that didn't shift under her. Something solid.
His hands grabbed her thighs and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and leaned into him, pressing her mouth to his neck. Her breath hitched against his skin.
He didn't speak. He didn't ask. He just moved.
He walked them to the table and shoved everything off in one violent motion. Papers, glass, books, all scattered to the ground. He dropped her onto the surface and leaned over her, bracing himself on either side of her head.
She grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him in.
He didn't wait.
He thrust into her hard, and she gasped, her body arching against him.
"You think you're in control?" he asked, voice low, rough.
"Try me," she answered, barely able to catch her breath.
He moved again, faster. Her breath turned into a sharp cry. She clung to him, digging her nails into his arms, her teeth clenched as she tried to keep quiet.
The table creaked under them, unsteady but holding. Neither of them cared. There was no finesse, no careful rhythm. It was messy. Fast. Desperate.
She dragged her fingers down his back. He held her hips tight and slammed into her again.
When she came, her scream was sudden, raw, unfiltered. His name burst from her lips like a warning and a plea.
He followed seconds later, groaning against her shoulder. He didn't pull away. He stayed there, still inside her, still moving. Slower, but relentless.
She clenched around him again, more sensitive now. Her legs trembled but she didn't stop him. She didn't want to.
The second climax came quickly. Her breath hitched again as her body tensed. His mouth found her shoulder, and he bit down, trying to stay quiet. They shook together, their bodies slick with sweat, trembling from the force of it.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
He didn't stop. Not right away.
The third time was slower. Their bodies ached. Their energy was fading. They held onto each other with tired limbs and bruised skin. It wasn't about lust anymore. It was about not wanting to be left alone in the quiet.
Afterward, he collapsed against her. His head rested just below her collarbone. She could feel his heartbeat slowing, steady and real.
She didn't say anything. Neither did he.
His arms stayed around her.
Not in a romantic way. Not with promises.
He held her like someone trying to keep something from falling apart. Like she was the last thing keeping the world outside from coming in.
They stayed that way.
Time passed. They didn't count it.
Eventually, Evelyne shifted. She looked down at him.
His face was quiet. Soft in a way it never was around others. She had seen this look before. Always after. Always in the silence.
This was when the mask slipped.
This was when Alaric wasn't the Vessant heir. He wasn't the Duke. He wasn't even her co-conspirator.
He was just a man who didn't know how to hold onto anything without breaking it.
He looked up at her, eyes still glassy.
"Promise me," he said. His voice was hoarse. "You're not going to leave me behind."
She placed her hand on his chest. She felt the steady beat under her palm.
"I don't leave weapons behind," she said.
He didn't answer.
But his arms tightened around her.
Like he already knew that one day, she would.