Silent Observer

He was already halfway to that hunger again. His mouth found her breast, warm and bare, and he suckled her with the languid contentment of a man who had no need to rush. His tongue rolled gently over the peak, then suckled harder, lips closing firmly around it until her back arched and her fingers pulled at his hair.

She giggled when he nipped softly. "You are the devil," she said with a gasp.

"The devil you love, little mouse," he replied, voice muffled against her skin, and then sucked harder, drawing a soft moan from her lips.

"Mmm… The king has grown terribly wanton since last night. What would your ministers say if they knew you’d deferred council to bed your wife?"

"I have missed you," he said, his nose brushing lightly over hers when he lifted his face up, breath warm and steady. It sounded less like a confession and more like something torn from him at last. "They will wait."

Y/n closed her eyes as he pressed his mouth to hers. She felt the rough edge of his beard against her chin and cheeks as he kissed her again. She loved the feel of him, even so. Between her thighs, her mouth, her tummy, her breasts… all sensitive to the rough brush of his beard from the way he'd devoured her the evening prior.

His fingers shifted at her waist, stroking the bare skin down to her thigh, then tracing upward again, along the plush of her bottom. She opened to him, the parting of her lips a subtle invitation. It was all he required. The restraint he’d worn gave way in a single breath, as if her acquiescence had unlatched something deep in him. The control he’d been clinging to gave way to his deeper urges.

He slid his hand from her hip to the small of her back to draw her closer until there was no room for air between them. She smoothed her fingers up from his chest to his shoulder, then into the warm hair at his nape, feeling the little shiver that went through him when she did.

"You are so beautiful," he breathed, kisses turning heated and rough. "I don't know that I'll ever have enough of you."

She gave a quiet moan and rolled her hips against him. His member, already fully risen, throbbed against the curve of her abdomen. It pleased her beyond words to know that he still desired her, that he still found her worth this kind of admiration, despite everything she'd done. There was no greater relief than to be taken by him, a man who craved her. However, part of her doubted she could reach that trembling peak again so soon. He had already coaxed two sobbing climaxes from her the night prior. It wouldn't be possible again, would it?

And yet, as the king's hand wandered downward and slipped between her thighs, she felt the unmistakable heat of readiness. His fingers found her slick and wanting, the wetness gathering on his knuckles. She gasped aloud, half in disbelief, her eyes lowering to witness it. Her body, it seemed, had made up its own mind.

She had been told such things were impossible. That the marital act was for the husband’s need and not the wife’s pleasure. She had been warned it would be painful, distasteful, that she would learn to lie still and let her husband have what he needed. That it shouldn't take very long and that she should endure if she wanted God to bless her with a child.

But none of that had been true. At least not for her. Not with Harry. For every time he touched her, she found herself slick and open, her quim aching for him, her heart thudding like a trapped bird. Her legs parted when he approached her. Her mouth watered for his kiss. When his body pressed against hers, she did not resist. She yielded because it always felt so good… from the first time he touched her before they were married, to right then.

She still had to come to terms with what she'd been led to believe. Because now, with a little bit of experience behind her, she found that she enjoyed the act more than almost anything else in the world.

He smoothed a hand up her back, over the line of her spine, and then down again, lingering at the curve of her waist as he smirked at her. "It seems the queen is also quite wanton."

He pressed two fingers inside of her, and she arched her back, breasts pressing his chest as she panted. "The court would lose their minds if they knew the way the Queen wetted her King's fingers. So ready for me, mouse. So soft and warm."

"Oh, Harry…"

He groaned at the sound of her. "Yes," he whispered, pressing his mouth to her breast as she gasped. "The court would faint dead away if they knew how their queen takes her king. If they heard the sounds you make when I’m inside you, filling you to the hilt."

He drew his fingers from her dripping entrance and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a sound of approval. Then, bracing himself, he rolled her gently onto her back and followed her down, his body covering hers, the mattress dipping beneath their joined weight.

"I need more of you," he said, voice low and roughened as he raked his gaze over her bare body underneath him. "I cannot resist the way you feel, the way you sound…" he dipped and kissed her chin and then her neck. "The way you taste."

He guided his thick cockhead to her opening, and her legs fell open wider, thighs parting to cradle his hips. She felt the broad, aching length of him press against her entrance, nudging, seeking. Then, with a slow thrust, he entered her.

Her eyes fluttered shut at the stretch, the deep, aching fullness. He pushed in until the whole of him was buried inside her, his hips flush against hers. Her body adjusted around him, snug and wet, muscles fluttering.

"Heaven above," he groaned, head tipping forward briefly, closing his eyes to savour the way her insides squeezed snugly around the whole length of him.

Her heart was filled to the brim by his praises as he pushed harder, the tip of his member carving through her end sharply until she hissed. The corner of his mouth twitched, the shadow of a smile there and then gone. His lips followed the line of her jaw, the hinge beneath her ear, the fragile, racing beat in her throat.

Her palms slid over the breadth of his back. He shivered, and the sound he made into the hollow of her throat was unguarded, almost boyish. She smiled at the way he reacted to just her touch, to the feel of his length encased by her.

"You undo me," he said.

"And you me," she answered, fingers tracing the scars and sinew.

She whimpered when he drew back and shoved forward, grasping at his back, nails pressing into his skin as he began to move. He withdrew, then thrust forward again, the rhythm careful but with purpose.

The friction sent sparks of pleasure darting through her spine. Her legs locked around his hips, keeping him close, deeper. He grunted softly at the feel of her tightening around him.

She opened her eyes to look up at him. His gaze already held hers, dark and intense as he drove into her.

"You are my heart, mouse," he whispered, lips brushing hers. "Do you know that?"

"Yes," she breathed.

The thrusts grew bolder. He found a rhythm with deep, rolling strokes that made her moan aloud, her back arching, hips rising to meet his. Each movement stoked the fire low in her belly. Their joined flesh was slick now, the sounds of it unholy, shameless, damp.

He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers above her head, pinning it gently to the pillow. With his free hand, he cupped her breast, thumb circling the peaked nipple, teasing it until she writhed beneath him. His mouth found her neck, her collarbone, her shoulder, lavishing kisses between gasps.

The wood that held the bed together groaned under the movement. The sheets twisted beneath them as Y/n's limbs began to tremble, her breath coming in uneven, pleading gasps. His thrusts were steady, deep, each one seeming to reach further inside her, rubbing against a spot that sent bright, helpless shocks up her spine.

Harry felt the tremor in her thighs and growled low in his throat. "That’s it… let me feel you melt for me."

He shifted his weight subtly, angling his hips until she gasped, her nails dragging down his back. The sensation only spurred him on. He pressed closer, chest flush with hers, his breath hot against her cheek as he drove into her with slow, merciless strokes.

Her breasts brushed his chest with each movement, then he pushed up, eyes lidded as he looked down at her, heavy cock stuffed into her deep before he dipped down, his mouth sought a nipple, lips closing greedily around the rise of it as he thrust. She curved into him, offering more, her fingers tangling in his hair to hold him there.

"Harry—oh—Harry, please—"

Her plea dissolved into a soft sob as he suckled harder, tongue circling the peak, pulling at her until her back bowed. Her hips lifted to meet him, the wet slide of their bodies distinct in the quiet room. Every stroke filled the air with soft, sinful sounds… his low grunts, her breathy cries, the slick joining of their flesh.

He lifted his head, beard scraping gently over the curve of her breast as he kissed upward, slow and indulgent, still driving into her in languid, thick motions, until he reached her throat. He mouthed at the racing pulse there, teeth grazing lightly.

"I want you undone beneath me," he murmured against her skin. "I want your legs shaking again… your voice gone hoarse… I want all of you, mouse."

He lifted and sat back, throbbing member still buried, spreading her insides as he pulled her thighs over his. He slid his hand over her breast downward to her trembling stomach, until his thumb found the tender, aching bud nestled between her folds. He circled it gently at first, drawing a startled cry from her lips. Then he pressed more firmly, stroking in time with his thrusts, every movement deliberate and devastating.

Her body jolted beneath him, hips jerking in helpless response. She was almost embarrassed by how quickly he could work her to her end that way. She reached for his hand, panting as her body began to uncoil under him. "N-no, I cannot—Harry, it is too soon—"

"Yes," he whispered, voice rough as he rocked in deep. "You can. As many times as your body wants. Open for me, my love, come for me."

Her head fell back, fingers gripping his hand with near-desperation as he rubbed her faster, the pleasure rising inside her so swiftly she could scarcely breathe. Each thrust drove the sensation higher, sharper, until she could do nothing but cling to him, legs shaking around his waist as the pressure built unbearably.

As good as he felt, what really had her unable to control her body was the way he looked above her, his hips thrusting, abs flexing, the line of sweat that dripped between the sparse hair on his pecs. Broad, thick chest, strong arms, soft pink lips held open as he trailed his jeweled green eyes from her face to her breasts, and down to the space he was filling her. He truly was every bit the vision of a king she could worship.

He moaned her name softly, the gushy sound of his girth sliding through her arousal only more noticeable with every stroke. He pulled at her hand and pressed it down to the bed as he leaned back over her, his pelvis hitting her clit. He kissed her open mouth, his tongue stroked hers languidly, contrasting the relentless rhythm of his hips.

Her thighs quivered violently around him, breath fractured, vision blurred. "Harry, oh! God, please—"

"That’s it," he groaned, mouth kissing at the edges of her lips as he circled his hips into her faster, firmer. "Let go for me. Let your king have you."

Her belly tightened, and her breath caught, then everything broke open inside her.

And when her climax came, it rushed through her like wildfire… an uncontrollable tide that tore her apart. She cried out beneath him, body clenching around his member, hips jerking. He grunted, hoarse and near wild, and thrust hard as his own release followed.

He spilled into her with a shudder, mouth pressed to hers, eyes shut as if the very sensation of it might undo him. His whole frame quaked, and for a long moment, he could do nothing but breathe and hold as he emptied himself inside of her in orgasmic throbs.

She could feel his hand still holding tight to hers, feel the way his arms shook, the way his heart pounded rapidly against her chest. He moaned a relieved sound against her cheek as he caught his breath.

He rolled them gently onto their sides, her leg draped over his hip, his twitching length still cradled inside her. The moisture between their legs was overwhelming. Just as it had been the night before. She was sure they were due for a bath.

They lay there, quiet, her fingers tangled in the damp curls at his nape. He kissed her brow, then her cheek, then the top of her head.

"That wasn't too much now, was it?" he asked softly.

She blinked at him and lifted her head to look at him. "I fear I've grown greedy for you. For the way it feels when we are together."

He smiled. "What is there to fear when the greed is born of love?"

She hummed, a hand sliding up to his shoulder. "I fear I will not have enough. That I will not be able to quell my urges for it. Like a boozer enslaved to his drink."

Running his nose along her cheek, he cradled the back of her head. "That does not sound like a bad predicament to me."

"But surely ignoring moderation is perilous. Covetous."

Harry puffed out the softest laugh, tracing a fingertip over her jaw. "Covetous... It is not abhorrent when it is your husband you are greedy for, mouse. I welcome my wife's gluttonous appetite."

She sighed and leaned in toward him, pressing her cheek to his clavicle. "I have never been so fulfilled in all my life. Clothing, food, comfort, warmth… It almost feels wrong."

Running a hand up her spine, he kissed the top of her head. "And you shall be fulfilled always. You are the queen of Thornekeep. You are my queen."

She lifted her head to kiss him, slow and sweet, then lay her head back upon his chest. His arm drew tight around her waist. It would take some getting used to, being called Queen. In moments like these, they were simply man and wife, tangled together in the aftermath of pleasure and reconciliation.

. .

The cold had settled in earnest by the time a week had passed, the kind of crisp winter cold that turned the breath visible and made teeth ache. Y/n drew her fur-lined cloak tighter as she stepped into the castle yard, Phoebe at her side, both of them bundled enough that the tips of their noses froze.

Behind them, Niall and another guard followed at the regulated distance. But Niall’s eyes kept darting toward Phoebe in that unmistakable way of a man trying not to be obvious. Y/n and Phoebe both noticed it.

She didn’t dignify it with so much as a glance. "He keeps looking at me," she muttered under her breath, cheeks warming despite the cold. The soft smile on Phoebe's lips told Y/n she liked that the guard kept letting his gaze drift over her.

"Because you keep kissing him," Y/n said, nudging at her friend playfully.

Phoebe exhaled a scandalized little laugh and then whispered, "Do not say it out loud!"

"Do not worry. No one can hear us, and your secret is safe with me."

Phoebe groaned and kept her sight tilted toward the hedges as she spoke quietly. "He is quite good at it."

Y/n’s laugh burst bright into the air. No one knew what she and her lady-in-waiting were on about but as Phoebe caught Niall's gaze briefly, and she watched his cheeks pink, there was a momentary look of knowing about him.

Phoebe tugged her arm. "Come, tell me everything about your nights with the king. It seems you have been quite occupied by him since you reconciled."

The queen smiled. "He's gentle and loving."

"What else?" Phoebe pushed.

"There's nothing else to say that wouldn't have you fainting in shock," she said with a laugh.

Phoebe let out a defeated breath. "You promised. I have been waiting the entire week while you’ve been floating about the castle like a love-struck lady in a poem."

Y/n pressed her gloved fingers to her warming cheek. "I am not floating."

"You are fluttering," Phoebe corrected. "Positively fluttering."

Y/n bit her lip, trying to smother the smile, but it pressed through anyway. "He has been… very generous and kind in bed."

"Kind," Phoebe repeated. "That is the word you choose?"

Y/n fixed her with a look. "We are not discussing particulars right here."

"Too bad. Look at you." Phoebe tugged her arm again. "You are glowing."

"And you’re being absurd."

Phoebe hummed. "Absurder things have happened than a Queen glowing after forgiveness and eight days of being thoroughly—"

"Phoebe!" Y/n laughed.

Phoebe only smirked, then leaned closer, voice lowering to something more thoughtful. "Truly… you do seem well again. Happier. I am glad of it."

Y/n’s breath misted in front of her. She looked out over the small orchard at the far end of the yard, bare branches scratching at the pale sky. "I am," she admitted softly. "It is much better to be on his good side."

Phoebe nudged her shoulder affectionately. "Then all is well."

They walked a little farther, letting the cold nip at their cheeks and the wind tug at their hoods. The silence between them was companionable until Phoebe’s voice broke it, light but sly.

"Have you had your courses yet this month?"

Y/n blinked. "My courses?"

Phoebe gave her a look. "I only ask because this month you have not yet summoned for any articles to help with it."

"Well…" Y/n frowned slightly. "I… think not."

Phoebe nodded solemnly. "And your last bleed was early last month?"

"I don’t know," Y/n insisted. "I lost my courses often before the wedding. Stress does that. And now, with everything that has happened—"

"Oh, heavens," Phoebe breathed, seizing her arm. "What if you are with child?"

Y/n felt her stomach swoop. "No, that is not certain—"

Phoebe laughed. "Maybe not, but you have been in that bed near every night since your wedding, save for the few when Harry was not speaking to you. Do not tell me you’re surprised."

Y/n went stiff. "We cannot think that."

"Well, what am I to think?" Phoebe teased. "I see you at breakfast looking half-dazed, hair undone, and the King walking about the castle with the air of a man who has been… greatly restored."

Y/n covered her face with her gloved hands. "This is mortifying."

"And wonderful if true," Phoebe corrected.

Y/n lowered her hands and exhaled, breath clouding in the air. "I do not know yet. Truly. It could be nothing."

Phoebe softened, looping her arm through Y/n’s. "Then we shall wait and see. But if you are…"

Y/n’s heart gave a hard, quiet pound. If she was… She pressed a hand to her middle without thinking. Phoebe noticed and smiled.

"Whatever comes, my Queen… you will not face it alone."

Y/n swallowed, eyes drifting toward the tallest tower where Harry’s study window looked out over the courtyard.

"No," she whispered. "I will not."

.

The warmth Y/n felt after the walk did not leave her, but it changed its structure as the day went on. By the time she returned to her chambers, there was a tight, humming awareness inside her that she couldn’t quite pinpoint.

Phoebe helped her out of her cloak and set it over the chair. "You’re quiet," she murmured.

Y/n brushed it off. "Just cold. And… perhaps I'm thinking too much."

But even as she said it, her hand drifted lightly toward her stomach again. She didn't know anything just yet, but the suggestion from Pheobe had wormed into her so deeply that she felt as though she could almost make out the stirring of something inside her.

The rest of the afternoon ticked by as slowly as time ever had. She tried to read but couldn’t. Tried to write down her thoughts, but forgot halfway through the first paragraph what she wanted to say.

Finally, Phoebe, ever astute, stepped closer.

"Ma’am," she said softly, "shall I send for the physician? Not to say anything for certain, only to… inquire."

Y/n hesitated. So many consequences hinged on her body now. On a clock she could not see. On a life she could not yet feel.

"Yes," she said. "Send for him. Quietly."

.

The old castle doctor, Dr. Holder, had recently been replaced by Dr. Alderton. He was an older man, mild of manner and much kinder than Dr. Holder, who'd kept insisting Y/n be checked for virginity before she wed the king. But Dr. Alderton had the air of someone who had seen every kind of worry a woman might have.

"Majesty," he greeted with a bow when he arrived. "How may I be of service?"

Phoebe stood by the door, hands clasped, silent but watchful. Hopeful.

Y/n kept her voice soft. "It is only that I have… missed a course. And I wish to know whether it signifies anything."

The physician nodded as if this was a question posed to him a hundred times a year, which it likely was. "May I ask when your last monthly bleeding occurred?" He stepped in closer, his examination bag still in his hand.

"The early days of last month," Y/n answered. "And before that, I was irregular. Often."

"Have you felt sickness upon waking? Lightness in the head? An ache in the lower back? Changes to appetite?"

Y/n bit the inside of her cheek. "No sickness," she said. "But I have felt… very tired the last few days."

"That is as common a sign of strain as it is of childbearing," he said gently. "And your recent ordeal in the square may have taxed your constitution."

She lowered her eyes. "Then there is no way to know yet? No exam to do?"

He shook his head. "No exam for now. There are signs I may watch for," he said. "But at this early stage, one cannot say with certainty. The body keeps its secrets until it no longer can. I would advise rest. Avoid undue exertion. And…" His voice softened. "Tell His Majesty. Should you be with child, caution is warranted."

Y/n nodded, folding her hands tightly together. "Thank you, Doctor."

He bowed and withdrew, leaving Phoebe and Y/n alone again.

Phoebe came closer, her face bright with soft hope. "Then we will wait and see. We shall not act prematurely. But I have a feeling, ma'am."

"No one knows. It is too soon," Y/n countered. "I might not be with child."

"But you might," Phoebe whispered.

Y/n’s stomach fluttered. She wasn't sure if it was from excitement or fear. "Yes," she admitted. "I… I might."

.

That evening, Harry entered as he always did. Like a man with the weight of work and duty on his mind, focused, composed. He removed his gloves and set them aside, loosening his collar, hanging his coat. Even still, he noticed her. He watched closely as he moved about.

"You’re quiet," he said as he approached. "All day, you’ve carried some thought. I could tell after supper. What is it?"

She stood near the fire, warming her hands as she looked at him while he wrestled his boots off his feet.

"I do not know how to say it… and there may be nothing to say," she answered.

"Y/n." His voice gentled. "Tell me."

She turned to him slowly. "I may be with child."

Harry went very still. Not a breath nor a blink. Only the soft flicker of concern in his expression, the slight parting of his lips as though he’d forgotten how to draw air.

He stepped across to her and took her hand in his. "May," he repeated, voice low. "May be?"

She nodded. "The physician cannot say yet. But I have missed a course. And I am… more tired than usual. And we have been—" She didn't let herself finish that sentence, but they were both more than aware of what she meant.

Harry lifted a hand to her cheek. "Are you unwell? Any pain? Any dizziness?"

"No," she whispered. "Nothing of concern."

Relief flashed through his eyes, and then worry. He pressed his palm over her cheek and traced her temple with his thumb. "If it is true… You must be careful. You must not walk alone. You must not—"

"Harry," she said softly, placing a hand on his chest. "We do not yet know."

"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know what losing you would do to me."

Her heart clenched. "You will not lose me."

He cupped her face fully now, warm palms framing her cheeks. "Tell me the moment you feel anything unusual. Any sickness, any weakness, any pain."

"If I do, I will," she promised.

He kept his gaze on hers. "And promise me you will be very careful. Even if you may not be, we cannot chance it."

"Yes. Of course. I know. I will not be sneaking into a crowd to stop anymore hangings if that is your worry."

He huffed. "If there is a child…" He swallowed hard. "It would be a great blessing."

Y/n felt her eyes warm. "I am unsettled but… excited. If it is true."

He kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the soft corner of her mouth.

"And I will be both as well," he whispered. "Until we know."

. .

Two weeks later, things were starting to feel different around her. It wasn’t drastic at first. Just a shift in how her mornings began. She'd become very aware of her body and every little thing that she felt, to the point that she was nearly convinced now that she was carrying the king's baby.

Y/n woke each day, for the past three, with the same subtle queasiness pooling low in her stomach, a shallow wave that rose and then ebbed. Not enough to bring her to her knees, but enough to make her press a hand to the mattress and breathe steady until the feeling passed.

Harry noticed before she'd even said a word. He sat down beside her on the bed, shirt open at the collar as he fastened his cufflinks. "Again?" he asked, voice gentle in the half-light.

"Only a little," she whispered.

He brushed his knuckles along her cheek, the gesture so tender it might've been the cure to the way her stomach turned. "Sit a moment longer. I’ll have Phoebe bring a little bread."

"You fuss," she teased softly.

"I have cause to fuss." He looked her over with the concern of a loving husband, but then his expression lifted… a quiet brightening.

This was something new in his demeanor that she had never seen in him before. Not the heavy protectiveness he’d shown in the days after the scaffold, nor the restrained warmth of their reconciliation. This was something lighter. She might even describe him as spry as of late. A new kind of spark that she was learning to understand as him being hopeful for what was to come.

He tried to hide it behind a composed air, but it slipped through anyway. She saw it in the way he lingered at the door before leaving each morning, in the quiet little smile he fought whenever she touched her stomach absentmindedly, in the way he handled her differently.

"It is the third day of sickness, mouse. I will call for Dr. Alderton again."

She laid her hand on his knee and nodded. "Okay. We will see if he can say with certainty, but I have a feeling it is still too early."

"Your courses still have not come, you wake sick in the mornings, and last night you were faint after tea. Even if it's too early, I will insist."

Harry kissed her forehead and made his leave. Not long after he'd gone, Phoebe arrived with bread and hot tea that both soothed and filled Y/n's insides warmly. But more than the tea and the bread, her friend's presence comforted her thoroughly.

Before midday, the physician arrived with his satchel and a respectful bow as Phoebe let him in the room. "Majesty. You look well," he said.

"Do I?" Y/n said as she moved across the room toward the doctor.

He gestured politely. "If you would sit, I shall ask you a few questions."

Phoebe stood nearby, trying not to beam but failing. She kept her hands clutched at her back and her mouth sealed, but Y/n could see the strain it took for her to keep her composure. It was almost as if Phoebe were more excited about the prospect of Y/n's disposition than even she was.

The examination was modest and brief. He checked her pulse. Asked about her appetite. Felt lightly along the low curve of her abdomen with no more pressure than a butterfly’s touch. Questioned her about her courses, her sleep, her morning spells.

When he finished, he stepped back with a small, warm smile. "It is early, Majesty," he said. "But all signs are consistent with childbearing."

Y/n felt her breath leave her, even though she already felt the delicate changes in her body and was certain of it by then. Still, to hear of it from the doctor felt very final. As exciting as the news was, it was equally scary.

The physician continued, gentle but firm. "You must rest often. Avoid sudden exertion, but take a bit of fresh air daily if you can manage it. Light but frequent meals are best. Steeped ginger for nausea and warm compresses if discomfort grows."

Y/n nodded, dazed. "Thank you."

When he left, Phoebe threw her arms around her with a giddy little squeak. This was something a lady-in-waiting should not do, but friendship outranked etiquette in the privacy of those chambers. Y/n welcomed her friend's cheer and love openly.

"Oh, ma’am," Phoebe breathed, "a child. You will give the king an heir."

Y/n held her, blinking against sudden hot tears. Her heart felt full and wild and terrified all at once.

"I suppose I will."

"Wait until His Majesty hears," Phoebe whispered. "He will be beside himself."

.

When the news found Harry, thanks to Phoebe, he felt faint in the head but overwhelmed with something deeper and more severe. He was excited yes, but this meant that he would have to ensure his Queen's protection even more now than ever. Not only was childbearing already a very dangerous thing to endure, if she was not given the proper care she could succumb and his chances of losing her were greater now than they ever had been.

Harry returned early that evening, which was a rare thing. He entered the room with a pace too swift to be casual and crossed to her where she sat.

"Phoebe sent word," he said. "Tell me."

Y/n rose from the settee slowly. "He believes I am with child."

For a moment, Harry stared at her like a man whose entire world had shifted at once. Her husband, the king of Thornekeep, was visibly shaken.

Then he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her mouth so softly and breathlessly that Y/n could feel every emotion he held inside.

He pulled back only enough to look into her eyes. "Are you well? Any pain now? Any dizziness?"

"No," she whispered. "Just… a little tired and sick in the mornings, as you know."

He exhaled deeply and rested his brow against hers. "I have never prayed for anything," he murmured, voice breaking quietly. "But I pray that you are kept well and healthy. I will do everything I can to ensure it."

Her heart pulled tight in her chest.

"Hush," she whispered, kissing his cheek. "Once again you fuss. Everything is okay right now."

"We will make it well," he said fiercely, quietly, as though vowing it against the entire world. "I will double the guard again. No stranger comes within ten paces of you. You do not walk alone, not even in the garden. I will have Niall stay with you as well as the—"

"Harry—"

He shook his head. "I will not risk you. Not now. Not ever."

She let him hold her, feeling his joy radiate through the tension and fear that lived side by side in him. He rested a hand over her stomach and smiled at her.

"We will endure this together," he whispered.

Then he swallowed and his shoulders loosened just slightly before he continued. "I am so very happy, my love. This news changes our course forever, but I am ready for it."

Her eyes stung as she nodded at him and then wrapped her arms around his middle, pressing her cheek to his chest. She felt the same. The news was joyous, but unsettling at once. She closed her eyes and said a quiet prayer of thanks to God.

.

The castle did not know, not officially. But rumors had a tendency to spread all on their own in Thornekeep. Maids and servants were always watching, listening, paying too much attention to things they shouldn't when their days grew long and boring.

By the week following, whispers moved through the corridors like drafts. She heard bits and pieces. Some were happy of the news, others were not.

Doctor Alderton was with her near an hour… If she gives him a child, the realm is lost. What joyful news!

And that afternoon, Y/n did not mean to overhear the men when she neared the upper-floor chamber with Niall at her back. Normally the doors were closed for privacy in the old solar when anyone gathered inside, but right then, the doors were open when she caught the tail end of a hushed conversation that came from the room.

"…and if she gives him an heir, the king will be undone."

Y/n paused, not turning to look back at Niall as she listened closer.

"There are those who won’t allow it."

She took a breath and then continued toward the keep to view the kingdom from the topmost floor, as had been her intention before she heard them. The men fell silent as she passed, unaware she’d heard a word. But ice slid from her spine to her ribs.

Niall noticed her falter. "Majesty, are you okay?"

She straightened at once. "It is nothing."

But it was not nothing. The words had her rattled. She'd barely fallen pregnant, and men were already plotting her unborn child's demise.

She kept walking, every step echoing with the words she could not unhear.

If she gives him a child, the realm is lost… There are those who won’t allow it.

.

It had become the new routine for the king to retire to his chambers early every night, no matter how much work he had to attend to . There was no question to his men why he insisted on making his leave like that, and to Harry it was the only thing that made sense. While he trusted the guards he'd placed at the door to protect her, he preferred to see to it himself, with his own eyes, that she was okay.

And like every evening since he'd learned of the doctor's report, he had been doting with gentle hands at the small of her back, asking her more than once how she was feeling, offering to bring her fruit, and arranging extra pillows without being asked. But now, as she sat on the edge of the bed smoothing her nightgown over her knees, he watched her with a careful look.

"You’re quiet," he said at last. His voice held only concern threaded with exhaustion. "More than before. Something sits upon you."

"It is nothing," she said, drawing the covers back.

Harry exhaled a soft breath at the idea of her suffering alone. He crossed the room, extinguished the last lamp, and climbed into bed beside her. The feather mattress dipped under his weight, and then his hand found hers beneath the blankets.

"Mouse," he said quietly. "I know when you keep something from me. Please tell me."

She shook her head. "It will only trouble you. It is not a matter of urgency."

He shifted, pressing closer. "Then you must speak it all the more. Trouble me, if that is what truth requires."

His insistence dissolved the last of her resistance. She couldn't hide things from him, especially when worry was written all over her face like that. Truly, she hadn't wanted to repeat the words she'd heard earlier in the day, mostly because she didn't want to think of it. But she couldn't get the voices out of her head no matter how hard she tried to push them away.

"I heard something today," she said. "Voices in the old solar. Men speaking about me."

Harry's brows pulled together as he shifted, eyes focused on her face as she spoke.

She continued. "They said… if I give you an heir, the realm will be lost. And that there are people who won’t allow it."

Harry was silent for a long moment as he let her words sink in. His hand tightened around hers in a bristling, controlled fury she could feel in the tremor of his breath. He worked his jaw and his breaths slowly grew more rapid.

"Who?" he asked, voice low and angry.

"I don’t know," she said quickly. "But Niall was with me and he should know who stood in that chamber."

Harry sat up, only a little, but the movement was taut. He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw hardening, grinding, the undaunted king rising in him like heat from a flame that'd been freshly stoked.

Y/n reached for him at once, pressing her palm to his chest. "Harry," she said, "do not let fear take you. I am protected. I am safe."

He looked down at her. His eyes were fierce, shadowed, and aching with something almost violent. And then, with solemn slowness, he lifted the edge of her nightgown. His hand slipped beneath the linen and rested warm and secure over her lower belly where their baby would soon grow.

Harry bowed his head, lips brushing her temple as he murmured, "You and this child—" He paused and swallowed, tracing a thumb over her skin as he spoke. "I will guard you myself if I must. I will not allow any hand, any threat, any whisper to come near either of you."

"You are acting as if these men could reach me. All these guards, Phoebe, you… It is not possible for harm to come." Even as the words left her, she didn't know that she truly believed it herself, but she needed to calm her husband so that he didn't work himself into a dither.

"No." His tone was quiet and absolute. "Listen to me. There is no one in this world… no crown, no realm, no council more important to me than you. And now this small life we may have made." His fingers stroked lightly over her skin. "If anyone wishes you harm, they will not leave these walls alive. I swear that upon my name."

She felt tears sting her eyes. "You are frightening when you speak so."

"You are everything I fear losing," he answered simply.

She pressed her hand over his, fingers threading with his own over the gentle curve of her abdomen. "We will be cautious. We will be careful. But do not become consumed by this because I need peace, husband. Promise me that much."

His breath eased and after a long moment, he nodded and settled back beside her, gathering her into his arms without releasing her stomach from beneath his palm. She curled into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against her cheek.

They lay quietly, entwined, held safe against the dark as snow began to whisper at the windowpanes. Neither could predict the future, but Harry would see to it that his wife remained unharmed.

Harry kissed the top of her head. "Sleep, my mouse," he whispered softly. "I have you."

"And I you," she whispered back, eyes closing as she brushed her palm over his chest, adoring how warm and solid he was. She'd never felt so safe and loved as she did when she was in his arms that way.

His hand stayed over her womb as their breathing steadied into the same rhythm, their bodies pressed close, their fears and their joy folded into one shared warmth. And as the fire sank to embers, Y/n let herself rest against him, despite the realm outside their chamber doors already whispering of the heir who might change everything.

. .

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He came to bed late now, long after she had turned to her side and feigned sleep, though she would always stir when he slipped beneath the covers. He no longer reached for her. The mattress dipped, the blankets shifted, and that was all. At dawn, she would wake to the careful step of boots on the floor before hearing the latch of the door closing as he left her alone. Her husband had become a ghost that haunted the edges of her life.

Once again, that morning, she found herself alone in the breakfast room, the fire kept dutifully bright by servants. The table had been laid for two, but only one plate was disturbed. A thin curl of steam rose from the second teacup, untouched. She stirred her tea slowly, watching the small whirlpool sink into the porcelain.

When he finally entered, he looked every inch the King. He wore a black doublet, the collar starched, and the kind of composure that could cut stone. He nodded in greeting, eyes flicking past her as though she were another figure in the room.

“You’ve an early council?” she asked, voice quiet.

“A long one,” he said, taking the far seat. His tone was mild, careful.

She nodded and cut her bread, though she had no appetite. “Will you dine here this evening?”

“I do not yet know.”

For the last few days it had been I do not yet know. The phrase had become a wall.

She tried again, softer. “I thought perhaps we might speak—”

“I will be late,” he said, reaching for his gloves. “Do not wait up.”

Her knife slipped against the plate and made a small, sharp sound. “I rarely have the chance,” she whispered.

If he heard, he gave no sign as he rose, smoothed the cuff of his sleeve, and inclined his head as if she were a visiting dignitary rather than his wife. “Majesty.”

“Majesty,” she echoed, her mouth dry.

When he left, the room seemed to open up again, and she could breathe. She sat there for a long time, staring at the space he had vacated. Was what she'd done so bad that he could not even speak to her now? She bit down the dread and restlessness in her and stood from her chair to take a walk through the garden and clear her mind.

She knew the paths in the yard well by now and appreciated the cold breeze at her cheeks that served as the tiniest distraction from her inner turmoil. The sky was gray with the threat of rain, and the tidy shrubs smelled of damp earth. Her second guard followed at a respectful distance, a new addition since the square incident. The sound of his boots behind her reminded her with every step that she was never truly alone.

She paused near the fountain, watching the water shiver under the wind. How strange it felt to be a queen and still so small in her own life. She had stopped a hanging, and yet she could not summon a husband’s gaze.

A voice broke through her thoughts. “Majesty?”

It was Niall. He stood a few paces back, helm tucked under one arm with an unreadable expression. “Would you like the carriage brought round? The clouds are turning.”

“No,” she said. “I prefer the walk.”

He hesitated. “As you wish.”

Y/n drew her cloak tighter and kept walking. The roses had begun to die back for winter, their scent gone faint and sour. She thought of the people who had stood in the square, of the voices that had risen around her. Some in awe, some in anger. She wondered how many of them still cursed her name.

At the end of the garden path stood the west corridor, its tall windows fogged with condensation. She pressed her palm against the glass and watched her print form before she turned in time to see Harry crossing the courtyard, cloak snapping in the wind. Even from her distance, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he moved like a man walking through invisible chains.

She almost called out. But instead, she watched until he disappeared through the outer arch, swallowed by gray daylight.

When the rain had come she returned to her room and took tea alone. The servants lit the fire and then withdrew. Her book lay open on the table beside her, unread. She was too anxious to read it.

She traced the rim of her cup with a finger and thought of his hands… the hands that had trembled when he spoke of losing her, that had once reached across the dark for her. She had thought mercy would make him proud of her. Instead, it had driven him from her.

Y/n had never imagined that she would feel this way about a man she once held in such bitter contempt. At one time, she thought of him as a vile man and hoped she would not often have to be around him. She thought that their marriage would be for show and that she would only have to attend her duties when called, and that would've been fine with her. But now? She wanted more of him than that now that she'd learned who he really was under his fine dress. He wasn't just a cold and rotten man like everyone said. He had a heart, and he'd been warm toward her. He'd protected her and looked at her like she was a special gift.

Clutching a hand to her heart, she frowned. It would have been so much easier if she still thought him an awful devil. It would have been easier if he hadn't been so tender and loving with her. Her world no longer felt steadfast. She wasn't sure it ever would again.

.

The rain was still falling after noon time, a fine, needling drizzle that turned the flagstones slick as the chilled air froze the dampness. Y/n walked through the West Wing of the castle with a purpose she did not entirely possess, the hem of her gown lifted just enough to keep from tripping, her new guard and Niall both keeping pace a few steps behind.

“Captain,” she said without turning, “where is His Majesty?”

Niall did not pretend to misunderstand. “The south gallery, Majesty. With the factors from the river wharves.” He hesitated, then added, “A light sitting, ledgers and tariffs.”

“Thank you,” she said, and reached the end of the corridor with a hand already out for the latch, her mind made up. The Ledgers could bear interruption. She could no longer wait for her husband to speak to her. She needed him to cede his thoughts to her at once. The silence was no longer tolerable.

The south gallery had been built to allow for as much sunlight as possible with soaring windows and high ceilings. It was a long room paneled in pale oak, the carved heads of past kings peering down from the cornices.

When she entered, she observed that a small table had been pulled to the center, and around it stood four men in plain coats with ledgers open, their hats held respectfully against their chests. Harry was there at the head of the table, sleeves turned back just enough to keep ink from his cuffs, his hair still carrying a trace of rain as if he'd only just gotten to the meeting moments before she arrived.

He saw her almost at once, though his face did not change. The others in the room turned toward her like weathervanes, bowing in a dutiful ripple.

“Majesty,” a few murmured.

Y/n stepped into the room with her head high and her hands steady at her sides, even though she felt like falling to her knees in tears. “Forgive me,” she said. “I require a word.”

Harry set his pen aside. “Gentlemen, we will adjourn.”

The factors retreated quickly, passing her by with stiff bows before leaving Harry and Y/n alone together in the room.

He remained where he stood, as if there were a drawn line between them, with his hands clasped behind him, the picture of composure. “What is it you require?” he asked. “Be brief.”

“I require my husband,” she said, before she lost her nerve. “The one who used to speak to me.”

“I have spoken.”

“As a king to a petitioner,” she returned, and the edge beneath her composure showed as her heart raced. “I am not your petitioner. I am your wife.”

His gaze flicked to the windows and back, as if it were a heavy thing to receive her words directly. "Perhaps petitioners are safer."

Her pulse jumped. “Safe is not the same as silent. You have been avoiding me.”

“I have been occupied.”

“With what? The ledgers? Those men who just left us?” She took a breath and steadied herself. “You have not looked at me. You have not touched me. You lie yourself in our bed as if the whole length of it were a ditch between us. What sin is it you find so great that you must treat me as nothing?”

He took up the pen and set it down again. “The sin,” he said, and the word was dry as paper, “is not unknown to you.”

“I know what I did and what I meant to do,” she said. “I meant to act for mercy.”

“Then we have very different definitions of mercy.” He moved toward the window.

The rain outside thickened, pattering against the glass as if it could feel the tension rising within the room. Y/n’s fingers knotted together. “Harry, please look at me.”

He slowly lifted his gaze. And in his look was something colder than anger…disappointment, and restraint. “You put yourself before a crowd when I told you not to. You made me a spectacle. I cannot discuss that here.”

“Why not? You discuss tariffs and taxes here—”

He cut her off. “Because tariffs do not seek approval of the public in defiance of me."

The words struck her hard. She swallowed and felt her throat tighten. “Then tell me when you will speak to me, so that I may prepare myself for being scolded like a child.”

He stepped from the window to the table, collecting the dropped quill, setting it neatly beside the inkstand. Everything he touched seemed to quiet beneath his hand. Part of her wished he'd throw the inkpot and make a scene just so he would finally talk.

“Not here,” he said.

She blinked. “Pardon?”

He looked up fully this time. “Not here, Y/n. Not while the walls have ears.”

“When, then?”

He briefly closed his eyes and took a breath, like she was a boil he could not get rid of. Like it took strength for him to speak to her at all in that moment. Like the very notion of having to converse with her was a torture he didn't wish to endure. “Tonight.”

“Tonight,” she repeated, hearing the warning beneath it. “Very well.”

He inclined his head in something like a bow, polite to the point of cruelty. “Very well.”

She hesitated. The air between them thin and almost breakable. “Harry…”

He stopped halfway to the door.

“I am still the same woman,” she said softly. “The one you held that morning.”

He turned just enough for her to see the muscle move in his jaw. “That morning,” he said, “I thought you knew better. I was mistaken in how naive you really are, and that is my error.”

Then he was gone.

She stood long enough to hear the muted rhythm of rain against the windows as it softened and slowed again. She had a new understanding now of Harry's anger. He felt that she'd defied him directly, even though that had not been her purpose. Had she truly been so naive?

When she stepped out of the room, Niall was there at his post, and he straightened.

“Majesty.”

“Captain.” She kept her chin high, though her voice was thin. “I will return to my chambers now.”

He nodded. “As you wish.”

She started down the hall, her guards behind her. The opulent corridors and rooms that wound through the castle had seemed to have lost their luster as her mind repeated the encounter with the king. She wondered to herself if she had known that he would be so displeased, would she still have gone through with her actions? She thought she had done a good thing, something that would show the people of the kingdom that Harry was a King with mercy in his heart and that the Queen was no milksop.

Y/n was beginning to realize that even with good intentions, her husband saw her deeds as ignorant and haughty. Perhaps she still had much to learn.

.

Y/n tried to read but couldn't keep to a line. The same sentence slid past her three times without taking. She shut the book and sat it on her knees. The chamber was tidy and warm, but she couldn't help but feel the atmosphere around her threatening and oppressive… waiting for the evening to fall.

Phoebe folded a length of fresh linen with neat corners at the table. She watched her friend closely, seeing that she had something on her mind. "You may speak freely with me if you wish, ma'am."

The queen shifted her gaze to Phoebe as if she needed a moment to decide how to say what she needed. Because Y/n did want to speak to her friend about her troubles. She didn't have many she could do that with.

“I cannot bear this quiet,” Y/n said at last.

Phoebe set the linen aside. “Shall I open a shutter?”

“No,” she answered. “It is not the room.” She rubbed at the bridge of her nose and lowered her hands with a sigh. “It is me. It is the king.”

Phoebe paused her hands, setting her full attention on Y/n now. “What troubles you?”

“He has not spoken to me properly since the square,” Y/n said. “Not really. He is… polite to me the way one is to a stranger brought to dinner. He comes to bed late, he leaves early, and when he looks in my direction, he looks past me, as if I were air. I thought if I did the right thing, he would be proud. I thought he would see me and think, there is my wife, brave and kind.” She tried to laugh but could not. “Instead, I have turned into a nuisance and an ignoramus.”

Phoebe’s expression softened with sympathy. “I believe you frightened him,” she said gently. “You frightened me as well. I was truly worried for you. Some whispered that you'd be charged with treason.”

Y/n blinked at Phoebe. "Treason? I had not thought…" She shook her head, fighting the sting of tears. "I did not mean to frighten anyone. Forgive me, Phoebe."

"You need not ask forgiveness from me. I know your heart and I know you did what you thought you had to. You are too good for the people of this kingdom. Your mercifulness did not go unnoticed by me, but that does not mean others think highly of your actions."

Y/n stared into the fire. “I went to him to talk earlier, and he told me we would speak tonight. He said it as if he meant to put the whole matter on a table and cut it open at once.” She set the book aside and pressed her palms to her skirts to stop the restless movement of her legs. “I have never wanted a thing and dreaded it in the same breath as much as I do to finally hear what he means to say to me."

Phoebe nodded. “He may be incensed right now, but soon he will soften again. If I can see your heart in this, then I believe he can as well. You are too precious to him. His silence is temporary. I cannot fathom that he will remain so cold for much longer.”

Y/n glanced up at her and gave a rueful smile. “I do hope that he speaks to me his mind tonight. I would rather a spar than another day of his silence.”

“A spar? My Queen, so dramatic!” Phoebe said with a laugh, and for a moment, they both smiled like the girls they had been. "You know as well as I do that he would not lay a finger on you in that way. You are his little mouse. That has not changed."

The small ease broke, and Y/n’s thoughts returned to the square. The rope. The faces. The sound she had made when she said stop. “I feel as though I've made a grave error. He said I was naive, and I believe he is right. I do not know what I am doing anymore."

Phoebe nodded. “You will learn. Your queenship is in its infancy. You've barely just wed the king."

“Then we should be acting as such. I feel I've hardly had a chance to learn him and he already hates me."

“He does not hate you,” Phoebe said, “he is a man and you have threatened his pride by going against his word.” She lifted a brow. “Tonight you two will make amends and tomorrow I'll find you aglow and at ease after a little…" She glanced toward the door and then leaned in, speaking quietly, "blanket hornipipe.”

Y/n breathed out a laugh. “Blanket horn—… Phoebe!” She covered her mouth, scandalized.

The girls both laughed as Phoebe then sat beside her on the small settee and took Y/n's hand. “May I say a thing you will not like?”

“You must.”

“I was not only frightened for you,” she said. “I was frightened for myself as well. The consequences.”

Y/n turned to her at once. “I know. I am sorry.” The apology came quickly. “I made you help me, and I should not have.”

“You did not make me,” Phoebe said. “You asked, and I chose. But I chose with my heart beating out of time. And after—” She stopped, swallowed, and finished in a steadier tone. “After, I was taken to task.”

Y/n stilled. “By whom?”

“The steward and the Master of Household.” She made a small face. “The steward said I had let your friendship turn my head. The Master said I had forgotten my place. He told me to remember my mother’s wages and my father’s back. He was very grand about it.”

A hot, helpless anger pricked behind Y/n’s eyes. “He will regret saying such things to you when it was my fault,” she said, low.

“It is done. Words do not draw blood unless we let them.” She hesitated. “But there was worse.”

Y/n steadied herself. “Tell me.”

“Captain Niall was nearly dismissed.”

The words landed plain and heavy. Y/n blinked. “Dismissed,” she repeated.

“He left his post at your request,” Phoebe said. “It does not matter that I opened the service door. He should have stopped me. He should have barred you. That is what they said. He went before the Master of the Guard and was told to pack his things.” She paused, studying Y/n’s face. “The King intervened. He was firm with the Master. He said the fault was shared and the Captain would remain. The Master did not like it, but he obeyed.”

Y/n set a hand to the edge of the chair as if the room had moved. “He did that?" She could hardly believe Harry had stepped in for Niall that way. "If the king had not spoken—”

“Then Niall would be on the road by now,” Phoebe said. “With no post and no hope of one in Thornekeep again.”

The quiet that followed did not feel like the earlier quiet. It had flesh and weight, and it sat between them like a third person. Y/n found she could not trust her voice for a moment. She swallowed and tried again. “I did not see the price. I did not even look at the purse. I've been a fool.”

Phoebe folded her hands. “You looked at the rope,” she said simply. “You sought mercy, but you did not look at the steps that led to it.”

Y/n bowed her head, then lifted it. “Are you angry with me?”

Phoebe considered. “Never,” she said. “Then I was frightened for you. I am no longer frightened, but I am tired.” She offered a small, crooked smile. “And I do not like being scolded by men who think a small title and a key ring makes them kings.”

Y/n reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Nor do I.” She drew breath and let it out slowly. “Did Harry scold you?”

“Not as the others did,” Phoebe said. “He told me if I ever kept you from the guard’s side again, he would see me sent to my mother with a letter that called me a fool. He said it kindly and made it sound like a mercy. Then he told the steward to keep his voice out of my face or he would be removed from his post.”

Y/n pressed her fingers to her mouth, a sound barely escaping, like a laugh with no joy in it. “He frightens and protects in the same breath.”

“He does,” Phoebe said. “But hear me, please.” She held Y/n’s gaze. “He spared us because you are his wife and he adores you.”

Y/n did not smile or gush at that. Her expression went still. The truth did not warm her, rather, it sobered her. “Then my mercy rode on his favor,” she said. “If he did not feel so kindly toward me, others would have paid, and if treason were on the table as you said, then I with my life."

Phoebe’s hand tightened on hers. “Ma'am—”

“No,” Y/n said. “Let me say it.” She stared down at their hands, hers jeweled, Phoebe’s plain, and felt the difference like a lesson. “I would have stopped the hangings again if given another moment. I would. I still believe it was the right thing. But I would not have done it that way. Not through a side door and a lie. Not with you between me and the scolding. Not with Niall’s post set on the table like a coin.”

Phoebe nodded. “Then you have learned the castle’s sums.”

Y/n gave a small huff that was not quite a laugh. “A little late.” She lifted her head. “I am sorry, Phoebe.”

“You do not owe me that.”

“I do,” Y/n said. “Friend to friend, I do.”

Phoebe’s eyes shone with the relief of being seen. “Then I take it.”

Y/n now had awareness and new insight to bring with her that evening. She was grateful for Phoebe's honesty, but also mortified by it. It seemed she had many people to apologize to. Her own husband included.

“Will you tell him all of this?” Phoebe asked.

“Yes,” Y/n said. “I will not go to him with excuses. I will go with sense.” She looked across the room to the mantel. “He will be stern. He will be right to be.”

Phoebe rose and went to the press. “Shall I lay out a gown for dinner?”

“No,” Y/n said. “I will sit with my family tonight. It will steady me.” She smoothed her skirts again, then let her hands be still. “I will go as I am.”

Y/n stood and paced the short stretch between the hearth and the window and back again. “I thought mercy would make him proud."

“He sees your intention,” Phoebe said, “even if ill-timed and hasty.”

Y/n nodded and said, “My mercy endangered everyone.”

Phoebe did not argue with the sentence. She set a hand to Y/n’s sleeve and smoothed it. “It also saved two lives,” she said. “Both truths can stand.”

Y/n met her eyes. “Both will stand,” she said. “And I will stand between them without playing at heroics.” She tipped her head, a small, steady gratitude. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For telling me the whole of it.”

Phoebe’s mouth softened. “Always.”

Y/n crossed to the basin to wash her hands. “Leave me for a little,” she said gently. “I will gather myself and then I will go to dinner. You may take the evening as you see fit."

Phoebe curtsied as she always did, but it ended in a squeeze of Y/n’s fingers the way only a friend might dare. “First, I’ll send for your family’s room to be set and keep a place for you.”

“Thank you,” Y/n said.

Phoebe smiled. “Majesty?”

“Yes?”

“Whatever he says tonight, let him say it. And if he is sharp, do not be sharp back. Let him see you are not his enemy.”

“I am not,” Y/n said. “I never was.”

“I know. So does he.”

When the door closed, the chamber’s quiet returned, but it no longer crowded her. Y/n stood for a while watching out the window, considering what she would say and what she would not. She had made a choice in the square, and she would make a better one in their room tonight. But before that, she would take her place at her family’s table, and remember who she had been before, and the sound of people who loved her without crown or title.

.

The family’s dining room was smaller than the royal hall but far more alive. The scent of roasted fowl and herbs met Y/n at the threshold, and laughter rang from the table even before she stepped inside. The fire in the corner snapped against the andirons, light pooling across oak and polished silver, and the sound of her family’s chatter filled every corner.

Just seeing them in their new surroundings with such lush dressings, the table set with enough food to feed everyone, the heavy velvet curtains that kept the chill from the room, and the servants standing by… it made her smile. If the king would never again look at her with warmth the way he had before the square, then she would be okay with it, if this was the fate of her family. It was all worth it to have them happy and fed and laughing like they were.

Her father, seated at the head, caught sight of her first. “There she is,” he said with a grin that seemed to age him backward by years. “Our Queen at last graces us with her presence.”

Y/n smiled and bowed her head. “You make it sound as though I were late to supper, Father.”

“You are late to supper,” her grandmother said tartly from her seat near the fire. “And thinner, if my eyes don’t deceive me.”

Her mother made a small, indignant noise. “Oh, don’t say that to her, Mother. She looks lovely.” She rose halfway, hand fluttering to Y/n’s cheek in greeting. “But truly, you’ve worried us. When I heard of the square, I thought I might faint dead away.”

“I heard you did faint,” Dell said dryly, smoothing her napkin over her lap. “It has been the talk of the household ever since.”

“I did no such thing,” their mother protested, laughing, though she dabbed at her eyes for effect. “But I could have. Oh, Y/n, to think of you there amidst that dreadful crowd, and the people who tried to poison you!”

“It wasn’t dreadful,” her father interrupted, carving into the roast before him. “It was history. You’ve done what half the realm’s been too timid to do these hundred years… stood before them and shamed their cruelty.” He looked at her with undisguised pride. “You should have seen the men at the tavern afterward, Y/n. Couldn’t stop talking about how their Queen had a spine.”

“Father,” Y/n said mildly, “I doubt that was all that was said of me.”

Y/n’s mother sighed as Y/n took her seat beside her sister Agnes. “Do not encourage her to risk herself again,” her mother said. “She may have shamed cruelty, as you call it, but she frightened us all to death.”

“She frightened everyone,” Grandmother muttered, reaching for her glass of port. “And she would do well not to test the King’s temper twice. Men do not take kindly to being contradicted in public, least of all kings.”

At that, a silence lapped briefly around the table. The servants refilled glasses, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze but surely all listening closely to the chatter of gossip.

Dell broke the pause with her steady voice. “He is not angry with your heart, sister,” she said. “Only with how you risked your life.”

The words found her directly. They were true, and gentle, and they hurt. Y/n now understood her errors, and her sister was right.

“I know,” Y/n said softly. She reached for her wine and traced a thumb along the rim. “I meant no disrespect to him. I simply couldn’t stand by and watch—”

Her father made a sound of approval, but her grandmother cut across him. “There it is again. Couldn’t stand by.” She turned her sharp eyes on Y/n. “You will find that standing by is half of what keeps a kingdom from burning down around you. You must let the king do his work without causing such tumult.”

Y/n smiled softly, not arguing, though her pulse flickered quick. “I will try to remember that, Grandmother.”

Tess, the youngest, perched on the edge of her chair between Cecily and Dell, leaned forward with wide eyes. “Are you in trouble again?” she asked. “For shouting at the King?”

Y/n froze for a breath, then laughed, soft and a little unsteady. “Something like that,” she said. “But I believe we will sort it out.”

Her mother tutted. “You poor thing. To think your first weeks as Queen would bring such trials. It ought to be nothing but music and moonlight and—”

“—and babies,” Grandmother interrupted again.

Her mother gasped. “Mother, really!”

“What?” Grandmother sniffed. “That’s what they all want, isn’t it? Heirs. I was only saying what’s true.”

Dell gave a small, diplomatic cough. “Perhaps we might change the subject before Cecily dies of embarrassment.”

Cecily did indeed appear discomposed. “I am not embarrassed,” she said primly, which made Tess giggle so loudly she nearly dropped her spoon.

Y/n smiled, the sound of her sisters’ laughter. There were not many sounds more soothing. "Yes, a change of subject might be wise."

Agnes touched her arm lightly. "But babies would be so fun."

“That may be true,” Y/n said, though her smile faltered. “But we shall think of other things until that topic is pertinent.”

Her father frowned, reaching for the bread. “Don’t let them make you doubt yourself, my girl. A man who fears his wife’s conscience is not worth the crown he wears.”

“Careful, love,” her mother warned gently. “You speak of the King.”

“I speak of any man who forgets that a woman’s courage is her worth,” he said, and poured himself more wine, despite his cup already being half ful.

Y/n caught Dell’s eyes across the table; her sister’s gaze was knowing, a silent caution to let the moment pass before their parents turned it into a quarrel. She took the cue, lifted her glass, and smiled. “To the family,” she said softly. “For remembering who I am when I forget.”

Glasses lifted, some solemn, some clumsy. Her grandmother finished her glass in a hasty quaff as she often did.

The talk turned lighter after that. Tess boasted about her new embroidery, Cecily sighed over the young footman who'd set the table, and Agnes teased her gently about romantic notions. Y/n listened, smiled, and spoke where politeness required, but her thoughts kept sliding elsewhere.

She realized that despite the happiness and chatter in the room, she missed her husband at dinnertime. She missed her husband at all, and she wondered if things would return to how they'd been just days before. The noise, the warmth, the way everyone spoke over one another, filled her chest with an ache that was almost relief and almost pain.

Halfway through the meal, her mother reached across to touch her hand. “You’ll see,” she said softly, as if to reassure herself more than Y/n. “He’ll forgive you soon. No man stays angry forever with his wife.”

Y/n blinked. “I imagine that is not true. There are men who despise their wives.”

“But the king does not despise you,” her mother said, smiling. "I have seen him look at you as if you were the jewel on his crown. He will settle, and he will forgive you."

Y/n’s throat tightened. She managed only a quiet, “Thank you.”

When the meal ended, the servants cleared plates, and the family rose to move toward the sitting room. Y/n lingered, feigning a search for her napkin so she might stay behind. The laughter followed them out of the room with Dell’s clear, low voice mingling with Cecily’s giggle, and her father’s rumbling warmth. It was the sound of a home that did not wait for her to return to feel complete.

When they were gone, she stood for a moment beside her empty chair. The firelight caught the rim of her wineglass and cast a trembling reflection across the polished table. She reached out and set her fingers lightly against it, watching the shadow of her hand blur on the surface.

Lifting her glass to finish the last of the wine, she startled when her new guard suddenly stood next to her. “Majesty, shall I escort you back to your room?”

Y/n nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

As she stepped into the corridor, she glanced back once more at the room where her family’s laughter still echoed faintly. It should have comforted her. Instead, it left her hollow with longing not for her old life, but for the warmth she’d lost in the new one.

When she reached her door, the corridor was empty save for Niall at his post, still as a carved statue. He bowed his head, and she offered a small one in return before slipping inside. The fire had been lit, the lamps turned low, the hearth’s glow warming the quiet room. She stood for a moment just inside the door, letting the hush settle around her like a cloak.

Y/n turned from the window, loosened her coat, and sat by the fire. The warmth touched her face, but did not reach the tightness behind her ribs. She could hear her own heart in the silence, slow and steady, waiting.

The fire had burned down to a low amber glow. The clock on the mantel ticked softly, its rhythm loud in the quiet. Y/n sat curled on the settee with her book unopened, the page she’d meant to start still caught beneath her thumb. The waiting was worse than any argument she could have imagined.

Every creak in the corridor made her glance toward the door. Every echo of boot leather on stone sent her heart jumping. She wondered if the king was biding his time in hopes that she'd be sleeping when he finally arrived. Sleep wouldn't have found her even if she wished it.

The hour had gone deep into night when the latch finally turned, and Harry entered without a word, without a glance toward her. She'd expected as much. Her eyes followed his every move.

He crossed to the chair near the hearth and began to unfasten himself from the day. Gloves first, folded neatly and set aside. His sword belt next, the metal buckle glinting before he laid it on the table. He unbuttoned his doublet halfway and loosened his collar. Then his boots were last. Each one tugged off with quiet care, the motions almost ritual, but too precise for that of a man who was at peace.

She could see it in the hard line of his expression, the tightness of his posture, and the mechanical way in which he undressed; he was not calm. He was just as undone as she was. Her breath stayed small in her throat as she watched him in silence, the fire’s glow catching on the angles of his face, making him seem both beautiful and terrifying at once.

The silence was unbearable. “If you mean to speak your mind, Harry, do it. I cannot live in this silence for another moment.”

He paused mid-motion, then straightened and poured himself a bit of dark brandy. He sat across from her and placed the glass down untouched on the small table between them. He saw to it that the distance was cavernous, a purposeful move to keep her in her place, she figured.

“You should be abed," he spoke quietly and looked toward the fire.

“I could not sleep. We were meant to speak this evening, or had you forgotten me?”

His jaw shifted, the muscle in it flexing. “No,” he said. “I could not forget. This moment has haunted me all day."

She shifted in her spot and kept her eyes fixed on him. "Then speak your mind. Please."

He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the fire. “My mind,” he said softly, “is not fit for polite company.”

“I am not polite company,” she said. "I am your wife."

He looked at her then as he reached for his drink. The flicker of flame moved through the glass in his hand, carving light across his knuckles. When he spoke, his voice was level, but each word landed like a stone.

“You lied to me.”

Y/n swallowed, preparing herself for his wrath.

“You tricked Phoebe. You nearly cost Niall his command.”

She started to answer, but he raised a hand, not sharply, but enough to still her so that he could speak his piece.

“You made a spectacle of me,” he went on. “Of us. Before my court, before my people. You humiliated their king and your husband in the same breath.”

Her throat closed. He didn’t shout, and that was what made it worse. Her heart pricked with sorrow and shame.

“I never wanted to be King,” he said. “But it was my destiny from birth, and now I am King. I never foresaw that my wife would make me out to be a fool.” He drank a sip of his brandy. “Do you know what it cost me to keep the council from demanding your head?”

Her lips parted soundlessly as she shook her head, tears filling her eyes.

“They called you dangerous. Treasonous.” His mouth twisted. “The Lord Chancellor wanted you confined. The Proctor wanted your title stripped. They said mercy in a queen is a contagion. That I’d let it spread like rot.”

She pressed her palms together in her lap. “And you silenced them.”

“I did,” he said. “And I would again. But I will not pretend it was easy. You do not know the price of your defiance.”

She looked down, the firelight blurring through her lashes as a tear broke free. “I didn’t think—”

“No,” he said louder. “You didn’t.”

She looked at him. "Then why didn't you turn me away and continue with the hangings?"

He blinked slowly. "Had I not acquiesced, the whole kingdom would have seen your actions as traitorous. You do not understand the mind of the mob when dissent is in the air. The people of Thornekeep would have seen my denial of your request as a death sentence to you."

Her voice trembled. “I only wished to stop a cruelty with mercy. But I understand now that I was negligent.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Mercy pleases no one but the wicked,” he said. “It gives them time to sharpen their knives. The men you spared will wake every day thanking you for your gentleness, and planning how best to repay it with blood.”

She flinched at the edge in his tone, but he wasn’t finished.

“You put yourself in that crowd,” he said. “Surrounded by men who would have cheered if you’d been struck down.” His voice sounded raw. “If you’d fallen—”

He stopped. The rest did not come as the words failed him. He sat back, staring into the fire as if the sight of it might steady him.

Y/n rose. Her skirts brushed the floor as she crossed the room. She came to him slowly, unsure if he would allow her near but he did not move when she knelt beside his chair, her knee down on the rug, hand trembling slightly as she laid it over his chest.

“I didn’t see it as you did,” she said softly. “I thought I was doing right.”

He didn't speak as he looked down at her, kneeling next to him, her eyes rounded softly.

“I never meant to put anyone in danger,” she went on. “I wanted only to keep you from cruelty.”

She waited a breath for him to respond, but he remained silent, so she continued, hoping her words were received with an open heart and forgiveness.

“But I see now that I overstepped,” she said. “I was proud. I was foolish.” She swallowed, the words thick in her throat. “I’ve learned that goodness without understanding is just another form of selfishness. I did not see it before."

The brandy glass lowered to the table, and his hand fell open, empty. The firelight found his eyes, and she was surprised by the emotion revealed on his face.

“You make me want to believe in a gentler world,” he said at last. “But the world is not a gentle place, my love. You do not know yet the order of things.”

Y/n’s breath shook out of her. My love. Oh, how that had brightened her insides at once. “Then teach me, husband,” she whispered. “Show me what I do not yet know. I promise that I will listen. I will learn. I want to stand beside you, not against you.”

His composure broke then as he reached out, a large hand wrapping her wrist, and drew her up into his lap, his arms closing around her like a man gathering a thing he’d feared he’d lost forever. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, her tears hot through his shirt.

“I have said it before, and I will say it again. I do not want to lose you,” he said against her hair. “Not to poison, not to mobs, not to your own courage.”

She lifted her head, eyes red, and met his gaze. “Then let me earn your trust again.”

“You already have it,” he said. “It is the world that cannot be trusted, and that is a thing you must learn.”

She leaned against him, and he let his chin rest on the crown of her head, the two of them sitting in the quiet as the fire sank lower. Y/n finally knew relief in his arms. His forgiveness and his warmth washed her in such light that she felt newly strengthened.

He spoke again in a whisper, “Y/n.”

“Yes?”

“I will never forgive the world if it takes you from me. So please do not do things that make that a possibility ever again.”

She closed her eyes and held him tighter. “I swear to it. I shall never risk myself again, nor will I stand in defiance of you. I am sorry for my stupidity.”

Harry let out a breath, one that seemed to unspool all the days of his restraint. He cupped her face in both hands, tipping her face up, his thumbs brushing away the tears that clung to her lashes. “My little mouse. You are braver than anyone would have ever known. In another world, Thornekeep would be crowning you as king.” He smiled then, as if humor could dry her tears.

A breath of laughter escaped her. “You are more brave than I. And more frightening than any mob.”

“God help me, I hope not,” he said, his mouth still drawn up in a smile. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You terrify me, Y/n. You and that heart of yours.”

She smiled weakly up at him. “My heart belongs to you, husband. Let it not terrify you. I swear I will not make such haughty decisions again.”

He huffed a small laugh. "And mine belongs to you.”

He kept his arms wound around her, her cheek resting against his chest where his heartbeat thudded steady and alive. The weight between them had shifted. Forgiveness lay in the air, quiet and binding.

When she finally lifted her head, his eyes had softened again as his thumb ran gently along her temple. “No more ghosts between us,” he said quietly.

“Never again,” she promised.

“I have missed you,” he said, his nose brushing lightly over hers.

Y/n’s breath trembled against his. “And I you, my king.”

He exhaled softly, as if the words alone unburdened him. Then his mouth found hers. The kiss was unhurried, a reconciliation sealed in warmth and forgiveness. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, a thumb stroking the curve of her cheek as though to reacquaint himself with her all over again.

For the first time in days, she let herself melt and unwind. All the tightness in her chest, the guilt, the restless fear of losing him, it all loosened beneath his touch.

Harry deepened the kiss just slightly, his lips moving with constrained hunger, as if he should rein in his urges. His other hand slid to the small of her back, holding her close until the world itself seemed to only contain the two of them. No court, no crown, no watching eyes.

When they parted, their foreheads rested together, his breath warm against her skin as his thumb traced her lower lip, still damp from the kiss. “You undo me, my little mouse,” he whispered. “Every time I think I’ve steeled myself, you find the chink in my armor.”

She smiled faintly. “Perhaps that’s my duty as your wife.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, low and hoarse. “You have a way of making even ruin feel like grace.” His gaze searched hers, something raw and unguarded flickering there, not of the King of Thornekeep, but the man underneath she longed to know more of.

“I do not deserve you,” she murmured, eyes sliding toward the edge of the divan.

He tilted her chin so she’d meet his eyes. “You are all I deserve,” he said. The words came stripped of ceremony. His gaze heated every atom of her being. “I love you. God help me, I do.”

Her heart leapt, and she reached up to kiss him again, a promise returned in silence. His arms wrapped around her hard, as if to make certain she was real. That the woman there with him still was flesh and not some taunt heaven had granted only briefly, just to take from him.

At last, there was peace and an unbreakable vow between them. They would go forward as one, steadfast against whatever sought to divide them. Not crown, nor kingdom, nor the fault of their own hearts would part them again.

. .

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He came to bed late now, long after she had turned to her side and feigned sleep, though she would always stir when he slipped beneath the covers. He no longer reached for her. The mattress dipped, the blankets shifted, and that was all. At dawn, she would wake to the careful step of boots on the floor before hearing the latch of the door closing as he left her alone. Her husband had become a ghost that haunted the edges of her life.

Once again, that morning, she found herself alone in the breakfast room, the fire kept dutifully bright by servants. The table had been laid for two, but only one plate was disturbed. A thin curl of steam rose from the second teacup, untouched. She stirred her tea slowly, watching the small whirlpool sink into the porcelain.

When he finally entered, he looked every inch the King. He wore a black doublet, the collar starched, and the kind of composure that could cut stone. He nodded in greeting, eyes flicking past her as though she were another figure in the room.

“You’ve an early council?” she asked, voice quiet.

“A long one,” he said, taking the far seat. His tone was mild, careful.

She nodded and cut her bread, though she had no appetite. “Will you dine here this evening?”

“I do not yet know.”

For the last few days it had been I do not yet know. The phrase had become a wall.

She tried again, softer. “I thought perhaps we might speak—”

“I will be late,” he said, reaching for his gloves. “Do not wait up.”

Her knife slipped against the plate and made a small, sharp sound. “I rarely have the chance,” she whispered.

If he heard, he gave no sign as he rose, smoothed the cuff of his sleeve, and inclined his head as if she were a visiting dignitary rather than his wife. “Majesty.”

“Majesty,” she echoed, her mouth dry.

When he left, the room seemed to open up again, and she could breathe. She sat there for a long time, staring at the space he had vacated. Was what she'd done so bad that he could not even speak to her now? She bit down the dread and restlessness in her and stood from her chair to take a walk through the garden and clear her mind.

She knew the paths in the yard well by now and appreciated the cold breeze at her cheeks that served as the tiniest distraction from her inner turmoil. The sky was gray with the threat of rain, and the tidy shrubs smelled of damp earth. Her second guard followed at a respectful distance, a new addition since the square incident. The sound of his boots behind her reminded her with every step that she was never truly alone.

She paused near the fountain, watching the water shiver under the wind. How strange it felt to be a queen and still so small in her own life. She had stopped a hanging, and yet she could not summon a husband’s gaze.

A voice broke through her thoughts. “Majesty?”

It was Niall. He stood a few paces back, helm tucked under one arm with an unreadable expression. “Would you like the carriage brought round? The clouds are turning.”

“No,” she said. “I prefer the walk.”

He hesitated. “As you wish.”

Y/n drew her cloak tighter and kept walking. The roses had begun to die back for winter, their scent gone faint and sour. She thought of the people who had stood in the square, of the voices that had risen around her. Some in awe, some in anger. She wondered how many of them still cursed her name.

At the end of the garden path stood the west corridor, its tall windows fogged with condensation. She pressed her palm against the glass and watched her print form before she turned in time to see Harry crossing the courtyard, cloak snapping in the wind. Even from her distance, she could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he moved like a man walking through invisible chains.

She almost called out. But instead, she watched until he disappeared through the outer arch, swallowed by gray daylight.

When the rain had come she returned to her room and took tea alone. The servants lit the fire and then withdrew. Her book lay open on the table beside her, unread. She was too anxious to read it.

She traced the rim of her cup with a finger and thought of his hands… the hands that had trembled when he spoke of losing her, that had once reached across the dark for her. She had thought mercy would make him proud of her. Instead, it had driven him from her.

Y/n had never imagined that she would feel this way about a man she once held in such bitter contempt. At one time, she thought of him as a vile man and hoped she would not often have to be around him. She thought that their marriage would be for show and that she would only have to attend her duties when called, and that would've been fine with her. But now? She wanted more of him than that now that she'd learned who he really was under his fine dress. He wasn't just a cold and rotten man like everyone said. He had a heart, and he'd been warm toward her. He'd protected her and looked at her like she was a special gift.

Clutching a hand to her heart, she frowned. It would have been so much easier if she still thought him an awful devil. It would have been easier if he hadn't been so tender and loving with her. Her world no longer felt steadfast. She wasn't sure it ever would again.

.

The rain was still falling after noon time, a fine, needling drizzle that turned the flagstones slick as the chilled air froze the dampness. Y/n walked through the West Wing of the castle with a purpose she did not entirely possess, the hem of her gown lifted just enough to keep from tripping, her new guard and Niall both keeping pace a few steps behind.

“Captain,” she said without turning, “where is His Majesty?”

Niall did not pretend to misunderstand. “The south gallery, Majesty. With the factors from the river wharves.” He hesitated, then added, “A light sitting, ledgers and tariffs.”

“Thank you,” she said, and reached the end of the corridor with a hand already out for the latch, her mind made up. The Ledgers could bear interruption. She could no longer wait for her husband to speak to her. She needed him to cede his thoughts to her at once. The silence was no longer tolerable.

The south gallery had been built to allow for as much sunlight as possible with soaring windows and high ceilings. It was a long room paneled in pale oak, the carved heads of past kings peering down from the cornices.

When she entered, she observed that a small table had been pulled to the center, and around it stood four men in plain coats with ledgers open, their hats held respectfully against their chests. Harry was there at the head of the table, sleeves turned back just enough to keep ink from his cuffs, his hair still carrying a trace of rain as if he'd only just gotten to the meeting moments before she arrived.

He saw her almost at once, though his face did not change. The others in the room turned toward her like weathervanes, bowing in a dutiful ripple.

“Majesty,” a few murmured.

Y/n stepped into the room with her head high and her hands steady at her sides, even though she felt like falling to her knees in tears. “Forgive me,” she said. “I require a word.”

Harry set his pen aside. “Gentlemen, we will adjourn.”

The factors retreated quickly, passing her by with stiff bows before leaving Harry and Y/n alone together in the room.

He remained where he stood, as if there were a drawn line between them, with his hands clasped behind him, the picture of composure. “What is it you require?” he asked. “Be brief.”

“I require my husband,” she said, before she lost her nerve. “The one who used to speak to me.”

“I have spoken.”

“As a king to a petitioner,” she returned, and the edge beneath her composure showed as her heart raced. “I am not your petitioner. I am your wife.”

His gaze flicked to the windows and back, as if it were a heavy thing to receive her words directly. "Perhaps petitioners are safer."

Her pulse jumped. “Safe is not the same as silent. You have been avoiding me.”

“I have been occupied.”

“With what? The ledgers? Those men who just left us?” She took a breath and steadied herself. “You have not looked at me. You have not touched me. You lie yourself in our bed as if the whole length of it were a ditch between us. What sin is it you find so great that you must treat me as nothing?”

He took up the pen and set it down again. “The sin,” he said, and the word was dry as paper, “is not unknown to you.”

“I know what I did and what I meant to do,” she said. “I meant to act for mercy.”

“Then we have very different definitions of mercy.” He moved toward the window.

The rain outside thickened, pattering against the glass as if it could feel the tension rising within the room. Y/n’s fingers knotted together. “Harry, please look at me.”

He slowly lifted his gaze. And in his look was something colder than anger…disappointment, and restraint. “You put yourself before a crowd when I told you not to. You made me a spectacle. I cannot discuss that here.”

“Why not? You discuss tariffs and taxes here—”

He cut her off. “Because tariffs do not seek approval of the public in defiance of me."

The words struck her hard. She swallowed and felt her throat tighten. “Then tell me when you will speak to me, so that I may prepare myself for being scolded like a child.”

He stepped from the window to the table, collecting the dropped quill, setting it neatly beside the inkstand. Everything he touched seemed to quiet beneath his hand. Part of her wished he'd throw the inkpot and make a scene just so he would finally talk.

“Not here,” he said.

She blinked. “Pardon?”

He looked up fully this time. “Not here, Y/n. Not while the walls have ears.”

“When, then?”

He briefly closed his eyes and took a breath, like she was a boil he could not get rid of. Like it took strength for him to speak to her at all in that moment. Like the very notion of having to converse with her was a torture he didn't wish to endure. “Tonight.”

“Tonight,” she repeated, hearing the warning beneath it. “Very well.”

He inclined his head in something like a bow, polite to the point of cruelty. “Very well.”

She hesitated. The air between them thin and almost breakable. “Harry…”

He stopped halfway to the door.

“I am still the same woman,” she said softly. “The one you held that morning.”

He turned just enough for her to see the muscle move in his jaw. “That morning,” he said, “I thought you knew better. I was mistaken in how naive you really are, and that is my error.”

Then he was gone.

She stood long enough to hear the muted rhythm of rain against the windows as it softened and slowed again. She had a new understanding now of Harry's anger. He felt that she'd defied him directly, even though that had not been her purpose. Had she truly been so naive?

When she stepped out of the room, Niall was there at his post, and he straightened.

“Majesty.”

“Captain.” She kept her chin high, though her voice was thin. “I will return to my chambers now.”

He nodded. “As you wish.”

She started down the hall, her guards behind her. The opulent corridors and rooms that wound through the castle had seemed to have lost their luster as her mind repeated the encounter with the king. She wondered to herself if she had known that he would be so displeased, would she still have gone through with her actions? She thought she had done a good thing, something that would show the people of the kingdom that Harry was a King with mercy in his heart and that the Queen was no milksop.

Y/n was beginning to realize that even with good intentions, her husband saw her deeds as ignorant and haughty. Perhaps she still had much to learn.

.

Y/n tried to read but couldn't keep to a line. The same sentence slid past her three times without taking. She shut the book and sat it on her knees. The chamber was tidy and warm, but she couldn't help but feel the atmosphere around her threatening and oppressive… waiting for the evening to fall.

Phoebe folded a length of fresh linen with neat corners at the table. She watched her friend closely, seeing that she had something on her mind. "You may speak freely with me if you wish, ma'am."

The queen shifted her gaze to Phoebe as if she needed a moment to decide how to say what she needed. Because Y/n did want to speak to her friend about her troubles. She didn't have many she could do that with.

“I cannot bear this quiet,” Y/n said at last.

Phoebe set the linen aside. “Shall I open a shutter?”

“No,” she answered. “It is not the room.” She rubbed at the bridge of her nose and lowered her hands with a sigh. “It is me. It is the king.”

Phoebe paused her hands, setting her full attention on Y/n now. “What troubles you?”

“He has not spoken to me properly since the square,” Y/n said. “Not really. He is… polite to me the way one is to a stranger brought to dinner. He comes to bed late, he leaves early, and when he looks in my direction, he looks past me, as if I were air. I thought if I did the right thing, he would be proud. I thought he would see me and think, there is my wife, brave and kind.” She tried to laugh but could not. “Instead, I have turned into a nuisance and an ignoramus.”

Phoebe’s expression softened with sympathy. “I believe you frightened him,” she said gently. “You frightened me as well. I was truly worried for you. Some whispered that you'd be charged with treason.”

Y/n blinked at Phoebe. "Treason? I had not thought…" She shook her head, fighting the sting of tears. "I did not mean to frighten anyone. Forgive me, Phoebe."

"You need not ask forgiveness from me. I know your heart and I know you did what you thought you had to. You are too good for the people of this kingdom. Your mercifulness did not go unnoticed by me, but that does not mean others think highly of your actions."

Y/n stared into the fire. “I went to him to talk earlier, and he told me we would speak tonight. He said it as if he meant to put the whole matter on a table and cut it open at once.” She set the book aside and pressed her palms to her skirts to stop the restless movement of her legs. “I have never wanted a thing and dreaded it in the same breath as much as I do to finally hear what he means to say to me."

Phoebe nodded. “He may be incensed right now, but soon he will soften again. If I can see your heart in this, then I believe he can as well. You are too precious to him. His silence is temporary. I cannot fathom that he will remain so cold for much longer.”

Y/n glanced up at her and gave a rueful smile. “I do hope that he speaks to me his mind tonight. I would rather a spar than another day of his silence.”

“A spar? My Queen, so dramatic!” Phoebe said with a laugh, and for a moment, they both smiled like the girls they had been. "You know as well as I do that he would not lay a finger on you in that way. You are his little mouse. That has not changed."

The small ease broke, and Y/n’s thoughts returned to the square. The rope. The faces. The sound she had made when she said stop. “I feel as though I've made a grave error. He said I was naive, and I believe he is right. I do not know what I am doing anymore."

Phoebe nodded. “You will learn. Your queenship is in its infancy. You've barely just wed the king."

“Then we should be acting as such. I feel I've hardly had a chance to learn him and he already hates me."

“He does not hate you,” Phoebe said, “he is a man and you have threatened his pride by going against his word.” She lifted a brow. “Tonight you two will make amends and tomorrow I'll find you aglow and at ease after a little…" She glanced toward the door and then leaned in, speaking quietly, "blanket hornipipe.”

Y/n breathed out a laugh. “Blanket horn—… Phoebe!” She covered her mouth, scandalized.

The girls both laughed as Phoebe then sat beside her on the small settee and took Y/n's hand. “May I say a thing you will not like?”

“You must.”

“I was not only frightened for you,” she said. “I was frightened for myself as well. The consequences.”

Y/n turned to her at once. “I know. I am sorry.” The apology came quickly. “I made you help me, and I should not have.”

“You did not make me,” Phoebe said. “You asked, and I chose. But I chose with my heart beating out of time. And after—” She stopped, swallowed, and finished in a steadier tone. “After, I was taken to task.”

Y/n stilled. “By whom?”

“The steward and the Master of Household.” She made a small face. “The steward said I had let your friendship turn my head. The Master said I had forgotten my place. He told me to remember my mother’s wages and my father’s back. He was very grand about it.”

A hot, helpless anger pricked behind Y/n’s eyes. “He will regret saying such things to you when it was my fault,” she said, low.

“It is done. Words do not draw blood unless we let them.” She hesitated. “But there was worse.”

Y/n steadied herself. “Tell me.”

“Captain Niall was nearly dismissed.”

The words landed plain and heavy. Y/n blinked. “Dismissed,” she repeated.

“He left his post at your request,” Phoebe said. “It does not matter that I opened the service door. He should have stopped me. He should have barred you. That is what they said. He went before the Master of the Guard and was told to pack his things.” She paused, studying Y/n’s face. “The King intervened. He was firm with the Master. He said the fault was shared and the Captain would remain. The Master did not like it, but he obeyed.”

Y/n set a hand to the edge of the chair as if the room had moved. “He did that?" She could hardly believe Harry had stepped in for Niall that way. "If the king had not spoken—”

“Then Niall would be on the road by now,” Phoebe said. “With no post and no hope of one in Thornekeep again.”

The quiet that followed did not feel like the earlier quiet. It had flesh and weight, and it sat between them like a third person. Y/n found she could not trust her voice for a moment. She swallowed and tried again. “I did not see the price. I did not even look at the purse. I've been a fool.”

Phoebe folded her hands. “You looked at the rope,” she said simply. “You sought mercy, but you did not look at the steps that led to it.”

Y/n bowed her head, then lifted it. “Are you angry with me?”

Phoebe considered. “Never,” she said. “Then I was frightened for you. I am no longer frightened, but I am tired.” She offered a small, crooked smile. “And I do not like being scolded by men who think a small title and a key ring makes them kings.”

Y/n reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Nor do I.” She drew breath and let it out slowly. “Did Harry scold you?”

“Not as the others did,” Phoebe said. “He told me if I ever kept you from the guard’s side again, he would see me sent to my mother with a letter that called me a fool. He said it kindly and made it sound like a mercy. Then he told the steward to keep his voice out of my face or he would be removed from his post.”

Y/n pressed her fingers to her mouth, a sound barely escaping, like a laugh with no joy in it. “He frightens and protects in the same breath.”

“He does,” Phoebe said. “But hear me, please.” She held Y/n’s gaze. “He spared us because you are his wife and he adores you.”

Y/n did not smile or gush at that. Her expression went still. The truth did not warm her, rather, it sobered her. “Then my mercy rode on his favor,” she said. “If he did not feel so kindly toward me, others would have paid, and if treason were on the table as you said, then I with my life."

Phoebe’s hand tightened on hers. “Ma'am—”

“No,” Y/n said. “Let me say it.” She stared down at their hands, hers jeweled, Phoebe’s plain, and felt the difference like a lesson. “I would have stopped the hangings again if given another moment. I would. I still believe it was the right thing. But I would not have done it that way. Not through a side door and a lie. Not with you between me and the scolding. Not with Niall’s post set on the table like a coin.”

Phoebe nodded. “Then you have learned the castle’s sums.”

Y/n gave a small huff that was not quite a laugh. “A little late.” She lifted her head. “I am sorry, Phoebe.”

“You do not owe me that.”

“I do,” Y/n said. “Friend to friend, I do.”

Phoebe’s eyes shone with the relief of being seen. “Then I take it.”

Y/n now had awareness and new insight to bring with her that evening. She was grateful for Phoebe's honesty, but also mortified by it. It seemed she had many people to apologize to. Her own husband included.

“Will you tell him all of this?” Phoebe asked.

“Yes,” Y/n said. “I will not go to him with excuses. I will go with sense.” She looked across the room to the mantel. “He will be stern. He will be right to be.”

Phoebe rose and went to the press. “Shall I lay out a gown for dinner?”

“No,” Y/n said. “I will sit with my family tonight. It will steady me.” She smoothed her skirts again, then let her hands be still. “I will go as I am.”

Y/n stood and paced the short stretch between the hearth and the window and back again. “I thought mercy would make him proud."

“He sees your intention,” Phoebe said, “even if ill-timed and hasty.”

Y/n nodded and said, “My mercy endangered everyone.”

Phoebe did not argue with the sentence. She set a hand to Y/n’s sleeve and smoothed it. “It also saved two lives,” she said. “Both truths can stand.”

Y/n met her eyes. “Both will stand,” she said. “And I will stand between them without playing at heroics.” She tipped her head, a small, steady gratitude. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For telling me the whole of it.”

Phoebe’s mouth softened. “Always.”

Y/n crossed to the basin to wash her hands. “Leave me for a little,” she said gently. “I will gather myself and then I will go to dinner. You may take the evening as you see fit."

Phoebe curtsied as she always did, but it ended in a squeeze of Y/n’s fingers the way only a friend might dare. “First, I’ll send for your family’s room to be set and keep a place for you.”

“Thank you,” Y/n said.

Phoebe smiled. “Majesty?”

“Yes?”

“Whatever he says tonight, let him say it. And if he is sharp, do not be sharp back. Let him see you are not his enemy.”

“I am not,” Y/n said. “I never was.”

“I know. So does he.”

When the door closed, the chamber’s quiet returned, but it no longer crowded her. Y/n stood for a while watching out the window, considering what she would say and what she would not. She had made a choice in the square, and she would make a better one in their room tonight. But before that, she would take her place at her family’s table, and remember who she had been before, and the sound of people who loved her without crown or title.

.

The family’s dining room was smaller than the royal hall but far more alive. The scent of roasted fowl and herbs met Y/n at the threshold, and laughter rang from the table even before she stepped inside. The fire in the corner snapped against the andirons, light pooling across oak and polished silver, and the sound of her family’s chatter filled every corner.

Just seeing them in their new surroundings with such lush dressings, the table set with enough food to feed everyone, the heavy velvet curtains that kept the chill from the room, and the servants standing by… it made her smile. If the king would never again look at her with warmth the way he had before the square, then she would be okay with it, if this was the fate of her family. It was all worth it to have them happy and fed and laughing like they were.

Her father, seated at the head, caught sight of her first. “There she is,” he said with a grin that seemed to age him backward by years. “Our Queen at last graces us with her presence.”

Y/n smiled and bowed her head. “You make it sound as though I were late to supper, Father.”

“You are late to supper,” her grandmother said tartly from her seat near the fire. “And thinner, if my eyes don’t deceive me.”

Her mother made a small, indignant noise. “Oh, don’t say that to her, Mother. She looks lovely.” She rose halfway, hand fluttering to Y/n’s cheek in greeting. “But truly, you’ve worried us. When I heard of the square, I thought I might faint dead away.”

“I heard you did faint,” Dell said dryly, smoothing her napkin over her lap. “It has been the talk of the household ever since.”

“I did no such thing,” their mother protested, laughing, though she dabbed at her eyes for effect. “But I could have. Oh, Y/n, to think of you there amidst that dreadful crowd, and the people who tried to poison you!”

“It wasn’t dreadful,” her father interrupted, carving into the roast before him. “It was history. You’ve done what half the realm’s been too timid to do these hundred years… stood before them and shamed their cruelty.” He looked at her with undisguised pride. “You should have seen the men at the tavern afterward, Y/n. Couldn’t stop talking about how their Queen had a spine.”

“Father,” Y/n said mildly, “I doubt that was all that was said of me.”

Y/n’s mother sighed as Y/n took her seat beside her sister Agnes. “Do not encourage her to risk herself again,” her mother said. “She may have shamed cruelty, as you call it, but she frightened us all to death.”

“She frightened everyone,” Grandmother muttered, reaching for her glass of port. “And she would do well not to test the King’s temper twice. Men do not take kindly to being contradicted in public, least of all kings.”

At that, a silence lapped briefly around the table. The servants refilled glasses, careful not to meet anyone’s gaze but surely all listening closely to the chatter of gossip.

Dell broke the pause with her steady voice. “He is not angry with your heart, sister,” she said. “Only with how you risked your life.”

The words found her directly. They were true, and gentle, and they hurt. Y/n now understood her errors, and her sister was right.

“I know,” Y/n said softly. She reached for her wine and traced a thumb along the rim. “I meant no disrespect to him. I simply couldn’t stand by and watch—”

Her father made a sound of approval, but her grandmother cut across him. “There it is again. Couldn’t stand by.” She turned her sharp eyes on Y/n. “You will find that standing by is half of what keeps a kingdom from burning down around you. You must let the king do his work without causing such tumult.”

Y/n smiled softly, not arguing, though her pulse flickered quick. “I will try to remember that, Grandmother.”

Tess, the youngest, perched on the edge of her chair between Cecily and Dell, leaned forward with wide eyes. “Are you in trouble again?” she asked. “For shouting at the King?”

Y/n froze for a breath, then laughed, soft and a little unsteady. “Something like that,” she said. “But I believe we will sort it out.”

Her mother tutted. “You poor thing. To think your first weeks as Queen would bring such trials. It ought to be nothing but music and moonlight and—”

“—and babies,” Grandmother interrupted again.

Her mother gasped. “Mother, really!”

“What?” Grandmother sniffed. “That’s what they all want, isn’t it? Heirs. I was only saying what’s true.”

Dell gave a small, diplomatic cough. “Perhaps we might change the subject before Cecily dies of embarrassment.”

Cecily did indeed appear discomposed. “I am not embarrassed,” she said primly, which made Tess giggle so loudly she nearly dropped her spoon.

Y/n smiled, the sound of her sisters’ laughter. There were not many sounds more soothing. "Yes, a change of subject might be wise."

Agnes touched her arm lightly. "But babies would be so fun."

“That may be true,” Y/n said, though her smile faltered. “But we shall think of other things until that topic is pertinent.”

Her father frowned, reaching for the bread. “Don’t let them make you doubt yourself, my girl. A man who fears his wife’s conscience is not worth the crown he wears.”

“Careful, love,” her mother warned gently. “You speak of the King.”

“I speak of any man who forgets that a woman’s courage is her worth,” he said, and poured himself more wine, despite his cup already being half ful.

Y/n caught Dell’s eyes across the table; her sister’s gaze was knowing, a silent caution to let the moment pass before their parents turned it into a quarrel. She took the cue, lifted her glass, and smiled. “To the family,” she said softly. “For remembering who I am when I forget.”

Glasses lifted, some solemn, some clumsy. Her grandmother finished her glass in a hasty quaff as she often did.

The talk turned lighter after that. Tess boasted about her new embroidery, Cecily sighed over the young footman who'd set the table, and Agnes teased her gently about romantic notions. Y/n listened, smiled, and spoke where politeness required, but her thoughts kept sliding elsewhere.

She realized that despite the happiness and chatter in the room, she missed her husband at dinnertime. She missed her husband at all, and she wondered if things would return to how they'd been just days before. The noise, the warmth, the way everyone spoke over one another, filled her chest with an ache that was almost relief and almost pain.

Halfway through the meal, her mother reached across to touch her hand. “You’ll see,” she said softly, as if to reassure herself more than Y/n. “He’ll forgive you soon. No man stays angry forever with his wife.”

Y/n blinked. “I imagine that is not true. There are men who despise their wives.”

“But the king does not despise you,” her mother said, smiling. "I have seen him look at you as if you were the jewel on his crown. He will settle, and he will forgive you."

Y/n’s throat tightened. She managed only a quiet, “Thank you.”

When the meal ended, the servants cleared plates, and the family rose to move toward the sitting room. Y/n lingered, feigning a search for her napkin so she might stay behind. The laughter followed them out of the room with Dell’s clear, low voice mingling with Cecily’s giggle, and her father’s rumbling warmth. It was the sound of a home that did not wait for her to return to feel complete.

When they were gone, she stood for a moment beside her empty chair. The firelight caught the rim of her wineglass and cast a trembling reflection across the polished table. She reached out and set her fingers lightly against it, watching the shadow of her hand blur on the surface.

Lifting her glass to finish the last of the wine, she startled when her new guard suddenly stood next to her. “Majesty, shall I escort you back to your room?”

Y/n nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

As she stepped into the corridor, she glanced back once more at the room where her family’s laughter still echoed faintly. It should have comforted her. Instead, it left her hollow with longing not for her old life, but for the warmth she’d lost in the new one.

When she reached her door, the corridor was empty save for Niall at his post, still as a carved statue. He bowed his head, and she offered a small one in return before slipping inside. The fire had been lit, the lamps turned low, the hearth’s glow warming the quiet room. She stood for a moment just inside the door, letting the hush settle around her like a cloak.

Y/n turned from the window, loosened her coat, and sat by the fire. The warmth touched her face, but did not reach the tightness behind her ribs. She could hear her own heart in the silence, slow and steady, waiting.

The fire had burned down to a low amber glow. The clock on the mantel ticked softly, its rhythm loud in the quiet. Y/n sat curled on the settee with her book unopened, the page she’d meant to start still caught beneath her thumb. The waiting was worse than any argument she could have imagined.

Every creak in the corridor made her glance toward the door. Every echo of boot leather on stone sent her heart jumping. She wondered if the king was biding his time in hopes that she'd be sleeping when he finally arrived. Sleep wouldn't have found her even if she wished it.

The hour had gone deep into night when the latch finally turned, and Harry entered without a word, without a glance toward her. She'd expected as much. Her eyes followed his every move.

He crossed to the chair near the hearth and began to unfasten himself from the day. Gloves first, folded neatly and set aside. His sword belt next, the metal buckle glinting before he laid it on the table. He unbuttoned his doublet halfway and loosened his collar. Then his boots were last. Each one tugged off with quiet care, the motions almost ritual, but too precise for that of a man who was at peace.

She could see it in the hard line of his expression, the tightness of his posture, and the mechanical way in which he undressed; he was not calm. He was just as undone as she was. Her breath stayed small in her throat as she watched him in silence, the fire’s glow catching on the angles of his face, making him seem both beautiful and terrifying at once.

The silence was unbearable. “If you mean to speak your mind, Harry, do it. I cannot live in this silence for another moment.”

He paused mid-motion, then straightened and poured himself a bit of dark brandy. He sat across from her and placed the glass down untouched on the small table between them. He saw to it that the distance was cavernous, a purposeful move to keep her in her place, she figured.

“You should be abed," he spoke quietly and looked toward the fire.

“I could not sleep. We were meant to speak this evening, or had you forgotten me?”

His jaw shifted, the muscle in it flexing. “No,” he said. “I could not forget. This moment has haunted me all day."

She shifted in her spot and kept her eyes fixed on him. "Then speak your mind. Please."

He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on the fire. “My mind,” he said softly, “is not fit for polite company.”

“I am not polite company,” she said. "I am your wife."

He looked at her then as he reached for his drink. The flicker of flame moved through the glass in his hand, carving light across his knuckles. When he spoke, his voice was level, but each word landed like a stone.

“You lied to me.”

Y/n swallowed, preparing herself for his wrath.

“You tricked Phoebe. You nearly cost Niall his command.”

She started to answer, but he raised a hand, not sharply, but enough to still her so that he could speak his piece.

“You made a spectacle of me,” he went on. “Of us. Before my court, before my people. You humiliated their king and your husband in the same breath.”

Her throat closed. He didn’t shout, and that was what made it worse. Her heart pricked with sorrow and shame.

“I never wanted to be King,” he said. “But it was my destiny from birth, and now I am King. I never foresaw that my wife would make me out to be a fool.” He drank a sip of his brandy. “Do you know what it cost me to keep the council from demanding your head?”

Her lips parted soundlessly as she shook her head, tears filling her eyes.

“They called you dangerous. Treasonous.” His mouth twisted. “The Lord Chancellor wanted you confined. The Proctor wanted your title stripped. They said mercy in a queen is a contagion. That I’d let it spread like rot.”

She pressed her palms together in her lap. “And you silenced them.”

“I did,” he said. “And I would again. But I will not pretend it was easy. You do not know the price of your defiance.”

She looked down, the firelight blurring through her lashes as a tear broke free. “I didn’t think—”

“No,” he said louder. “You didn’t.”

She looked at him. "Then why didn't you turn me away and continue with the hangings?"

He blinked slowly. "Had I not acquiesced, the whole kingdom would have seen your actions as traitorous. You do not understand the mind of the mob when dissent is in the air. The people of Thornekeep would have seen my denial of your request as a death sentence to you."

Her voice trembled. “I only wished to stop a cruelty with mercy. But I understand now that I was negligent.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Mercy pleases no one but the wicked,” he said. “It gives them time to sharpen their knives. The men you spared will wake every day thanking you for your gentleness, and planning how best to repay it with blood.”

She flinched at the edge in his tone, but he wasn’t finished.

“You put yourself in that crowd,” he said. “Surrounded by men who would have cheered if you’d been struck down.” His voice sounded raw. “If you’d fallen—”

He stopped. The rest did not come as the words failed him. He sat back, staring into the fire as if the sight of it might steady him.

Y/n rose. Her skirts brushed the floor as she crossed the room. She came to him slowly, unsure if he would allow her near but he did not move when she knelt beside his chair, her knee down on the rug, hand trembling slightly as she laid it over his chest.

“I didn’t see it as you did,” she said softly. “I thought I was doing right.”

He didn't speak as he looked down at her, kneeling next to him, her eyes rounded softly.

“I never meant to put anyone in danger,” she went on. “I wanted only to keep you from cruelty.”

She waited a breath for him to respond, but he remained silent, so she continued, hoping her words were received with an open heart and forgiveness.

“But I see now that I overstepped,” she said. “I was proud. I was foolish.” She swallowed, the words thick in her throat. “I’ve learned that goodness without understanding is just another form of selfishness. I did not see it before."

The brandy glass lowered to the table, and his hand fell open, empty. The firelight found his eyes, and she was surprised by the emotion revealed on his face.

“You make me want to believe in a gentler world,” he said at last. “But the world is not a gentle place, my love. You do not know yet the order of things.”

Y/n’s breath shook out of her. My love. Oh, how that had brightened her insides at once. “Then teach me, husband,” she whispered. “Show me what I do not yet know. I promise that I will listen. I will learn. I want to stand beside you, not against you.”

His composure broke then as he reached out, a large hand wrapping her wrist, and drew her up into his lap, his arms closing around her like a man gathering a thing he’d feared he’d lost forever. She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, her tears hot through his shirt.

“I have said it before, and I will say it again. I do not want to lose you,” he said against her hair. “Not to poison, not to mobs, not to your own courage.”

She lifted her head, eyes red, and met his gaze. “Then let me earn your trust again.”

“You already have it,” he said. “It is the world that cannot be trusted, and that is a thing you must learn.”

She leaned against him, and he let his chin rest on the crown of her head, the two of them sitting in the quiet as the fire sank lower. Y/n finally knew relief in his arms. His forgiveness and his warmth washed her in such light that she felt newly strengthened.

He spoke again in a whisper, “Y/n.”

“Yes?”

“I will never forgive the world if it takes you from me. So please do not do things that make that a possibility ever again.”

She closed her eyes and held him tighter. “I swear to it. I shall never risk myself again, nor will I stand in defiance of you. I am sorry for my stupidity.”

Harry let out a breath, one that seemed to unspool all the days of his restraint. He cupped her face in both hands, tipping her face up, his thumbs brushing away the tears that clung to her lashes. “My little mouse. You are braver than anyone would have ever known. In another world, Thornekeep would be crowning you as king.” He smiled then, as if humor could dry her tears.

A breath of laughter escaped her. “You are more brave than I. And more frightening than any mob.”

“God help me, I hope not,” he said, his mouth still drawn up in a smile. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You terrify me, Y/n. You and that heart of yours.”

She smiled weakly up at him. “My heart belongs to you, husband. Let it not terrify you. I swear I will not make such haughty decisions again.”

He huffed a small laugh. "And mine belongs to you.”

He kept his arms wound around her, her cheek resting against his chest where his heartbeat thudded steady and alive. The weight between them had shifted. Forgiveness lay in the air, quiet and binding.

When she finally lifted her head, his eyes had softened again as his thumb ran gently along her temple. “No more ghosts between us,” he said quietly.

“Never again,” she promised.

“I have missed you,” he said, his nose brushing lightly over hers.

Y/n’s breath trembled against his. “And I you, my king.”

He exhaled softly, as if the words alone unburdened him. Then his mouth found hers. The kiss was unhurried, a reconciliation sealed in warmth and forgiveness. His hand came up to cradle her jaw, a thumb stroking the curve of her cheek as though to reacquaint himself with her all over again.

For the first time in days, she let herself melt and unwind. All the tightness in her chest, the guilt, the restless fear of losing him, it all loosened beneath his touch.

Harry deepened the kiss just slightly, his lips moving with constrained hunger, as if he should rein in his urges. His other hand slid to the small of her back, holding her close until the world itself seemed to only contain the two of them. No court, no crown, no watching eyes.

When they parted, their foreheads rested together, his breath warm against her skin as his thumb traced her lower lip, still damp from the kiss. “You undo me, my little mouse,” he whispered. “Every time I think I’ve steeled myself, you find the chink in my armor.”

She smiled faintly. “Perhaps that’s my duty as your wife.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, low and hoarse. “You have a way of making even ruin feel like grace.” His gaze searched hers, something raw and unguarded flickering there, not of the King of Thornekeep, but the man underneath she longed to know more of.

“I do not deserve you,” she murmured, eyes sliding toward the edge of the divan.

He tilted her chin so she’d meet his eyes. “You are all I deserve,” he said. The words came stripped of ceremony. His gaze heated every atom of her being. “I love you. God help me, I do.”

Her heart leapt, and she reached up to kiss him again, a promise returned in silence. His arms wrapped around her hard, as if to make certain she was real. That the woman there with him still was flesh and not some taunt heaven had granted only briefly, just to take from him.

At last, there was peace and an unbreakable vow between them. They would go forward as one, steadfast against whatever sought to divide them. Not crown, nor kingdom, nor the fault of their own hearts would part them again.

. .

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The wedding venue was breathtaking, everything about the wedding was beautiful actually, and it should’ve been romantic, except your ex boyfriend was here.

Harry.

Three years together, three weeks apart.

You’d moved out of his London house with your dignity intact and the firm intention of not seeing him for a long long time. And yet here you were, in the middle of Paris, sipping champagne you couldn’t even taste, trying to laugh with some distant family friends at a wedding you’d RSVP’d to months ago back when you were still together.

Back when you thought you’d be here on his arm.

Instead, he was on the other side of the room, leaning casually against a column, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that made his shoulders look broader than you remembered. His hair was a little shorter and his rings caught the light whenever he gestured during conversation.

He looked unfairly good.

And you, in your tiny gold dress with the dramatic 90s blowout you’d spent an hour perfecting, were trying very very hard to pretend you didn’t notice.

You kept your back to him as much as possible, making yourself busy in conversations that didn’t really interest you, laughing at jokes you didn’t even hear. But every time you thought you were safe, your stupid eyes betrayed you, flicking over your shoulder to check if he was looking.

He wasn’t.

Of course he wasn’t. He had three stunning women around him now, all elegant in their backless gowns, hanging off his every word.

Your glass of champagne wobbled in your hand.

The second his head turned even a fraction in your direction, you snapped your gaze away so fast your neck cracked. You overcompensated so hard you pretended to be fascinated by the floral centerpiece in front of you.

Your friend Gia leaned over and whispered, “Subtle.”

You glared at her, cheeks heating. “I’m not looking at him.”

“You’re not looking, sure,” she murmured, smirking into her glass. “You’re conducting full on surveillance.”

“I am not.”

But your hand was fidgeting with the thin gold strap of your dress, twisting it between your fingers until it bit into your skin, and your leg bounced under the table. You were a mess.

And the worst part? Harry looked completely unaffected. He wasn’t fidgeting. He wasn’t nervous. He was leaning back with that lazy effortless confidence, smiling politely as someone told him something undoubtedly boring like the weather forecast or cryptocurrency trends or whatever the fuck rich people talked about at weddings.

You hated him for looking so composed.

You reached for your glass again nearly knocking it over in the process.

Gia snorted. “Graceful.”

“Shut up.”

Your laugh came out strangled, and you ducked your head quickly, pretending to adjust the strap of your gold heels while secretly glancing under your lashes across the ballroom, just in time to catch him laughing at something, dimples flashing, and it punched the air right out of your lungs.

You tried to be normal.

You really did.

But “normal” was hard when every single woman in the room seemed to have decided that Harry Styles, recent bachelor, 31 years old, international popstar, looked like the perfect midnight snack.

You weren’t staring. You weren’t.

You were observing from a safe detached distance.

…Fine. You were staring.

Harry stood near the open bar now, one hand lazily tucked into his pocket, the other cradling a whiskey glass. He looked stupidly good under the golden light, his shirt now unbuttoned just enough to expose a sliver of chest and the gold cross necklace resting there.

He didn’t even have to do anything! He drew people in just by standing there.

And, of course, the women came.

Three of them.

One tall and blonde in a slinky champagne dress. Another brunette with curves that made your mouth dry. And a third, petite and chic, who had the audacity to touch his arm when she laughed.

You hated her.

Not personally. You were sure she was lovely. But you hated her.

Harry naturally looked entirely unbothered. That stupid half smile played at the corner of his mouth as he listened, polite and attentive but not giving much away. Classic Harry. Gentleman Harry. He probably smelled like vanilla, and you hated that you knew that.

Your foot bounced under the table.

Gia leaned closer. “You’re glaring.”

You shot her a look, lips pressed into a tight smile. “I’m not glaring.”

“You’re definitely glaring,” she whispered, smirking. “Want me to throw my drink at her?”

You blinked, thrown. “…Which one?”

“All of them.”

You tried not to laugh. Tried not to look. But then Harry turned his head just slightly and for one terrifying second, your gazes met across the room.

It was quick, barely a heartbeat.

And then you panicked.

You whipped your head away so fast you almost dropped your glass, your laugh coming out way too loud at something Gia hadn’t even said.

“Oh my God,” she muttered under her breath trying not to choke on her drink. “You are so obvious.”

You hissed at her to shut up, cheeks flaming. You forced yourself to keep your gaze fixed firmly on the centerpiece in front of you like it was the most fascinating thing you’d ever seen in your life.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Except.. not out of mind.

Because the next time you risked a glance he wasn’t at the bar anymore.

He was walking toward you.

Your stomach dropped straight into your strappy gold heels.

Gia noticed before you did. “Oh.My.God.” she whispered clutching your wrist like she’d spotted a lion stalking its prey.

You kept your eyes down, fiddling with the tiny napkin under your champagne glass, silently chanting don’t trip, don’t blush, don’t look, don’t breathe.

And then

“Not gonna say hi to me?”

You froze.

That voice. That soft teasing rasp.

When you looked up, Harry was standing at the edge of your little cluster, one hand tucked into his pocket, whiskey glass dangling lazily from the other. Up close, his cologne hit you first, familiar enough to make your chest ache.

He tilted his head, his dimple peeking as he smirked.

“Rude, bunny,” he murmured.

Your throat went dry. You blinked at him, tried to summon words, any words at all. Finally you managed a soft polite, “Hi.”

And then, because you are nothing if not a coward, you turned immediately back to Gia like you’d just remembered she was telling you something riveting.

For a second, there was silence.

Then Harry let out a soft exaggerated sigh, his tone dipping into faux disappointment. “That’s not very nice of you,” he said slowly, his voice pitched low enough just for you. “Don’t know you like that.”

Your cheeks burned, but you kept your gaze fixed firmly on Gia, pretending you hadn’t heard him.

Out of the corner of your eye, though, you saw him grin, shake his head slightly, and murmur, “Y/N’s gone all cold on me,” under his breath before wandering off with a soft chuckle.

You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath underwater.

Gia stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “You’re doomed,” she said flatly. You didn’t disagree.

You told yourself you were fine.

Harry had wandered off somewhere, probably back to his little fan club by the bar, and you were going to drink your champagne, eat your hors d'oeuvres, and have a perfectly normal Paris wedding evening without letting your three weeks ex ruin it.

That was the plan.

And it lasted... oh, about three minutes.

Because your eyes betrayed you again.

You caught sight of him slipping out of the ballroom, phone in hand, his expression soft but focused, his thumb dragging across the screen like he was answering a call.

Before you knew what you were doing, your body was moving before your brain caught up. You set your champagne glass down carefully, murmured something vague to Gia about going to the bathroom, and pushed your chair back.

And promptly slammed into a passing waiter.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” you squeaked, reaching out instinctively as the poor man wobbled under the weight of a silver tray stacked with empty glasses.

“C’est rien, mademoiselle,” he muttered politely, steadying himself, but the tips of your ears were already burning.

Gia was watching you from the table, one perfectly arched brow raised, sipping her champagne like she’d been waiting for this moment.

You ignored her.

Your heels clicked softly against the marble floor as you slipped out into the quiet hallway, clutching your tiny gold bag. The muffled music and chatter from the ballroom faded behind you.

Harry was a few paces ahead, pacing slowly with his phone to his ear, his voice low and melodic, just out of reach.

You didn’t even know what your plan was. You weren’t planning. You weren’t following him!!!

…except, apparently you were.

Because you kept walking.

And walking.

And then stopping pretending to inspect the intricate moldings on the wall like a total psychopath, praying he wouldn’t turn around and catch you in the act.

Finally, he stopped near a little alcove, leaning against the wall as he murmured something soft into the phone. His free hand toyed lazily with his necklace, his brows drawn together in concentration.

And God, he looked good.

The soft lighting turned his hair golden, shadows carving out the sharp lines of his jaw. His suit jacket strained just slightly over his shoulders when he shifted.

You were so busy staring at him, so busy trying to convince yourself you were definitely not stalking him, that you didn’t notice he’d hung up.

This was insane. You should turn around. You should definitely turn around.

And you might have.

If he hadn’t turned at that exact moment.

Phone slipping into his pocket, his gaze lifted, and landed directly on you.

You went rigid, like a deer caught in headlights.

One brow arched slowly, amusement flickering across his face as his lips tugged into the faintest smirk.

“Are you following me, love?” he drawled.

Your mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “…No,” you croaked, then cleared your throat and tried again, softer. “I was just going to the bathroom.”

His lips curved, dimples peeking. “Bathroom’s the other way.”

You blinked rapidly, cheeks heating. “…I didn’t know that.”

“Mhm.” He pushed off the wall, sauntering toward you with slow, unhurried steps.

The silence stretched for a beat. Two.

And then, of course, he laughed.

Not meanly, but softly, low in his chest, like you were both funny and ridiculous.

“Sure you didn’t,” he murmured, straightening off the wall and sliding his phone into his pocket, his gaze never leaving yours.

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest, cheeks burning, doing your absolute best impression of someone completely unfazed.

It wasn’t working.

At all.

You should’ve left.

The smart thing, the sane thing, would’ve been to mumble something about needing to get back, spin on your heel, and disappear into the crowd like this never happened.

But instead, you stood there.

Rooted to the marble floor, staring at him like he’d caught you doing something illegal (which honestly following your ex down a hallway at a wedding was kind of criminal) .

Harry tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. That lazy half smirk still played at the corner of his lips like he could see right through you.

You shifted your weight from one heel to the other, clutching your tiny bag tighter against your side, forcing yourself to breathe evenly.

And then… he started walking toward you.

You instinctively stepped back.

And he didn’t stop.

The hallway was quiet, save for the muffled sounds of laughter and music spilling from the reception behind you. The sconces cast soft golden light across his face, catching on his cheekbones and glinting in the green of his eyes.

“Y’know,” he murmured as he closed the distance, his voice low and velvety, “if you were trying to be subtle, bunny… following me down a hallway wasn’t exactly the way to go.”

“I wasn’t–” Your voice cracked embarrassingly. You cleared your throat, trying again, softer this time. “I wasn’t following you.”

“Mm.” He stopped just close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. “Bathroom, right?”

Your jaw tightened. “Right.”

He glanced, very pointedly, at the door that said toilettes in ornate lettering. Then he looked back at you, a slow amused arch of his brow.

Before you could come up with another lie, he took a small step closer and you swore the temperature in the hallway dropped by several degrees.

“Go on, then,” he murmured, voice dipping low.

“What?”

“Bathroom’s right there, loce,” he said softly, his accent curling warm and rich around the word love. “You shouldn’t hold it in.”

You wanted to sink into the floor. Or maybe scream. Or both.

But instead, you brushed past him quickly, muttering something unintelligible, and pushed the heavy door open, desperate for an escape.

Except he followed you in.

You spun around, wide eyed. “Harry—”

He shut the door behind him with a soft click.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Before you could stammer out another word, he leaned in. His lips captured yours in a kiss that started soft, almost polite, like he was testing the waters. But then his hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and the kiss deepened. His tongue slipped past your lips. You melted into it despite yourself, your body remembering every inch of him, even as your mind screamed to pull away.

He broke the kiss just enough to whisper against your mouth, “You look gorgeous tonight by the way” His breath was warm, his words sincere in that Harry way, charming, effortless.

You pulled back slightly, glaring up at him with those big doe eyes narrowed in disgust. The look was meant to be fierce, but it came out more like a pouty kitten's huff, your cheeks flushing pink under the hallway's dim light. You couldn't stand him, not the way he said it like he still had the right, like three weeks of radio silence and a gut wrenching breakup hadn't happened. But your body betrayed you, leaning in again, your hands fisting his shirt.

Harry chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his chest, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your hip. “What's with the glare?”

You didn't answer. Instead, you surged up on your tiptoes, kissing him harder this time. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling just enough to make him groan softly. He responded in kind, backing you toward the sink with gentle but firm hands, the marble counter cool against your back when he pressed you there.

His mouth trailed down your neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin. “Missed this,” he murmured, but there was an edge to it, something sharper, born from the anger simmering under his gentlemanly facade. Three years gone in a blur of arguments and slammed doors, and now here you were, three weeks later, pretending it meant nothing.

“Harry—” you started, but he silenced you with another deep, slow kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with maddening control.

“You can tell me t’stop,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and wrecked, his forehead pressed to yours. “Just say the word.”

You whimpered softly, your body arching into him, but you kept your lips sealed. No words. Just the heat building between your thighs as his hands slid up your dress, bunching the gold fabric around your waist. Your panties were simple, pink lace, cute and girly, just like you, and he hooked his fingers in them, tugging them down your legs with deliberate slowness.

“Eager, aren't we?” he teased, his voice cocky now as he straightened, eyes raking over you. He unbuckled his belt, the sound echoing in the tiled space, his cock springing free, thick, hard, already leaking at the tip. You glanced down, then away, your cheeks burning. It had been three weeks, and no one else had touched you. No one could compare to the way he filled you.

He stepped between your legs, lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. Your dress rode up higher, exposing the soft curve of your ass. His fingers parted your folds, finding you slick and ready. “Christ, baby,” he breathed, circling your clit with his thumb. “So wet already. Been thinkin' about me?”

“You’re quiet tonight, bunny,” he murmured, his mouth trailing down your jaw, grazing the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. “Tha’s new.”

You swallowed hard, biting your lip, trying to steady your breathing. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how badly you wanted this, how badly you wanted him.

But he felt it anyway, the way your body arched into his touch, the way your nails dug lightly into his shoulders when his hands slipped under your dress and found the soft curve of your hips.

His voice dropped, husky and taunting. “S’this what happens when y’stay away from me for few weeks? Gettin’ all shy on me?”

“Shut up,” you whispered, cheeks burning.

He chuckled softly against your skin, teeth grazing your collarbone. “Mhm. Should’ve known y’liked playin’ hard t’get.”

You bit your lip, silent, your eyes glaring at the wall over his shoulder. But when he pushed a finger inside you, then two, stretching you with that familiar curl, a quiet gasp escaped. He pumped them slowly, watching your face, the way your brows furrowed in that way he knows way too well.

“Tight as ever,” he said, pulling his fingers out and lining himself up. His tip nudged your entrance, teasing. “Haven't let anyone else in here, have you? Still all mine.” The words were laced with that humiliating edge, his anger from the breakup peeking through. Just stated it like fact, his voice low and teasing, making you feel small and exposed.

You shook your head minutely, not meeting his eyes. The embarrassment burned hot, how pathetic was it, stalking him here, letting him talk to you like this? But your hips bucked forward anyway, needy.

But then he thrust again,harder this time, deeper, and a tiny helpless sound escaped your throat before you could stop it.

His smirk returned instantly, curling against your neck.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice hot and teasing against your ear. “Missed me.”

He thrust in then, one smooth motion burying himself to the hilt. You were tight, clenching around him like a vice, and he groaned, his forehead pressing to yours. “Fuck, yeah. That's it. Takin' me so good, even after all that.”

The stretch burned, delicious and overwhelming, your walls fluttering around his cock. He didn't give you time to adjust, pulling back and slamming in again, hard and fast. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he set a punishing rhythm, faster than he'd ever fucked you before, each thrust jolting you against the counter.

It was too much.

Everything about this, about him, was too much.

The marble counter dug into the back of your thighs, his chest pressed against yours, the heat of his breath spilling over your cheek with every ragged exhale. Harry wasn’t being soft tonight. Not careful, not patient, not the gentle lover he’d always been with you before.

He was relentless.

Each thrust was sharp, fast, purposeful, the kind of rhythm that stole every ounce of breath from your lungs. The air was thick with the wet sound of skin meeting skin, your quiet gasps swallowed by his mouth every time he dipped down to kiss you.

And he was talking.

God, he wouldn’t shut up.

You tried staying quiet, lips pressed tight, but tears pricked at your eyes. Not from pain, but from the intensity, the way he was taking out every ounce of frustration on your body. The breakup's ghost lingered in every snap of his hips, his cock hitting that spot deep inside that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

He noticed the tears, of course. Harry's eyes softened for a split second, but then he pouted mockingly, his thrusts never slowing. “Why are you cryin', lovie? Does it hurt that bad? Or do you just miss how I fuck you?” His voice was so fucking cocky.

You glared at him through watery lashes, silent and doe eyed, your hands clutching his shoulders. The tears spilled over, hot trails down your cheeks, but you didn't sob yet. Just took it, your body bouncing with a gasp with each rough drive.

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a messy kiss, his tongue demanding as he pounded into you. “Quiet little thing tonight,” he murmured against your mouth. “Usually you're beggin' for it. What's wrong? Embarrassed to be creamin' all over my cock in a bathroom stall?” The words were pure humiliation, his anger fueling the dirty talk, revenge for the nights you'd left him aching and alone.

He chuckled darkly, one hand gripping your jaw to force your gaze up to his. “Look at me.”

You shook your head, eyes darting anywhere but his face.

“Bunny.” It was sharp this time, a warning. “Eyes on me.”

Your cheeks flamed, but you didn't respond. Instead, something snapped, the overwhelming need to not see that smug face while he wrecked you. With a sudden push, you shoved at his chest while he was buried deep, twisting away. He slipped out with a wet sound, his eyes widening in surprise.

“The fuck is this?” he asked, voice rough. He wasn't exactly angry, but there was a edge of confusion, his hands hovering like he wasn't sure whether to pull you back or let you lead.

You bent over the counter without a word, ass up, the gold dress barely covering you. “Don't wanna look at you,” you muttered, It was meant to sound defiant, but it emerged more like a shy whimper, your eyes fixed stubbornly on the sink faucet, avoiding the mirror that would reflect his intense gaze.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, the usual playful spark in them darkening into something sharper, more edged with the unresolved anger from your breakup three weeks ago. No laugh escaped him this time, no teasing chuckle to diffuse the tension. Instead, he stepped closer, his tall frame looming behind you, the heat of his body radiating against your exposed skin.

His voice dropped low, calm on the surface but threaded with frustration, the kind that sent a shiver racing down your spine. “Oh, is this how it is now?” The words hung in the air, a quiet challenge that made your stomach twist in nervous anticipation.

Before you could muster a retort, before your fidgety mind could catch up, his hand shot out, fingers tangling roughly in your hair at the roots. He gripped firmly, not yanking with outright cruelty but with an insistent pull that forced your head back, arching your spine in a sharp involuntary curve.

Your back bowed under the pressure, thrusting your ass higher into the air. The sudden tug made you gasp, a soft surprised sound that bubbled up from your throat, your wide eyes flickering to the mirror now, catching the sight of your own flushed face.

He didn’t give you a moment to adjust, didn’t soften the moment with his usual cocky banter. With his free hand clamping down on your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh there to hold you steady, he lined himself up against your dripping entrance. Then in one brutal thrust he slammed his cock back into you, burying every thick inch to the hilt in a single punishing drive.

The force of it stole your breath, your tight walls stretching around his girth with a burning intensity that bordered on pain, but oh god, it felt so so so fucking good, the way he filled you completely, hitting depths you hadn't felt since before the breakup, your body remembering him like muscle memory.

Harry had never fucked you like this before.

Not once in three years.

Not even on the nights when you’d begged him to.

He was always controlled, gentle, careful, measured. Tonight, there was none of that.

Tonight, he was all sharp edges and pent up frustration, fucking you like every ounce of missing you, wanting you, and resenting you had condensed into his body and snapped.

A sharp cry tore from your lips, half moan, half sob, as the impact jolted your entire frame forward. The marble counter beneath your hands shuddered violently under the force, the solid surface rattling with a low tremor that vibrated up through your palms and into your arms. It shook harder with each thrust, the edges wobbling slightly as if it couldn't withstand the raw power behind Harry's hips. Your body rocked against it, breasts pressing into the cool stone through the thin gold fabric.

He didn’t hold back, didn’t ease into it like he might have in gentler times.

You were unraveling already, a moaning crying mess under him, high pitched whimpers spilling from your lips in broken bursts, sobs hitching in your chest as tears streamed hot down your cheeks. Your legs trembled, knees threatening to buckle, but his grip on your hip (so tight that you’re sure it will leave bruises tomorrow) kept you pinned.

You shook your head furiously, cheeks flaming, refusing to answer.

“Mm. I think you like it,” he murmured, leaning forward so his chest brushed your back, his breath hot against your ear. “You like me using you like this. Don’t have to say it, baby, s’written all over you.”

Your hands curled tighter against the marble, jaw locked, trying to will yourself into silence.

But then he shifted his hips slightly, angling himself deeper, and a strangled moan ripped from your throat before you could stop it.

Harry groaned low. “There she is. Knew I’d get it out of you.”

You hated him.

Another particularly vicious thrust rocked you forward so hard that your head snapped toward the wall behind the counter, your forehead nearly colliding with the tile in a dangerous near miss. The momentum made your vision blur for a split second, panic flickering through the haze of pleasure.

But Harry, ever the observant gentleman, noticed immediately. His hand, still threaded in your hair, loosened just enough for his palm to slide down, petting the spot on your scalp where impact might have landed. The touch was silent, surprisingly tender, a soft stroke of his fingers against your messy wave. Without breaking his punishing rhythm, he shifted his weight, wedging his other hand between your head and the wall. He cupped the back of your skull protectively, fingers splaying wide to cushion you fully, his thumb brushing your temple in a gentle circle as he continued to fuck you without mercy.

The contrast made your heart stutter, that caring gesture clashing with the way his hips drove forward relentlessly, his cock plunging deeper, harder, claiming you with every inch. It felt divine, the way he filled you over and over, the stretch turning from burn to pure electric pleasure that had your walls fluttering around him.

Your moans grew louder, more desperate, sobs wracking your body as the coil in your core wound tighter, the shaking counter mirroring the tremors building inside you. Sweat beaded on your skin, making the gold dress cling to your curves.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said low in your ear, his cocky tone coming back even with the anger. “Acting all cold out there, following me like a lost kid, and now all bent over for me in a fucking wedding bathroom. Dripping down my cock, can’t even look at me cause you know how fuckin’ pathetic you are right now”

The words hurt, payback for the breakup, making your face burn with shame. But your pussy squeezed him harder, showing how bad you wanted it. He laughed a little, not mean but at how open you were, the sound going through his chest against your back.

“Knew you’d come runnin’ back t’me,” he rasped. “All those sweet little looks across the room, thought I didn’t notice, huh? Knew you wanted me the second I saw you in this tiny thing.”

Your face was hot, your body trembling, and you HATED that he was right.

“Say it,” he breathed, his voice breaking slightly now, low and rough against your ear. “Say you missed me.”

You shook your head violently, stubborn even now.

Harry groaned, low and frustrated, one hand fisting in the gold fabric of your dress to yank you back into him with every brutal snap of his hips.

“Y’gonna make me fuck it outta you, huh?” he growled softly, chest pressed to your back, his pace unrelenting. “Fine. I’ll fuck you ‘til y’can’t even think straight, bun. ‘Til you remember who you belong to.”

You couldn’t talk, just moan and cry, your body buzzing with feelings. Each thrust sent shocks through you, pleasure going everywhere through you, your clit pulsing hard. It felt so good, the way his cock hit deep, the rub building until you sobbed from it, tears wetting the counter under your arms.

The rhythm shifted.

Harry had already been relentless, but now it was something else entirely.

He adjusted his grip on your hips, big hands spreading across your skin as though grounding himself, and then he snapped his hips forward so hard you lurched against the counter with a startled gasp.

“Fuck,” you cried out softly, clamping your hand over your mouth immediately, mortified by the sound.

Harry groaned low behind you, fingers digging harder into your flesh, his breath coming hot and ragged against your neck. “Yeah,” he rasped, voice strained now, “just like that.”

And then he set a pace that made your whole body jolt with every thrust.

Your hands scrambled for purchase on the marble counter, fingertips slipping uselessly over the smooth surface.

“Fuckin’ knew no one else could give it to you like this,” he muttered, voice wrecked and low, almost as if he was talking to himself more than you. “Three weeks without me, bet you’ve been aching, haven’t you?”

You shook your head desperately, even though your body betrayed you with every stuttered breath, every slick sound where you met him, every soft, humiliating whimper muffled into your own hand.

Harry leaned down, chest pressed to your back now, his curls tickling the side of your face as his mouth hovered near your ear.

“Y’can lie all y’want, baby,” he whispered, his voice husky and dark, “but this—” he punctuated it with a brutal snap of his hips that made your breath hitch “—doesn’t.”

“Harry—please—oh god—” You begged in a broken sob, voice cracking as everything focused on him inside you, his hand holding your head safe, the counter shaking like you were about to break. He didn’t stop, slamming in mean and messy, his groans mixing with yours as he got close.

Your orgasm hit hard, your walls squeezing his cock tight in pulses, pulling him as huge pleasure tore through you. You cried out, body shaking in his hold, the feeling so strong it almost hurt, leaving you worn out. Harry came right after, pushing all the way in with a deep groan, his hot cum shooting inside you in thick bursts, filling you up until it leaked out down your thighs.

The room went silent.

The only sounds were your uneven breathing, the faint muffled music seeping in from the reception, and the wet, obscene sound of skin separating as Harry slowly pulled out of you, careful now in a way he hadn’t been before.

You stayed bent over the counter shaking, your cheek still pressed against the cool marble, breath coming in shuddering sobs you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

And then, without a word Harry’s hands slid gently under your arms, lifting you effortlessly from the counter and turning you toward him.

You didn’t fight it.

You just collapsed into his chest, your gold dress rumpled and your curls sticking damply to your flushed cheeks, your entire body trembling as he wrapped his arms around you.

He held you tight.

One big hand cradled the back of your head, thumb stroking slow, grounding circles against your scalp. The other settled firm and warm against the small of your back, keeping you pressed close, steadying you while you shook in his arms.

You were still crying, but not from him anymore. Not from the roughness or the overstimulation or the humiliation. These tears were heavier, quieter, pulled from somewhere deeper you couldn’t name.

And Harry didn’t ask.

Didn’t try to fix it.

Didn’t tell you it was okay or that he was sorry or that you shouldn’t cry.

You both just hugged tight. Your face buried in his neck, and fresh tears started falling, from missing what you had, the three years gone, the way he used to hold you without all this mess, your body shaking with sad sobs for the love that broke and how empty it left you now. He held on, breathing steady, but you could feel his chest tight too, the silence heavy with what you both lost.

He pressed his lips softly into your hairline, a fleeting, wordless gesture you almost could’ve missed if you weren’t so close.

Neither of you spoke.

Harry, your ex’s best friend. The bastard who’d helped tear everything apart. Stan had dumped you almost a year ago, but the wound was still fresh because of how it had happened. You’d been blamed for cheating, which was obviously not true. They said you’d been sneaking around with Tommy. Harry was the one who handed Stan the “proof.” Screenshots, clipped and out-of-context texts, a neat little package tied up to make you look bad.

The truth? Tommy had been the one buzzing around you like an annoying fly that wouldn’t stop. It was a constant drip of sleazy jokes, suggestive messages that vanished after a day because he knew how to cover his tracks, cornering you when no one was around just to see if he could push you into giving in to him. He wasn’t even Stan’s close friend. He was just some hanger-on in their circle, but you’d never fed into his bullshit, never gave him what he wanted. 

Toward the end, when you caught on to what Tommy was doing, you left the texts unanswered, scrolled past them, pretended they didn’t exist, thinking silence was safer than stirring up drama. But at first? You did respond to a few of his texts. You didn’t know that those responses would somehow be damning proof of anything because you thought you were just being nice.

Your mistake. You hadn’t saved the messages, hadn’t warned Stan, hadn’t done anything but hope Tommy would finally get bored and move on. Instead, Harry twisted the whole story. By the time you realized what was happening, you weren’t the victim, you were the villain. The liar. The cheater. And Stan, hurt and furious, believed every word Harry put in front of him.

Harry raised his long, tattooed arm and sighed in annoyance as Mrs. Caldwell called him, “Yes, Harry.”

“Yeah. Sorry, but I’m not working with her. Switch me out. I’d rather tank this project than be forced to talk to her.”

You rolled your eyes as the teacher balked. “Mr. Styles, with all due respect, this is not negotiable. Teams are set. You will not be switching. If you choose to not work on this project, you’ll fail the class. This isn’t just a grade for a project. This is your capstone, your final. I suggest you swallow your pride and act like the adult you claim to be. You’re about to graduate from university, not kindergarten.”

Something that felt like vindication spread warm in your chest as you ducked your head, stifling a laugh. Served him right. The arrogant prick finally got put in his place.

★★★

Harry’s number was already in your phone, a leftover relic from the Stan days. Every time you pulled it up, thumb hovering over the message box, your stomach turned. He wasn’t going to reach out first, of course he wasn’t. He’d just sit there, smug, waiting for you to cave. Which you hated.

And you did cave. Because you weren’t the type to coast. You liked being ahead of the curve, projects drafted, a direction, something on paper... Harry was the opposite. He was the kind of student who thought “last minute”, as long as it got done, was just fine.

We need to figure out a topic so we have some idea of direction. Thoughts?

Delivered. Read. Ignored. All day. Then the next.

By the time you realized he wasn’t going to bother, you were already outlining the project yourself, typing notes, sketching a framework. Fine. If he wanted to rot, let him. After his tantrum in class, Mrs. Caldwell would believe you over him without a second thought.

A week crawled by and his silence was loud. No texts, no eye contact, nothing but a wall of deliberate indifference. So you sent him one last message. A final olive branch (because you were nice) before you washed your hands of him and let him choke on the consequences. Summer classes, delayed graduation, all of it. Fuck him.

And it came as no surprise when he left you on read. Once again. But it was no sweat off your back. You gave him a couple of chances and you were more than capable of doing the work on your own. So you buckled down, carved hours out of your free time, and built the whole damn project yourself piece by piece, determined that if anyone was failing, it sure as hell wasn’t going to be you.

.

Saturday night you found yourself relaxed on a couch at Ro’s off-campus house, the place that had become your unofficial second home. Her place was always buzzing with something going on. It was a hangout spot and a “halfway house” for lost students. It was warm, a little cluttered, and of course, weed and beer were always within reach. Exactly what you needed after a week of grinding and, more importantly, celebrating the fact that the project was done.

There were usually some faces you didn’t recognize, drifting in and out of the kitchen, sprawled on the floor, laughing too loud. That was normal because Ro and her roommates treated their house like a soft-landing spot for anyone who wanted to crash, smoke, and just chill.

You had just taken a long drag, the joint burning hot in your lungs, when it vanished. One blink and it was gone, plucked clean from your fingers. You straightened, startled, and followed the thief with your eyes.

And there he was.

Harry fucking Styles. Sliding into the sofa across from where you sat, like he owned the place, inked arm draped lazy across the backrest, joint poised between his fingers as if it had always belonged to him. He inhaled slow, lips wrapping around the paper, green eyes fixed on you. 

Why the hell was he at Ro’s house?

“What the fuck?” You looked around the living room and back to Harry. No one seemed to notice what had just happened.

“S’my weed. I brought it to share with everyone. But for you? That’ll be $20.”

Now heads turned and conversations quieted. The people who sat watching had no idea there was bad blood between you two. Only Ro knew to some extent, and of course she was nowhere to be found.

You scoffed and crossed your arms over your chest as you settled your angry gaze on Harry. “Fine. Keep it. I don’t want your weed anyway. I’ll grab a beer.” You pushed up from the couch, ready to disappear into the kitchen.

But Harry wasn’t done. “No. I meant you owe me twenty. You’ve already smoked half this joint.” He brought it to his lips again, eyes glinting as he took another long drag.

Heat flared through you. “Fuck you.” Your finger stabbed the air toward him like a knife. “You know what? Enjoy that high, because you’re about to fail Caldwell’s class. I finished the project last night, every word of it, and tomorrow she’s going to hear exactly how much you did. Which is nothing. Zero. Which means you don’t graduate.”

A ripple of whispers rose up from your nosy audience now. You couldn’t believe you were arguing with Harry in front of half a dozen near-strangers, airing your dirty laundry like it was printed in a scandal magazine. But so be it.

Harry laughed, a low, mocking sound of disbelief as he shook his head. He leaned forward to stub out the joint in the ashtray, tattoos flexing as he moved. “You wouldn’t. Assignment’s not due for another two and a half weeks. That’s not fair.”

You shrugged and walked away toward the kitchen to grab a beer but Harry was right behind you, slamming the refrigerator door closed just as you’d pulled it open an inch. You turned, Harry’s chest inches from yours, green eyes burning down at you. “You’re not gonna really try and fuck me over me like that, are you?”

You tilted your chin up, lips pulling up in a smirk. “Oh, you fucked yourself over. I’m turning it in Monday. I gave you two chances, Harry. Two. That was more than you deserved.”

Something dark flashed behind his eyes and his mouth tipped in an annoying smirk. “You’re such a fucking brat. Good thing Stan figured you out before he got in too deep. His new girl? So much nicer.” He leaned in just enough for his breath to ghost your ear. “Definitely not like you.”

The jab sliced through you just like he intended it too. But you didn’t flinch, instead, you leaned in closer to him, eyes not wavering from him. “You were jealous. You didn’t like how close Stan and I were. And you know damn well I didn’t cheat. You were probably in on the whole scheme to get us to break up. You couldn’t stand that I had what you wanted.”

His jaw clenched, eyes narrowing, then dipped for a fraction of a second to your mouth. “What I wanted? Jealous?” He let out a humorless chuckle. “You’re delusional.”

You yanked the door open, the force of it making him step back and you grabbed a cold can, cracking it open without breaking eye contact. “You always wanted to believe I cheated. Because hating me is easier than admitting how much I get under your skin.”

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move as you brushed past him. His stare burned into your back as you walked away, shoulders tight, mouth bitter. When you dropped back onto the couch beside Ro, who wordlessly handed you a fresh joint, your pulse was still hammering.

“It’s not Harry’s weed is it?” You asked her just as he walked back toward his spot on the couch, his eyes shooting daggers at you.

“No. This is from last week. The stuff Jerry brought over.”

You smiled smugly and took the joint between your pointer and middle finger and inhaled as you stared at him. You liked that he was so angry because of you.

 “Why is Harry here anyway?” You asked her quietly after you passed the joint to someone else.

“I don’t know. Maybe Karl invited him? He’s been hanging out with Harry a bit.” Ro didn’t know the whole story about how much you hated Harry. She only knew you just didn’t like him after you’d broken up with Stan. She heard bits and pieces. Enough to know you two didn’t get along.

When Harry shifted, the couch groaned under his weight as he stood and strode out of the living room wordlessly. You weren’t sure where he’d gone off to but you hoped that maybe he’d finally left. But, of course, you weren’t that lucky because not long after, when you and Ro went to the basement there he was with a dart in one hand, and a beer in the other. He wore a kind of tipsy confidence that left his eyes bloodshot, hazy, and stoned… maybe a mirror of your own. Then he glanced in your direction and cursed under his breath, jaw tightening.

“You know you could just leave if it’s that bad seeing me,” you called out to him, everyone’s attention suddenly on you. 

Eyes shot between you and Harry. A modern day duel was about to take place and no one wanted to miss a thing. You hadn’t meant to draw the room into it, but Harry had been grinding at your nerves all night and the words slipped free before you could stop them.

“Or you could just pay me the twenty you owe me and leave yourself.”

You put your hands on your hips and walked up to him, everyone watching you both, “And if I don’t pay you?”

Harry’s jaw clenched as he stared down at you, “Then it wouldn’t shock me. You’ve always had a way of twisting things to suit yourself.” His voice dropped lower, sharp and rough-edged. “Now get out of my space. I don’t wanna even look at you.”

“Then stop staring.” you scoffed, chin tilted up in defiance.

“Hey… you two?” Karl spoke up, “Can you chill out? Kinda fucking up the vibe here.”

You softened your stance and moved away toward a stool next to Ro. The last thing you wanted was to make anyone else uncomfortable. You didn’t care if Harry fumed, he deserved it, but the others didn’t.

Harry pointed at you as he took a dart in hand when it was his turn, “She doesn’t get any of my weed. Make sure she keeps her hands off my shit.”

When he aimed at the board you cackled loudly and he missed the target, dart thunking wide on the board. He turned, eyes sharp on you. As if his bad aim was your fault.

“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna touch your weed asshole.”

His nostrils flared as he stepped toward you, every muscle tight. “For fuck’s sake, will you just shut up?”

You stood, meeting his advance with a scowl, nearly chest to chest now, the air between you practically buzzing. “What? You gonna hit me?”

Karl wedged himself between you two, palms on Harry’s chest as he pushed him back. “Enough. Either take this upstairs and sort it out, or leave. Both of you. No one here signed up for World War Three. Jesus, you’re both insufferable.”

Harry didn’t drag his angry gaze from you as he grabbed his stash of weed and stomped away upstairs. You followed behind him silently as you tried to remember where you’d put your purse. You figured you’d just go. There was no point in staying around any longer. You and Harry weren’t built to exist in the same space.

“The fuck is wrong with you? You really think I'd actually hit you?” he barked as you passed. You ignored him and kept walking. Engaging felt pointless.

“What? You can’t hear me now?” His voice grew louder.

You rolled your eyes as you yanked your purse over your shoulder and then dug around for your keys but before you could find them Harry had his hand closed around your upper arm and he pulled you to the small laundry room at the front of the house. The door clicked behind you.

“You’re gonna talk to me now.” He shoved you against the cold metal of the washing machine, his breath close enough that you could feel it on your skin. ”I don’t like you acting like you didn't do anything wrong. All innocent when you know you're not.”

You wrenched your arm free, your purse thudding to the floor as you leaned back, planting both palms on the machine and sneered up at him. “You're a dick who made up a lie about me. You’ll get what’s coming to you when you can’t graduate this semester.”

Harry’s nostrils flared and he stood over you, a palm on the cold surface of the metal washing machine behind you “Fuck. You. You cheated. You lied. I’m glad Stan isn’t with you anymore.”

Something snapped in you. You slapped him, flat palm, hard… and he staggered back, a surprised, involuntary groan ripping from his throat as he pressed a hand to his cheek. For half a beat he stared at you like you were insane. Maybe you were.

“Did that hurt, pretty boy?” you said, grinning viciously as his hand still hovered where you’d hit him. “I hope it bruises and you have to walk around with a mark on your stupid face knowing that it was me who did it.”

“You put another fucking finger on me and I’ll make you regret it.”

A short laugh escaped you, breath hot, pulse thrumming against your throat. You sized him up… the way his shirt clung, the set of his jaw, and the reckless heat in his gaze. “Then back the fuck off,” you shot back. “Why are you standing over me like you’re gonna fight? I’m half your size, you moron.”

He didn’t move for a second, just watched you as his chest rose and fell. Then he removed his palm from his cheek and caged you in fully, your bottom pressed into the washing machine. Outside of the laundry room you could hear muffled music and laughter. But there was nothing funny about whatever was happening in that room between you and Harry right then. It seared, had your heart racing.

His gaze coasted down your frame and back up to your eyes. “You are half my size. So, if I were you, I’d be careful.”

“Why, cause you’re gonna hurt me? Gonna show me who’s boss?” You called him on his bluff.

“I fucking should. You’re acting like a child.”

“Well, you’ve got me cornered.” You spat, shoving at his chest. Hard muscle resisted under your palms, solid and immovable. “I have no choice but to defend myself. And I’ll do it again if I have to.” You shoved harder this time, both hands braced against him, but before you could get momentum, his hand shot up.

His fingers locked around your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His other hand clamped over your wrists, trapping them against the hard bulk of his chest. The warmth of his skin burned through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Last warning. Don’t touch me again.”

“But your hands are all over me,” your words were smushed from your mouth as he kept his fingers pressed into your face.

That earned you a short laugh, hot breath spilling over your cheek. “All over you? Please. In your fucking dreams.”

“Oh fuck you…” you spat. His face was so close to yours that you could smell the beer on his breath and see the specks of gold in his pretty green eyes. Stupid pretty green eyes.

His gaze dropped to your mouth and lingered. “No. Fuck you.” His voice came out deep, guttural, pulsing with something that wasn’t just rage anymore. It was molten, dangerous, red-hot.

“Fuck you, Harry.”

You didn’t know what had shifted but something happened and the tension between you two in that dark laundry room crackled and sparked until everything around you was aflame. His mouth crashed into yours, teeth clashing, lips bruising. He hauled you up onto the washer, metal groaning beneath your weight. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging, pulling, as his hips wedged between your thighs. 

You bit his lip, hard, drawing a groan from deep in his chest. His hands roamed, one sliding up, wrapping around the front of your throat, holding you there like you belonged to him.

Everything was fury and molten lava. You grabbed his belt and yanked at it, unfastening, hungry as you felt him slide a hand under your dress and roughly push your thighs further apart.

“What would Stan think,” you gasped against his mouth, “about his best friend doing this to his ex?”

Harry’s laugh came out rough, low in his throat, as he shoved his jeans down just enough to free briefs. “He doesn’t give a fuck about you. No one does.” His words burned, but his body told a different story.

Your eyes dropped, throat tightening when you caught the sizeable lump straining under his briefs. “No one?” you shot back, voice sharp though your pulse was fluttering. “That hard-on says otherwise. Looks pretty damn happy to see me.”

His jaw clenched, but you saw the edge of a smirk on his face, betraying him. He pressed his palm to your mouth, eyes hot. “You don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

You ran your tongue against his palm, smirking under his hand, words muffled nonsense as his fingers slid under the lace of your panties where he learned you were wet. A wicked, menacing grin pulled at his mouth as he stuffed two fingers through your opening.

“Look at you… Hate me all you want, but you're soaked for me.”

A sharp breath shuddered through you as your walls clenched around his thrusting fingers. His touch was rough, invasive, but every drag of his fingers had your hips shifting helplessly.

And then he shoved his briefs down past his hips, cock springing free, thick and heavy, making your eyes widen before you could stop yourself. You’d wanted something to mock, something to cut him down with, but there was nothing laughable about him.

He caught your stare, smirk quirking up. Pulling his hand from your mouth, he gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?”

You rolled your eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Doesn’t mean you know what the fuck you’re doing. Bet you don't know how to get a woman off.”

There was a flash of wicked satisfaction across his face as he pulled his fingers free, snagging your panties to the side. “Oh yeah?” he snarled a laugh, rough in his throat. “I’ll make you come, and you’ll have to live with it. That the guy you hate most made you lose it harder than anyone else ever has. So you better enjoy it ‘cause this is all you’ll ever get.”

You reached down, fingers wrapping tight around the root of him, giving him a slow, taunting pull. “Enjoy it? You sure talk a big game for someone with such a tiny brain.”

His gaze dropped, dark and hungry, to where your hand gripped his shaft. He let you guide him, fingers tight around him, sliding the tip against your pussy, painting it through your folds before angling him back against your hole.

You bit down on your lip hard the moment he pressed his cockhead through your wet opening, your muscle stretching and straining wide for him. It was a lot.

He hissed through his teeth as he watched your pussy struggle to swallow him. “You can’t even take me. Figures you act all tough but now here you are whining because it’s too much.”

You grit your teeth, rolling your eyes, defiant even as your body trembled around him. Planting your feet on the washer’s edge, you forced yourself down onto him, inch by inch, jaw tight. “Idiot. You’re not that big.”

But it was a lie, and you both knew it. Every push was a struggle, your cunt clenching, spreading to fit him, sweat dampening your hairline. Harry stood still, smirk painted across his face, drinking in the sight of you fucking yourself down on him.

“Desperate, too,” he groaned, voice a low rasp. “Can hardly get it in, but you’re so needy you’ll wreck yourself trying. If you’d just let me do it we could already be nearly done here.”

“You’re such a dick.” You reached a hand up to his shoulder for leverage, fingernails digging crescents into his skin.

His lips twitched, amused as his tongue swept over them slow. “I am. Big one, too.”

It almost made you laugh. Almost. But you kept a look of disdain on your face as you worked yourself over him. Until he had had enough of your antics and dug his fingers into your hips to hold you still and drove himself in until he was buried inside you, hips flush with yours.

The strangled cry that ripped from you, betrayed your tough act, high and guttural, your nails scraping down his arm.

“That’s more like it. Now let’s finish what you started.”

Your mouth was wide open as you set your eyes on his and he began to fuck into you. At first, he was doing you a favor by slowly stretching you open. His length split you apart with every inch he pressed in until he reared back to his tip, only to fuck himself back into the hilt making you inhale sharply through your teeth.

The sound was slick and wet as he grunted with every thrust, your own gasps breathy and involuntarily pitched up a notch too high. He kept his eyes pinned to yours and you tried your hardest not to show any sign of pleasure on your face but it was impossible when you kept parting your lips to let out a moan. You clung to his arms, muscle and ink under your grip, desperate not to topple backward as each stroke rocked through you.

But his composure was just as thin. He tried to play it cool, jaw set, but the urgent guttural noises he made, and his aching hard cock twitching deep inside you, gave him away.

“Jesus that’s weak. Is that all you got?” You taunted.

Harry swallowed thickly, stilling his hips with his cock seated deep inside you. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He shoved at your shoulder until you leaned back, propping on your elbows, body bared open for him. Grabbing your left leg, he pressed your foot against his chest, his palm locking around your thigh. Then, without hesitation, he drove into you in one brutal thrust, his cockhead slamming against your cervix.

The gasp that ripped from your lungs was raw, punched out of you before you could bite it back.

He did it again and again until he’d gotten momentum and he was pounding into you, his cock coated thick in your arousal. His hips snapped against yours, cock sliding slick and heavy through your walls, each stroke wetter, filthier, your body betraying how much you wanted it.

Your face scrunched, torn between pleasure and pain, every nerve alight. He wasn’t gentle, not with his fat shaft splitting you apart, not with the way his tip bullied past resistance over and over.

With the way he was gripping your right hip and keeping hold of your left thigh you weren’t able to wiggle much as he drilled into you. He was panting, pink lips falling open, gaze dropping to where his cock disappeared inside you, glistening with your arousal.

“Fuck…” he grunted and shot his gaze up to your eyes and then back down to the dirty scene where his bare cock was destroying the pretty pussy of the girl he hated more than anyone.

The truth was that he’d always thought you were way hotter than you deserved to be.  A brat. A liar. He’d convinced himself you were trash. Snobby, fake, guilty of screwing around on his best friend. He’d believed the screenshots because he wanted to believe them. Wanted an excuse to hate the way your laugh pulled attention, the way your lashes batted when Tommy leaned too close at parties.

And now, with you clenched tight around him, the lie and the hate blurred until all that was left was raw, consuming lust. 

Harry snapped his hips harder, faster, making the washer slam against the wall with every thrust. His heavy balls slapped against you, the sound dirty and brutal, and the cry that tore out of your throat was nothing like disdain, rather, it was desperate, broken, aching.

“Oh my god… oh fuck...” you tried to swallow the sounds, biting them back, but Harry’s cock drove through you mercilessly, punishing, deep, every thrust stealing another ragged moan. His muscles were tight and he kept going, unrelenting, until his own groan cracked loose from his throat.

You drew your fingers down, slid them over your clit, and circled fast, your head tipping back. The rush of it was dizzying. Letting him split you open in the laundry room of your friend’s house, of all places. You hated him for this. Hated him for ruining Stan, for turning friends against you, for branding you a liar. For humiliating you. And now here you were, whimpering for him, body betraying the truth you’d never give him out loud.

“That’s it,” he rasped, eyes locked on you as his hips slammed forward. “Knew you’d like it. Gonna hate yourself after this for how much you love this cock.” His words came out shaky, something between tight and breathy. The man was enjoying it too.

His words vibrated through you, and you snapped back, breath catching between thrusts. “Just like you’re gonna hate… yourself for fucking me. For…” a moan tore free, “…your dick getting hard because you couldn’t resist… fuck!” You moaned and continued as you brought your gaze back up to his, “Dragged me in here… so you could finally feel me… bet you’ve been… gagging for it all this time.”

His precise, brutal pounding turned into sloppy, deep thrusts as he dropped his head down and kept his eyes on yours, pupils blown out, pink lips parted, “Fuck you, Y/n.”

“Fuck you, Harry.”

You felt that slippery tingle wind over your limbs, over your thighs, and through your belly as you circled your clit, your fingertips grazing his thick cock as he dragged in and out, strings of slick sticking to his base and your cunt every time he parted his hips from yours just before plunging back in.

He let go of your hip, hand coming up to grab your jaw, and forced your mouth open as his cock drove deeper. His stare burned into yours, before he spit straight into your mouth.

You groaned, shocked, instinct screaming to spit it back, but his lips crashed into yours, tongue shoving in, sealing it. You had no choice but to swallow as he kissed you like a man starved, and the humiliation twisted into pure heat. And that was it for you. Your orgasm hit hard, tearing through you, your cunt clenching around him in desperate, pulsing waves.

Your moans poured into his mouth as he kissed you hard, fucking you through it, hips never slowing, cock dragging every tremor from your body. His own voice broke, moaning into you, raw and guttural, as he felt you clamp down around him.

Harry fucked you through every second of it, long messy strokes, leaving you wrecked, branded, exactly like he promised. He was making sure you’d have something to remember him by.

The minute your body stopped fluttering around him and your tremors eased, Harry dragged himself out of you, fist clamping around his slick cock. Before you could even register the loss he pulled you off the washer and guided you down onto your knees. He grabbed the back of your head, fist furiously pumping himself, cockhead slipping against your lips, and then, held you still, and pressed himself past your lips. The heavy weight of him filled your throat as hot spurts of release hit your tongue. 

You sputtered, swallowing around him as he groaned above you, a sound that was all relief and ruin, cock throbbing against the back of your mouth while his heartbeat thundered under his skin.

Harry drew away from you silently when he’d emptied himself down your throat and put himself back into his underwear, fixing his pants up. But you could see that his chest was heaving, his face was flushed, his eyes glistening.

You used the washer to pull yourself upright on shaky legs, wiping your mouth and tugging your ruined panties back into place. One shoe was gone, maybe he’d pulled it off, or maybe it had just fallen, you couldn’t even remember.

He gave you a quick once over before he spoke. “That was worth about twenty bucks,” he said hoarsely. “No need to pay me for the weed. Call it even.” And just like that he opened the laundry room door and walked out.

You scoffed but your throat was too scratchy to talk back. 

A few deep breaths later you hobbled to grab your purse and you saw Ro standing at the door with her arms over her chest, “Really? Was that necessary?”

“What? Could you… did you guys…” Your stomach dropped.

“Yes. We heard everything. Every word, every noise. The laundry room has a big open vent that leads down to the basement. Jesus, Y/n.”

You were stunned as you covered your face and blinked down toward the floor, “I’m so sorry…”

“Well, at least this means you don’t hate each other anymore.”

If only. She hadn’t heard everything. Not the spit, not the way his words still cut, or the things you'd said back to him. You still hated him. Hated him more, in a way, because now you knew you’d be thinking about him long after tonight… about his hands at your throat, his body against yours, his cock splitting you open. A man you’d tried to forget now burned into your memory.

But at least you knew that it was probably the same for him. He was probably kicking himself for letting it get that far. Probably wishing his cock hadn’t gotten so hard at the sight of you, wishing he hadn’t shown you that you were a weakness he couldn’t control.

You could walk away from it knowing you were both on the same page. That it had been unforgettable but that you’d rather gouge your eyes out than breathe the same air as one another ever again.

And at least you had one final blow, something that gave you the upper hand in the end. That he’d fail the class when you turned in the final project. That he’d be unable to graduate with you and that felt like the kind of vengeance that was justified for someone like him.

With that in mind, you removed your hands from your face to look at Ro, “No. I still hate him. Fuck Harry Styles.”

.

part 2 coming Oct. 6

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. .

In the council chamber hall, Harry waited at the head of the table and watched the door. His vision was red with fury, his hands were shaking, and his heart was pounding. He stood with both hands braced on the wood, the cloth-wrapped shard of sugared sweet set before him. The chair next to him remained empty. He couldn't even think about sitting in it.

Niall took his place at the King’s right, silent, steady, eyes on the door with him.

“Bring them,” Harry said.

They came in with guards at their elbows. Footman Evan first, then Mr. Hawkins, the pantry clerk. Last, the palace confectioner, hat clutched in his hands, already shaking his head as if to deny he’d ever seen a kitchen in his life.

Harry first looked at Evan, eyes set in wild anger.

“You carried a tray to the Queen today.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Evan whispered.

“On whose order?”

“Mr. Hawkins’, Majesty. He said he wanted to send compliments to Her Majesty, it was from…" Evan swallowed, the click in his throat loud enough for everyone to hear, “from the clerk’s hand himself.”

Harry held out his palm. “Your note.”

Evan fumbled a folded card from his pocket and Niall stepped around to take it from the boy's shaking hand. Harry didn't remove his eyes from Evan. “Did you open the covers? Touch the sweets?”

“No, Majesty. I carried and set, and left at once. Miss Phoebe was there. I swear it on…on my mother’s name.”

“Your mother is not the law.” Harry’s voice sharpened. “But this will serve for now. Stand aside.”

Evan all but stumbled to the wainscot. A guard caught his arm and steadied him.

Harry turned his head, eyes sweeping toward the pantry clerk. “Hawkins.”

The pantry clerk lowered his head in half a nod. “Majesty.”

“You gave the order.”

Hawkins swallowed. “I passed along a tray, Majesty, as I do of a morning. From the stillroom to the pantry, from the pantry to—”

Harry stepped from the table to the man. One hand closed in Hawkins’s collar and slammed him back into the paneling hard enough to rattle the candle flames. The clerk’s breath left him in a shocked grunt.

“You will not recite your little map to me,” Harry said, low enough that spittle flecked the man’s cheek. “You will tell me who told you to put death on my wife’s plate.”

“Majesty—” Hawkins’ feet tipped as his hands came up, palms empty as if to prove his innocence. “I swear—”

Harry shook him once, a short, brutal jerk. “Name.”

“Wescott!” the man yelped, eyes squeezed shut. “My lord Wescott… through his cousin—God help me—through his cousin!”

The room was silent around the words spoken, only filled in with the sound of Hawkins wheezing.

“Cousin,” Harry said. “Name.”

“Master Ellis of Bellerose. He's a confectioner. He sent a note with a parcel last week. Said the kitchens were to know his sweets were at my lord’s disposal, that they might be… be used as he advised.” Hawkins was panting now. “And yesterday I was told, quietly, to have a plate of pastilles sent to Her Majesty this morning, with a cordial from the stillroom."

"These were purposely not tested before being sent up to my wife? Aren't you the one to oversee this? What else?"

"Your Majesty… Please—"

Harry's grip tightened around his collar, the fabric squeezing Hawkin's neck tight, and he slammed the pantry clerk into the wall again. "Speak!"

"It was only a thimbleful. Only to—” Hawkins paused, his eyes wide, flicking around to everyone in the room.

Harry drove him back into the wood once again. “Only to what?”

Hawkins’ voice broke. “Only to make her… unwell. That was what was said to me. Only unwell. I swear it. Not to kill her.”

“Who told you ‘only unwell’?”

“Mrs. Mable’s woman… Jessa—no, Jo—Joan. I’ve seen her carry notes between her mistress and Lord Wescott. They said—” His throat worked. “They said the Queen must be brought low. That the city would not bear her, and a softer bride would serve the realm better.”

“A softer bride,” Harry repeated. “Pearl Mable.”

Hawkins made a broken noise that could have been assent, could have been a prayer.

The apothecary cleared his throat softly from where he stood by the table’s end, glass stoppered, spoon laid out. “Majesty,” he said, carefully, “the shard smells strongly of cherry-laurel. Laurel-water. The cordial distilled of its leaves. It carries that bitter almond. Enough on a candied sweet, and a lady at fast might have been very ill.” He bowed his head. “I will prove it with reagents in the stillroom, but I am as certain as a man may be by nose.”

Harry did not look away from Hawkins to answer. “You will prove it, and you will write it, and you will sign it under the seal,” he said. Then he stepped back, only enough to let Hawkins breathe, and released his collar.

“Guards,” Harry said.

They moved to take Hawkins, but the King was not finished. He caught the clerk’s jaw in one hand, thumb forcing the man’s face up. “You put your hand to the chain that led to my wife’s mouth.” His voice had thinned to something almost gentle. “Had you thought what that would purchase you?”

Hawkins’ eyes filled. “Mercy, please… Majesty. I—”

Harry struck him. A single, open-handed blow that cracked across the man’s cheek and spun him half a step. “Mercy is for men misled,” Harry said. “You were eager. You knew what this was.”

“Majesty,” Duke Hughes said from the far end, voice papery. “We have a formal procedure for this.”

“We have an attempt on the Queen's life,” Harry said without turning. “And a gallows to remedy it.”

He let go of Hawkins with a shove that sent him into the guards’ hands. “Take him below. He will be held prisoner until I decide his fate.”

Hawkins found his feet and his terror together. “Lord Wescott told me to do it!” he babbled as they hauled him toward the door. “Ask him!" He laughed like he'd gone mad.

Harry’s head lifted at that. “Bring in Wescott,” he said.

They didn't have to go far. The corridor was already full of ears and nosy spectators pretending to work. Lord Wescott entered with his chin high, coat perfect.

“Your Majesty,” he said, making a shallow bow.

Harry waited until the door had shut behind him. Then he stepped around the table slowly.

“Your cousin in Bellerose sends sugared chestnuts,” he said conversationally. “And laurel-water.”

Wescott’s smile did not reach his eyes. “If he does, you must take that up with him. My relatives are many and very free with their wares.”

Harry closed the distance in three strides and hit him so squarely in the face that the room gasped. It was not the measured slap he had given Hawkins. It was a hooked, ugly thing, the kind men learn in combat, knuckles thudding hard enough on Wescott’s cheekbone to send him staggering into the back of a chair. Though the court flinched, no one spoke.

Wescott’s hand came up white and shaking to his face. “You strike a peer, Majesty?”

Harry took him by the lapels and dragged him up so that they were nose to nose. “I strike a coward,” he said, and the word left spit on Wescott’s lip. “You sit at my table and speak of protocol while you reach into my chambers with poison. That is my wife!"

“You have no proof,” Wescott ground out, breath sour. “A clerk’s babble and a whiff of almond? You will hang half the city on the strength of a scent?”

Harry’s fingers tightened. “I will hang you on the strength of your mouth,” he said softly, “and consider it mercy. You would have put my wife in the ground to seat a milksop with pretty hair. You think I do not see you. I have seen you since the day you smiled at me over your cup with your rotted teeth.”

Wescott swallowed. “You will lose this kingdom.”

Harry smiled, then spoke coolly. “Then I will lose it fighting.” He let go and Wescott stumbled into the chair next to him. “Bind him,” Harry said. “Strip him of his seal and his place. He is for the block. Take him down and hold him. No food or water.”

A sound went through the chamber at that. Not words spoken, just the noise men make when something heavier than law drops on the table. The guards took Wescott, and he tried to square his shoulders for the door but failed.

“Send for Mrs. Mable,” Harry said, not raising his voice. “And bring the woman, Joan, who runs between her rooms and Wescott’s. I will hear their pathetic drivel.” He glanced at Evan, who was trying to be invisible against the paneling. “You, boy. If you lie to me again, even by silence, I will have you flogged from this house to the gate. But you will live only because you were stupid enough to be tricked. I see no malice. Do you understand?”

Evan nodded so hard his teeth knocked. “Yes, Majesty.”

Niall set the folded card from Evan on the table before Harry. The King flicked it open with one finger, scanned the neat, bland script, then passed it back, face unreadable.

He turned to the castle confectioner. "What is your name?"

The man bowed his head low. "Mr. Peter Dunman, Your Highness."

"You allowed this tray to pass through without checking it. As castle confectioner, you have made a grave mistake in granting access to a foreign platter of pastilles into this place."

"Forgive my ignorance, Your Highness. I did not know they were in the castle. No one passed them by me first, as is usually the order of things. I was not privy to any of these ongoings until just now." Dunman kept his head low as he twisted his cap in his palms nervously.

Harry stepped in front of him. "Then look at me and say it."

The man tilted his eyes up and looked at the king. "King Styles… Your Highness, I was not made aware of any of this until now. My only mistake is that I was ignorant of these ongoings. But I swear it that I had no hand in any of this."

"Where were you when all this took place? Tell me your schedule, Dunman. From morning until you were called here."

He swallowed. "I woke with the staff bell at half past 7 to begin my day. I walked through the kitchen after dressing at 9 and took stock of ingredients." He paused, eyes wandering toward the wall for a moment. "I looked over requests and then began to make a menu for the afternoon and evening. I had not yet begun making any sweets this day, as of yet."

"Witnesses?"

"Yes, My Lord. I delegated the task of writing my menu to a kitchen maid, Louise. And the pantler noted which ingredients I needed stocked, so he saw me as well."

"Very well." Harry waved his hand and looked at his assistant, Fred. "Go and interview the kitchen maid and the pantler to make sure I'm not being told lies. Also, send someone to fetch me this confectioner, Master Ellis of Bellerose. I understand he may not attend us this day, given the distance, but by tomorrow evening, I want him here so I can look him in the eye when I sentence him to death."

Fred nodded. "My Lord." He turned and left the chamber hall at once.

"You may stand aside, Mr. Dunman."

The confectioner exhaled and backed up toward the wall to stand and wait for the verdict, but the slope of his shoulders said he was slightly more relieved.

It wasn't much longer before the door opened once more. Mrs. Mable swept in as if she had better things to do. As if the chamber hall was too lowly for her presence, her mouth already poised for outrage. Joan followed sheepishly behind, head down at the floor.

Mrs. Mable moved toward a chair at the table. “How dare you drag—”

Harry yanked the chair away before she could touch it. “You will stand,” he said. “You set your hand against your Queen.”

“I?” She laughed, thin, incredulous. “Absurd! You cannot find a woman guilty by the gossip of servants.”

“I can find her guilty by the company she keeps,” Harry said. “By the men who carry her hopes in their pockets.” He took a step that put him inside the reach of her perfume. “You pushed your daughter forward as a bauble to buy the city’s favor. You will not do it over my wife’s grave.”

Color rose high on Mrs. Mable’s cheekbones. “I do not know who attempted to hurt your Queen, but—"

"Your Queen. Do not forget where you stand, old woman."

She blinked and straightened her back. "If my daughter had been Queen, this would not have happened. Thornekeep wants a queen fit for the crown. Pearl is. It's no wonder someone wanted Y/n out.”

“Pearl is fit to be a wife to a shopman,” Harry said, each word a contempt. “You have turned her into a pawn and called it ambition. I pity her having a mother like you.” He stepped closer without touching her. “You have been named as conspirator in this debaucle, and you are hereby stripped of your precedence. Your house is removed from court. You will be confined, and you will pray that I don't change my mind and sentence you to death.”

She opened her mouth and he lifted a hand in warning. She quickly closed it, suddenly not feeling as brave to speak her mind.

Harry looked to Joan. "And you. You have aligned yourself with evil. Speak. What is your defense?"

Joan was trembling all over. Her fingers were twisting into the fabric of her dress as she spoke. "I… I do as I'm told. N–nothing more!"

The King stood in front of the young woman. "You have been named as guilty by a witness. Speak. I want to hear your defense now, or you will find yourself confined to prison for the rest of your days. Do not hold back a word."

Joan looked toward Mrs. Mable, as if to communicate something, and Harry watched the pair exchange silent nods. "Do not look to her. She is no longer your concern. I am the one you should be concerned about. Tell me everything now, and I will consider a lighter sentence for you."

The young woman nodded quickly and blinked before looking back down at the rug under her feet. "Your Majesty. I was informed that the sweets were only mildly tampered with. I didn't want to! I was scared…"

"You should have come to me when you learned about this. Go on. Continue."

"Mrs. Mable had said that she was concerned the queen could be pregnant soon, and that would be the end of hope. She wanted to stop—"

"You will be out on the streets, girl!" Mrs. Mable shouted and struggled against the two guards who held her.

Harry turned to look at the woman. "You think you hold any authority here anymore? You are dumber than you look. Silence or I will have you gagged." He looked back at Joan. "Proceed."

"She… She said to Lord Wescott… If the queen were pregnant, the poison would stop it, and there would be a chance you'd find her unfit if she were unable to carry a child to term. There was a long-term plan in place."

"You little traitorous bitch!" Mrs. Mable spat out, red in the face.

Harry pulled the kerchief from Dunman's breast pocket and hastily shoved it into Mrs. Mable's mouth, jostling her back from the force. "Next time, I'll have your tongue cut out. Keep silent in my presence."

"A long-term plan?" He turned back to Joan.

"Yes, Your Majesty. To bring her sweets that would just make her unwell enough that she would not be healthy to carry a baby. One tray per month. Not to kill, but to make sick. Until you cast her off and search for a new queen to provide you with an heir."

"And I presume the most obvious choice would be Pearl in this case. Guards," Harry turned to them. "Take Mrs. Mable to the north tower. No visitors for her.”

He turned to the room, and everyone leaned away, worried that they were next in line for questions. “Hawkins and Wescott to the gaol for hanging,” he said. “At noon on the morrow after, once the confectioner from Bellerose is in my custody. Evan and Dunman are free to go for now. This one, Joan, cells. I will decide her sentence tomorrow.”

“Majesty,” the Duke tried again, “the town. Wescott is—”

“Popular? Beloved?” Harry asked, almost kindly, a lift to his mouth that could have fooled anyone that it was a genuine smile. “Then let them see what his fame buys.” He looked to Niall. “Post riders to every gate and market. Word will go out clean. An attempt upon the Queen’s life, proved by the apothecary, and punished by law.”

Niall inclined his head. “Aye, Majesty.”

Harry’s hand closed once more on the back of the chair as the knuckles whitened and eased. When he spoke again, his voice was iron. "This is my kingdom and my rule. Anyone who dares touch a hair on the queen's head is a traitor and shall be punished accordingly."

.

Y/n was standing when he entered, and she was already moving toward him before the latch had finished falling. Harry caught her up on the interrogation, one arm hard around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head as if he meant to keep it from the world.

“I am here,” she said into his coat. “I am whole.”

He drew back only enough to see her face. His thumb went to her lip, to her temple, to the soft place beneath her ear… an inventory done by touch. “Did the physician look you over?”

“He did. I’m well.”

Harry clenched his jaw as he nodded and he pulled her in again, until her weight settled against him. “They would have had you sick in my house. Maybe even dead.”

“They did not,” she answered, gentling him. “And they shall not.”

He pressed his mouth to her hair and let the breath go out of him. When he spoke next, the softness was gone. “Hawkins and Wescott go to the block,” he said. “The woman Joan to cells. Mrs. Mable to the north tower and stripped of all the pretty ribbons she has tied around that name.”

Her hands were on his chest and she felt the words as much as heard them. “Death?” she asked, careful.

“Yes.” His eyes were black, anger still on him. “At noon on the morrow after Ellis is brought to heel. Let the town look at the price of their sport.”

“Harry.” She said his name as if it might loosen something. “Do not hang a man for my sake. Not even Wescott.”

“For your sake?” he repeated, anger turning clean. “No, mouse. For mine. For the crown. For the next evening some lord with a silk tongue thinks to season your breakfast.”

She held his gaze. “You will make martyrs of them.”

“They made themselves so when they reached into my chamber for you.” He stepped away, only the distance of an arm, and it was enough to tell her he had decided. “Mercy invites a second try.”

“Mercy can be justice,” she said softly. “Imprison them. Take what they own. Let them live with the shame of it.”

He shook his head once. “Live? To write notes and send cousins and find new hands? I will not have you sleep under that.”

They stood close, opposed on the fates of the men who tried to hurt her, neither raising a voice. At last, she moved the smallest step back into him and he met her halfway, the quarrel left on the floor between them like a thing that would have to be stepped around again.

“I do not agree,” she said.

“I know.” His hand came to the back of her neck. “But I will have you safe. That I will not bend.”

She closed her eyes. “Then just hold me.”

“I can do that.”

. .

The following afternoon came with a rap at the door and Niall’s voice. “Majesty.”

Harry rose from the chair where he had sat himself for tea. Niall bowed his head. “Master Ellis of Bellerose presents himself. He came under escort. We’ve kept him in the lower room.”

Harry glanced back at Y/n and she was already watching him from the bed, propped on one elbow. “Go,” she said quietly. “Find the truth.”

“I will.” He crossed to her, bent, and pressed his mouth once to her brow. “Bolt the door behind me.”

They took Ellis into the small audience room, plain table, straight chairs, nothing to dignify or frighten. The man rose when Harry entered. He had the shoulders of a tradesman and the pinched face of one who had not slept. Flour dust clung to the seams of his cuffs as if he'd been stolen right in the middle of work.

“Master Ellis,” Harry said.“You are cousin to Lord Wescott.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.” The man swallowed. “By my mother’s sister.”

“You sent him a hamper of sweets with a note last week.”

Ellis nodded. “As I do each winter to households who custom with me. Comfits, sugared chestnuts. The note is courtesy, not license. I send no cordials with my parcels. I do not distill.”

“Laurel-water?” Harry asked, evenly.

At the word, Ellis blanched as if something had been struck from him. “No, Majesty,” he said, hoarse. “I keep no laurel in my shop. I warn apprentices out of apothecaries for the same. I will swear it on guild and Gospel.”

Harry let the silence hang long enough to read the man’s face. Then, very calmly, he spoke. “Poisoned sweets were sent up to the Queen. From you.”

The blood went out of Ellis so completely that Niall took a half-step, thinking he might fall. His hands found the back of the chair and held to it.

“To… Her Majesty? In my name?” His breath showed in the cold. “God save me.” He shook his head sharply, once, twice, as if to set the thought straight. “No, Majesty. I did not know. I would not—” His voice frayed. “I am a confectioner. I sweeten feast-days for children and saints. If my cousin has used my name to grease a wickedness, I will answer for the trust I gave him. But I did not send poison. I did not know it touched your house.”

Niall’s gaze went to Harry’s. They had stood in too many rooms with liars not to recognize a man who had just learned what his name had bought him.

“You will leave samples of your stock,” Harry said. “You will write out the names of every runner who has carried your parcels these three months, and you will set your hand to the note you sent Wescott, here, under my seal. You will not trade so much as a sugar thread in Thornekeep until I say you may.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“I will write to your aldermen and your guildmaster in Bellerose,” Harry went on. “They will open your bins and your books. They will determine your censure there. I will be apprised.”

Ellis bowed his head. “I submit to it all.”

Harry took a step closer, and the man’s eyes flinched and returned. “If I learn you knew more than you have said in this room,” Harry said, soft as steel, “I will throw you in irons and bring you back to watch what becomes of men who lend their names to treason.”

“Yes, Majesty.” The man wet his lips. “May I… may I beg one word carried to Her Majesty? That I am ashamed my parcel was ever named in this. I would sooner break both hands than sweeten such a deed.”

Niall spoke for the first time. “I’ll see it written.”

Harry’s mouth did not soften, precisely, but some rigidness left the line of it. “You will be kept under escort at the south gatehouse until I am apprised and you are returned,” he said. “Eat there. Speak to no one.”

Ellis bowed again, awkwardly, grateful, and allowed the guard to take him.

When the door shut, Harry stood a moment with his palm flat on the table, looking at nothing but the panel of wood on the wall. “A confectioner,” he said at last, almost to himself. “Let Bellerose whip him if they must. My rats live nearer.”

Niall inclined his head. “And they’ve seen your teeth.”

Harry turned from the table. “Post a rider with my letters. And send word up that sentencing will be done forthwith.”

“Aye, Majesty.”

.

Phoebe was at the small writing table in Y/n’s chamber, sorting through a stack of letters, when the Queen closed the door firmly behind her.

“Phoebe,” Y/n said softly a she approached. “I need you to promise me something.”

Her lady looked up at once, wary. “Of course. What is it?”

“The king is planning the execution of Wescott and Hawkins. He's calling court this evening, where he'll announce it publicly, but he has already told me the executions will take place tomorrow. I need you to promise me that you won’t tell the king where I go in the morning.”

The quill in Phoebe’s hand stilled. Her expression tightened. “What? Majesty, no. You can’t mean—”

“I do. I cannot sit here in safety while men hang because of me. The kingdom already hates me. It'll be worse if these men die by my name.” Y/n pressed her hand against the carved chair back. “I’ll go as an ordinary woman, hidden. I must go and stop—”

“You mustn’t.” Phoebe pushed the quill aside and stood. Her voice wavered. “Niall will never allow it. The king—”

“The king needn’t know.” Y/n stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Phoebe, I am begging you. If you have ever been my friend, let this be your silence. I must stop this.”

Phoebe caught her breath, torn between duty and affection. At last, she shook her head in helpless surrender. “You will undo us all.”

“No. I cannot bear to have someone die for trespassing against me, even if they meant me harm,” Y/n whispered.

Phoebe’s hands curled in her skirts, then she gave the faintest nod. “Then at least take what I give you. A plain gown, something simple. The less you look like yourself, the more chance you have to go unharmed.”

Y/n’s lips softened into a grateful smile. “Thank you. You’ll have my eternal thanks.”

Phoebe shook her head. “Better pray you’ll still have your life. Those people are not your friends.”

.

The Great Court of Pleas had been opened, benches hauled in and set in rows beneath the hammer-beam roof for the chamber. A hush went before Harry as he assembled at the dais and faced the room. He stood with the weight of the hall upon him, Niall a half-step behind, the Duke Hughes and the proctor to either side with their books and seals.

“Bring the prisoners,” Harry said.

They came under guard. Hawkins hollow-eyed first, then Lord Wescott with his mouth set in a scornful smile. Joan white to the lips just after Lady Mable, who appeared terrified for once in her life. A clerk read the charges in a dry, carrying voice, then the apothecary’s affidavit was laid upon the table, neat and cold as a blade.

Harry’s gaze never left them.

The Proctor cleared his throat and read from a stiff parchment, spectacles low on his nose. “On the matter of an attempt upon the life of Her Majesty, Queen Y/n of Thornekeep… defendants named: Mr. Hawkins, pantry clerk; Lord Wescott of Thornekeep; Joan, maid to the Lady Mable; and the Lady Mable of High Street, commonly called Mrs. Mable.”

Murmurs went thin and quick at the names spoken. Y/n, seated two steps behind and to Harry’s left, felt each small sound as if it struck her skin. She kept her hands closed in her lap and watched the proctor’s mouth as he read the law but eyes were on her and she knew they were already plotting and placing blame.

“The apothecary swears a cordial of cherry-laurel was employed upon sugared sweetmeats sent to Her Majesty’s chamber. Witnesses: Niall Horan of the King’s guard and Footman Evan… sworn and examined. The King will speak.”

“Mr. Hawkins,” he said, voice even. “You participated in malice that reached my wife's plate. By your own testimony, you did so under instruction and willingly. You are found guilty of attempted regicide by poison. You go to the gaol this day and to the rope at noon on the morrow. You will hang."

A low sound went through the chamber, like dissent and shock. The intake of breath and whispered murmurs rose in the room. Hawkins swayed, suddenly unsteady, but the guard’s fist in his sleeve kept him upright.

“Lord Wescott,” Harry went on, whispers spread through the chamber, “you conspired to that same end. By note, by kin, by cowardice. You are found guilty of treason and conspiracy against the Crown. You will hang.”

That time, the room did gasp, and the murmurs became a ripple of shock, outrage, and disbelief. Executing a lord was beyond living memory. A few of Wescott’s friends half-rose and sat again, faces gone to paper and paste.

“Joan,” Harry said, and his tone did not soften, “you carried notes and lies and kept your counsel when danger came to the Queen. You go to cells to await a sentence. Speak again, and speak truly, and you may yet see daylight.”

He did not look at Mrs. Mable when he spoke her name. “Lady Mable, stripped of precedence. Your house is removed from court, and you will be confined in the north tower, there to remain until judgment is complete. If you speak Pearl’s name into this plot again, I will grind it out of your teeth.”

The hall was all rustle and held breath. Duke Hughes shook his head. The people were not happy. He let the silence fall before he spoke again. “This is the Crown’s will,” he finished, and the Proctor struck the table with his seal.

Harry’s gaze moved over the gathered faces, catching and pinning those who dared meet it. “Let the town hear it plain,” he said. “An attempt upon the Queen proved by the apothecary and punished by law. If any man wishes to petition me for gentleness, he may bring his petition with a rope in his hands, and I will show him how it bites.”

He turned, and the serjeants brought their pikes down as one to signal that court was dismissed.

Y/n rose and felt like the world swam and then tilted for a moment. Even though she knew the king's decision before he spoke it aloud in the chamber, it still had her swaying unsteadily. She let no one see her stagger as she left through the side door with Phoebe at her heels.

.

When Harry finally reached their chamber, he saw Y/n standing by the hearth, still dressed for court. He stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She didn't look at him, nor speak.

“You should not have been there,” he said quietly.

“I am your queen,” she answered. “Do I not belong where your laws are spoken?”

His hands ran down her arms to her wrists. "I am only trying to protect you."

She didn't respond except to move her hands toward the fire away from Harry's reach.

“Hawkins and Wescott hang.”

She turned at that and held his gaze. “Do not do this.”

“For you? For me? For the crown?” His voice frayed. “Yes. I will. I will not let them make sport of you.”

“You’ve pronounced death,” she said. "I will be blamed and called a liar."

“Death is what they have earned.”

“Harry.” She lifted her fingers, catching in the edge of his waistcoat. “You will make them martyrs,” she said. “They will not be afraid, and they will be righteous in their own eyes. Imprison them. Let them live long enough to know what they chose. But do not make a gallows of me.”

“Let them live to write notes? To find new hands? To send more cousins with baskets?” He shook his head once. “No. They made a gallows of you when they sent poison to your room.”

She took a step closer. “Justice does not always require a rope.”

“I will not gamble you against their courage.” He took her face in his hands. He was careful, as if the world itself required gentling where she stood. “They reached into my house. They reached for you.”

She held steady. “You are not gambling me. You are choosing what kind of king you will be.”

“And what kind of husband,” he answered, the words clipped. “I would rather be cursed as cruel than praised as a widower. You are mine to protect, and I will do so at any cost.”

“And I am here,” she said calmly. “I am not asking you to be weak. I am asking you not to be cruel.”

“Cruelty was theirs.” He let his hands fall, then caught one of her hands in his, rough thumb pressing the pulse in her wrist as if to reassure himself it still thrummed. “The sentence stands.”

They stood there, eyes fixed and steady, a space where neither would yield. Then she set her palm, calm and firm, against his chest. “I cannot bless this,” she said. “I cannot watch it and say nothing.”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head until his brow touched hers. “You do not have to bless it, mouse,” he said, and the gravel in his voice gentled. “Only to let me bear it.”

He lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to the heel of it before he continued. “I will keep you safe,” he said. “I will spend any coin to do it.”

“And I will spend mine,” she answered, still unbending. “Even if it is only my voice,” she whispered, almost not loud enough that he could hear. She didn't want to give away her true intent.

He drew her into him then until her cheek lay over his heart and his arm lay across her back like a bar against the world. Their quarrel would be set aside for the evening. But Y/n was steadfast in her decision to interrupt the proceedings before death could become her legacy. Her only hope was that she would succeed unharmed.

. .

Phoebe had set a small bundle of garments on the chair. A plain wool gown, a coarse cloak, a cap with a narrow brim to hide her profile. She plaited her hair low and tight, her fingers quick, lips pressed.

“You’re certain?” she whispered.

“I am.” Y/n slid the simple ring to the cord at her throat and tucked it beneath her shift. “Once begun, I must see it through.”

A knock sounded. “Majesty?” Niall's voice spoke through the door. “The hour is struck.”

Y/n pulled the cloak close and nodded to Phoebe. The girl opened the door a crack.

“Captain,” Y/n called, keeping to the inner room so he could not see her face. “Send for the chaplain. I would have prayers for the souls condemned.”

“I’ll post a runner and keep my place, Majesty.”

“Let it be you,” she responded. “Tell him I want him here, not in the square.”

The guard was silent for a moment as he looked at Phoebe and to the small crack in the door. “I am ordered to stand at this door.”

“You are ordered by your King,” she said, “and by your Queen. Go, Niall. I will be here when you return.”

Phoebe held her breath and at last Niall answered, “Aye,” and his steps went at once quickly.

The moment his tread faded down the stairs, Phoebe seized the bundle and hauled open the service door behind the clothes press. “Fast, before he thinks the better of it.”

They moved like girls escaping a schoolroom, down the tight staff stairs at the back, along a passage where the walls sweated cold. They came out by the chapel porch into the lower ward. Beyond the inner gate, they could hear the murmurs of people who'd found their anger, all gathered in wait for the spectacle. Y/n set her cap and pulled the cloak’s hood down, while Phoebe fussed at the tie, hands not quite steady.

“If you see Niall,” Y/n said, “turn him the opposite way.”

“I’ll pray he goes the wrong way of his own accord,” Phoebe said, and squeezed Y/n’s fingers hard before letting go. “God keep you.”

“And you, Pheobe.”

Y/n slipped through the gate with two other women carrying bread baskets and followed the slope of the lane toward the square. The gallows had been built off the old cart with oak uprights, a stretcher laid across, the rope already thrown and tied. Men were stamping for warmth with shoulders hunched.

“They’ll hang a lord, right enough,” someone said near her, audibly scandalised. “For that beggar-bride. Mark me, he’ll rue it.”

“Hush,” another answered. “You want your teeth?”

“She came from the street and now she’s set the yard on fire.”

“If someone made an attempt on her, this is their fate.”

“The king will protect his mistake, even if she is not worthy of it. His ego is bigger than his intelligence.”

Y/n kept her head down and moved nearer, letting her shoulder jostle as she pushed through, and the crowd grew thicker. The scaffold’s stout legs filled her vision. The rope swayed in the wind. She stood near a woman with a baby and an old man in a patched coat.

“She won't show her face,” the old man said to no one, peering toward the castle. “Too fine to see a neck crack.”

Y/n tightened her jaw and found a space where her voice could carry when she chose it. Nearby, a woman turned and studied her, eyes narrowing like she was making a sum. Y/n angled her face under the cap brim and bent to adjust the hem of her cloak as if it troubled her.

~

Back in the keep, Niall reached the chaplain’s door and swore under his breath at the empty cell. He pivoted in the corridor, realising exactly what he had done and hating himself for being human enough to obey. “Damn it.” He took the stairs two at a time back toward the Rose Room and found only Phoebe at the threshold, hands folded and face too pale.

“Where?” he asked.

“She asked me for silence.”

“Break it or we are both hanged, Phoebe! Damnit!”

Phoebe swallowed. “I don’t know.” But she didn't need to tell him where. He knew just as she did.

He stared at her long enough for her to flinch, and then he was gone, not toward the great hall but for the side stairs and the chapel porch, the route a woman would choose if she wished to be out in secret. He ran like a man who was to put out a fire before it spread to his home.

~

In the square, the bell tolled again as a line of guards pushed a lane through the press. A serjeant called for order and someone hissed a boo in the crowd and another shushed the hiss. Y/n felt the tremor in her thighs and set her heels as if they were pegs in the earth.

Few eyes noticed her yet but some did. A whisper went like a thread catching. “Is that the queen?” “No.” “God’s bones, look…” Then the murmuring turned inward again, waiting for the prisoners to be brought out.

Y/n lifted her chin under the hood so she could breathe. She hoped that she could find her voice before too many more noticed her as the cart creaked into position at the far end of the lane.

As it got closer, everyone could see Hawkins stood on it, swaying, hands bound, lips moving as if he were praying. Behind the cart was Wescott, jaw set, one eye already bruising from Harry’s fist, his coat straightened to the last button by some loyal idiot who straightened it for him, and thought neatness a kind of courage. Behind them, under guard, Joan and Mrs. Mable walked with a rope at their wrists instead of their throats. Mrs. Mable's chin high in brittle defiance.

Harry was already on the scaffold, black coat buttoned to the throat, hair blown back by the morning’s knife-cold wind. He looked at the rope, then at the men. When he lifted his hand, the bell gave a single solemn stroke.

“By judgment of the Crown,” the serjeant cried loudly, voice raw with the cold, “sentence will be carried.”

Y/n felt the words strike her chest as her heart pounded with nerves. She pushed forward, shouldering past the woman with the baby and the old man. “Pardon,” she said, and then louder, “Pardon,” until there was no room to pass, only the press of bodies and the dark legs of the scaffold.

Wescott mounted the cart’s block with a guard at either arm. Hawkins fumbled his footing. The nooses were lifted. Y/n tilted her head back as she found her voice.

“Stop!”

It wasn't a scream but it cut just the same. Heads turned. The old man beside her went white. “Christ save us,” he breathed. “It is her.”

“Stop,” Y/n said again, and threw back her hood to show her face.

A ripple of voices and gasps went out through the crowd. The nearest guard sprang from the outer border and reached for her, but above them, Harry’s voice cracked loudly.

“Hold! Touch no one!”

The square froze at the unprecedented interruption. He stepped to the edge of the scaffold and stared down, finding her as if he had known already that she would be there. For a moment, there was only the two of them and the wind between.

“Y/n,” he said, a warning and a plea.

She lifted her chin. “You cannot do this,” she called up, clear enough for the innkeepers at the back to hear it. “Not in my name. It is not right.”

A tremor of shock went through the people. They watched, greedy for the quarrel but Harry’s gaze did not leave her.

“I can,” he said. “And I will. For you, my wife.”

“Then hear me,” she answered, the words steady though her knees had begun to shake. “What I want is mercy.”

To her right, a woman made a soft sound, mumbled words to the person next to her, then a man somewhere behind her spat and said she’d soft-handed the realm. Neither mattered. The square had gone so still she could hear the rope creak.

Niall arrived like a storm at the edge of her vision, shoving past a tinker and a pair of apprentices, face set and ashen. He reached her side and stopped dead, chest heaving, hands empty to prove he would not drag his queen like a thief. He set himself between her and the press of bodies, eyes never leaving the scaffold.

Harry stepped down. He did it against a half-dozen hands lifted to stop him, against his own better sense, against every lesson he had learned since he first understood the weight of a crown. He came down the ladder into the crowd like a man descending into cold water and walked the cleared lane toward her. Guards fell in around him and then fell back again at a flick of his fingers.

They met at the foot of the scaffold. He blinked for a brief moment, still not believing that she was there

“You will undo me before these people,” he said softly, and everyone heard it. The square was hungry and ready for scandal that day.

“I will save you before them,” she returned. “And myself.”

He reached for her hand, his fingertips finding her palm. “They put death in your breakfast and you ask me for tears.”

“I ask you for rule,” she said. “Not vengeance. If the Crown’s first answer to fear is a rope, then we teach fear to answer in kind.” She looked around at the people now, finding eyes on her and surging toward bravery as she did so. "These offenders sought to bring me low, to make me unfit for childbearing. Their trespass is black, it is grave, and they shall be punished, but let it not be with death. Let them languish in prison. Let them render account to God for what they have done. That is justice enough.”

Harry lifted his eyes to the scaffold, to the cart, to the empty ropes that swung with the small, insolent wind. Then he looked down into her face, into the stubbornness he had married and the courage he had not known how to bear until it was his to carry.

“Stand with me,” she said, quieter now. “Not above me. With me.”

He could have sent her back under guard. He could have let the bell ring again and the lane close, and the cart roll. He was not a man easily swayed in decision. Yet for Y/n, he bent.

Harry looked past her to the crowd. These were the people who would have cheered should Y/n have turned ill. They would have danced if she were to lose her place. They did not care for her, and yet there she was asking for mercy they didn't not deserve. Her heart was too good for Thornekeep. Too good for him. He raised his head.

“Serjeant,” he called.

The man on the scaffold straightened to attention.

“By the Queen’s mercy,” Harry said, and the square stirred as if it had been struck by lightning, “and by the King’s hand, the hangings are stayed.”

The first sound was not joy but surprise. A rush of breath, a cry of shock, then a chorus of voices tumbling over one another into sense. Harry didn't let the square own the moment. He lifted his arm for silence and the voices halted to a low groan.

“Mark me,” he said, voice carrying like iron thrown down a well. “Guilt stands. Punishment stands. The rope does not. Mr. Hawkins and Lord Wescott are for irons and stone, their estates forfeit to the Crown and to the relief of the poor. They will live to count the years they wished to steal. The woman Joan to term in gaol. Mrs. Mable to the tower under ward. This is the sentence.”

A cheer broke from somewhere high on the east side, snatched up and drowned by a hiss from the west. A few men shouted that the King had gone soft but twice as many shouted that the Queen had made him just. Between them ran a current of something like awe. The people had thought her an ornament and found a spine instead.

Harry turned his head back to her. For a moment, the fury and the fear in him were naked, and then the lid came down and the king settled back behind his eyes.

“You have your mercy,” he said, very low.

“And you have your city,” she returned, matching him.

He lifted a hand to Niall. “Get her clear and safe back to her chambers.”

Niall inclined his head and closed in, not touching her yet, only making space as the crowd surged to see better, to speak to her, to claim they had stood near when a neck was spared. Harry returned to the scaffold again and spoke to the serjeant in the clipped language of orders. The nooses came down, the cart was backed, the prisoners taken in chains toward the gaol and away from death.

As Y/n let herself be guided toward the lane that would return her to the castle, faces turned to her with something new in them. She saw wariness, yes, and a bruised kind of pride, but respect too, and not the kind that comes from fear. A child lifted a hand to wave, but his mother pulled it down and then, thinking better, allowed it.

At the foot of the gate, Phoebe waited with both hands pressed to her mouth and tears wet on her lashes. Niall gave her a look that promised a scolding, then glanced back over his shoulder to where Harry stood.

Y/n moved past Phoebe and then turned again toward where her husband stood. He stood on the scaffold, his face set like stone as he caught her eye. He was not happy with this change, and she could see that. The crowd below was still shifting, arguing, alive with confusion and its own new reckoning. The king was utterly still, a man who had bent not to council or threat, but to the single voice of his queen.

She knew the court would whisper, the city would divide, but in that moment she had won something rare… mercy made visible, and respect, though costly, was beginning to take root. Harry, she could deal with later, for now, justice was a gaol and not a rope.

. .

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. .

"Goodness. What an appetite you have, mouse," Harry drawled into Y/n's hair.

They'd only just woken from their nap, her body humming with that wild, fresh desire all over again. What a pleasure it was to enjoy the thrill of belly bumping, as Harry had dubbed it after breakfast. They still had hours before they were due to emerge from their marital bed with no obligations until the dinner hour.

"To practice," she smiled, her skin hot, thighs practically quivering already at just the thought as she guided her thigh over his hip and kissed at his collarbone.

Harry rolled to his back with a lazy groan and laced his fingers together behind his head. “Climb on, then. Practice away, my little mouse.”

Practice. It wasn't precisely that, but it was something close. She was determined to reach her peak while he was inside of her, not just from his fingers and mouth.

She pushed up to her knees and looked down at her husband, devil-grin, hair a shambles, bare chest still flushed with sleep. A dangerous man, but hers. She straddled him, settling her thighs over his hips as he looked up at her with open admiration.

“Look at you,” he said, one hand coming to rest at her knee. “Queen of Thornekeep, sat atop her throne.”

“Don’t tease,” she said, though the smile tugging at her mouth betrayed her fondness for it.

“I would never,” he said, voice thickening. His other hand rose, tracing slowly up her outer thigh, then across her hip, until it came to rest just below her belly. “Shall I guide you?”

She nodded, scooting herself in closer and pressing her palms into his chest as she lifted. He took himself in hand and clutched her hip with the other as she positioned herself over him, breath catching as she felt the broad tip of him press against her already sopping coo. Even with the wetness gathered between her thighs, the stretch took her breath. It was a lot, but she'd started to grow used to the way it felt. How he felt when he was pushing into her.

Harry’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t speak, only kept one hand steady at her hip and the other wrapped loosely around the base of his cock, easing her down inch by inch.

When she took him fully, she stilled, her breath ragged, head bowed as her body adjusted. The ache from having him inside of her earlier had hardly dulled, but it was still new and felt so nice… thick, full, so intimate it nearly frightened her.

“You’ve got me,” he whispered, smoothing his hand over her flank. “You’re doin’ so well, sweet girl.”

She nodded, eyes fluttering shut. Then, slowly, she lifted her hips and lowered again, testing the motion. The friction made her gasp softly.

“That's it,” Harry said, watching her with open hunger, but holding still beneath her. “Move just like that. Take what you need.”

She began to move with a bit more confidence, sliding up and down along him, her hands braced on his chest. Her hips found a rhythm, and she heard herself whimper, the feeling settling low in her spine, much deeper than before. Like her body was beginning to understand how to move on him, how to truly enjoy the sensation.

Her thighs trembled. She pressed forward a little more this time, leaning over him, and Harry reached for her, one hand cupping her breast, the other sliding down between them. His fingers found where their bodies met and began to stroke her in time with the rise and fall of her hips.

The sensation was dizzying. She let out a small cry and pressed harder into his hand, her pace growing erratic.

“Is it building?” he asked, voice low and reverent.

She nodded, nearly frantic. “Yes, I think, don’t stop—”

But it wasn’t immediate. The ache in her thighs began to make itself known, and her body was still learning him. Still adjusting to the steady, deep presence of him inside her. Her breaths came in uneven bursts, every rise and fall of her hips pushing little tremors up her spine, but the edge she was chasing felt maddeningly far.

Harry didn’t rush her. His eyes stayed fixed on her face, a faint smile tugging at his mouth as though he could feel every stammer of her rhythm. His thumb pressed and circled in a slow, sure pattern that seemed to remind her body where to go, coaxing each flicker of pleasure into something more certain.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Breathe, mouse. Let it come to you.”

She drew in a shaky breath, willing her muscles to loosen, hips to find that steady grind that sent the warmth pooling lower. Her head tipped back as her pace smoothed, the friction growing richer, more insistent.

“That’s better,” Harry said quietly, almost to himself. His free hand slid up her side, fingers brushing the swell of her breast, and the lightness of his touch there made her shiver.

The tension built slowly, coiling deeper with each stroke of his thumb, each long slide of him inside her. She could feel herself clenching around him more readily now, the wet sounds between them matching the heat burning in her cheeks.

He leaned forward just enough for his lips to graze the top of her breast. “There you are… you’ve got it now.”

Her hands flexed against his chest, nails faintly catching on his skin as the sensation swelled higher. Every muscle in her body seemed to hum with the effort to keep moving, to keep chasing the crest she could feel looming.

“Harry—” It was half his name, half a gasp. Her hips faltered for a moment before he pressed his hand firmer at her hip, guiding her back into motion.

“Stay with me,” he coaxed. “You’re right there. Don’t run from it.”

The pressure was unbearable now, twisting low in her belly, spreading down her thighs. She couldn’t help the way her pace quickened, the small, helpless sounds slipping past her lips.

“Look at me,” he said. She did, and the heat in his gaze, the utter focus, was enough to push her over.

Her body seized in a sudden, violent tremor, a cry torn from her throat as pleasure surged through her in gooey waves. She gasped, mouth falling open, back arching, her entire body locking as pleasure swept through her in a tremor. She cried out again, riding it down in shuddering waves until her legs gave out and she collapsed onto him, panting.

Harry groaned beneath her, gathering her in his arms, pressing kisses wherever he could reach. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice wrecked with awe. “That’s it, little mouse.”

Harry’s own control frayed just seconds later. A low groan rumbled from his chest as his hips drove up into her twice more before he spilled with a rough curse, pulling her down to crush her to his chest.

They both lay together, warm, hearts beating wildly, both catching their breath. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder. His hand stroked idly over her back and down to the curve of her bottom, reveling in the feel of her like that on him. His wife, satisfied and nuzzling into him gently.

She smiled into his skin. It felt so good to finally achieve her release with him inside of her, and it felt better than she imagined it would. Her body was thrumming.

“That’s my girl,” he said at last, his voice still thick and warm. “I shall never grow tired of this.”

Eventually, they both shifted, and Y/n slid off slowly. Harry held her hips and steadied her, watching the pull of their bodies part with a satisfied breath. “Let’s have a bath drawn. We’re a sight.”

It wasn't long before someone was filling their tub and pouring oil in it. They waited on the balcony with a bowl of grapes, the cool air needling pleasantly at skin still flushed. He glanced over at his queen and felt a quiet, baffling pride. He’d always preferred to rise and go, or have them go, after a romp. Softness had never been his habit with anyone. With her, it was becoming one.

The maid popped her head out, gaze lowered. "Your bath awaits."

Steam curled into the air from the copper as Y/n sank into the tub once they were alone again. Harry eased in behind her, his knees bracketing her hips, the heat of his chest a steady weight at her back. Warm water lapped at her collarbones as she sank against him.

“They’ll expect to examine the sheets,” she said, remembering the old cruelty of it.

“They can expect what they like,” he said, smoothing a wet palm over her thigh. “I’m not having anyone pawing through our bedclothes like carrion birds. I know what we did. That’s enough.”

She smiled. “Saving my dignity, or simply defying them?”

“Both,” he said, mouth brushing her temple. “Let them talk. It’s all they ever do.” He paused. “Some will do more than talk, if given the chance.”

She glanced back at him, but his expression gave little away, only that guarded edge she was beginning to recognise. But she understood his restraint now. A king disliked and second-guessed by many, a man who saved the unarmored parts for her.

They lingered in the water until the heat began to thin, the oil-slicked surface cooling against their skin. Harry’s hands roamed idly along her arms and waist, with the quiet possessiveness of a man content to keep close what was his.

When they finally stepped out, the air in the chamber felt cool and clean, smelling faintly of the rosemary oil still clinging to their skin. A fire had been refreshed in the hearth, and fresh towels were waiting.

Phoebe appeared quietly with Y/n’s gown for the evening, her hands already busy with laces and fastenings. Even though she couldn't hear or see it, she knew that just beyond the door, the castle stirred with people and workers in preparation for that night's dinner.

As Phoebe tightened the final tie at Y/n’s back, she leaned in slightly, her voice low. “Bit of commotion in the kitchens today. Steward’s got the staff whispering.”

“What about?” Y/n asked.

“About you. About him. Same as always." She rolled her eyes.

Harry emerged from behind the screen, shrugging into his evening coat as he caught the tail end of Phoebe’s words. “They’ve been whispering since the day I fetched you,” he said simply, fastening his cuff. “We’ll give them something worth whispering about. As always.” He grinned.

When at last they’d donned their finery, velvet and linen laid heavy with jewels, Harry offered his arm and they stepped out together. The glow of the sconces painted the stone in warm gold, but it did nothing to soften the sting of eyes that followed them as they passed. Some looks slipped away the moment Harry’s gaze swept over them; others held, unblinking. Y/n felt each one.

Harry kept his stride steady. The set of his shoulders made plain he noted every glance and dared any tongue to try its luck.

The torchlight flickered along the marble hall as they moved together, their steps echoing through the vaulted space. She could feel the weight of the room waiting for them before they even reached it. Tonight’s dinner would be their first appearance together since their wedding night. The long mahogany table was already thick with familiar figures: council members in their heavy robes, governors and lords from the outlying regions, ladies in silks and pearls. A few smiles met them, polite and brittle; more faces wore the tight, assessing look of people hunting fault.

The table itself was set like something from a storybook with garlands of winter greenery wound between tall silver candelabras, the flames bowing with each shift in the air. Y/n caught the scent of roasted game before she saw it, platters borne past by gloved attendants. There was braised lamb with buttered roots, steaming bowls of delicate consommé, and for later, she overheard, rosewater sorbet and sugared fruits for the sweet course. It was all beautiful, excessive, and just a little overwhelming. Every movement was choreographed, every dish placed with quiet detail.

At the head of the table, Harry and Y/n took their seats side by side. A hush slid over the hall, punctuated only by the soft placement of cutlery against plates and the low thrum of greeting. She felt the weight of every pair of eyes… some respectful, others glacial, barely hidden behind forced smiles.

The Lord Chancellor, robed in rich plum silk, cleared his throat, lifting one glass and addressing the assembled. “Your Majesty, may your union be a fortress in this realm as strong as steel, and as true as the mountain’s heart.”

Crystal goblets lifted and chimed through the vaulted ceiling. Y/n breathed in the scent of spiced wine and simmering meats, her heart fluttering between pride and dread in equal measure. She knew better than to fall for the Chancellor's kind words. Harry had reminded her before they sat that everything was a performance.

Across the table, the Privy Councillor with his neatly trimmed, stiff moustache, his gaze raked over her with mounting ire. Moments later, his voice carried, oiled for courtesy, sharpened for insult. “Surely, as queen, Lady Styles must be instructed further in courtly matters. One cannot expect a street-borne girl to know every thread of protocol.”

And there it was, the crumbling of the facade. It'd happened much faster than Y/n assumed it would. The hush tightened around them. Conversation flickered and died among the councilmen. Heat rose along Y/n’s skin as she drew in a measured breath.

Harry’s hand brushed beneath the table to rest over hers. His eyes, partially hidden in the candelight, conveyed an unspoken warning. The edge in his tone when he replied sounded soft, but carried the weight of command. “My wife, your Queen, learns quickly. But if any among us stand ignorant of new beginnings, it is the realm that shall suffer, not she.”

There was an exhale of relief from Y/n, and a ripple of stiff silence across the table, only broken when a herald called for the next course to be brought. A sweet truffle enrobed dish appeared on a silver tray with a silky aroma drifting around the room as if tensions had not been notched up so suddenly.

The council resumed with guarded laughter and polished words. Beneath it, the undertow of resentment ran cold along Y/n’s spine. Tight smiles directed toward her, toward Harry… they were subtle gaps where courtesy ended and something sharper waited, biding its time.

She let her gaze drift briefly away from the fixed smiles and stiff shoulders, searching for something less sharpened. Down the side of the hall, Phoebe stood among the servants, quietly directing the flow of dishes and wine. Niall bent to say something as their heads drew close enough that a curl of Phoebe’s hair skimmed his sleeve. When she gestured, their fingers touched for a breath, an innocent brush to anyone not paying attention, but Y/n knew the meaning behind the softened expression on Phoebe’s face.

The warmth of the sight was quickly chased away when another voice rose from further down the table. Lord Wescott, if she remembered correctly, with his ruddy cheeks and an ingrained smirk that never quite reached his eyes. “I had thought the Lord Mayor would be seated with us tonight,” he said, as if speaking to no one in particular, though the sound carried easily over the hum of conversation. “Strange not to see him at his usual post.”

A few others shifted in their chairs, the rustle of fabric and the faint scrape of knives against plates marked the pause that followed.

Harry set down his fork with deliberate slowness. “It is not strange to me,” he said, his voice even. “The Lord Mayor’s presence is no longer required at this table, or on the council.”

“Oh?” Wescott’s brows lifted in feigned surprise, his spoon poised midair as he looked around the table at the others. “I had not heard. How unfortunate. I do hope it was not for anything too… unseemly.”

A current of polite laughter and a few cleared throats stirred, too light to be genuine. Y/n curled her fingers against the fabric of her gown. She knew that no one in that room was not privy to what had passed.

Harry’s gaze didn’t waver. “Unseemly enough,” he said. “And enough said of it.”

The words settled like a stone in the center of the table. Conversation trickled back in fits and starts, but the voices were more subdued now, cautious, the careful retying of masks after a slip.

Somewhere down the table, Wescott was speaking again, his tone lighter, almost bored. “Ah well… perhaps we’ll see better cheer at the feast next month. My cousin in Bellerose, fine man, master confectioner, has promised to send a cart of his sugared chestnuts. If the kitchens will let him in, that is.”

A few polite murmurs met the remark, and the subject drifted elsewhere. Y/n would have thought nothing of it, had she not noticed the way his eyes passed briefly over her before he looked away.

Y/n let her eyes drop to the truffle on her plate, her appetite dulled. She could feel the glances, the measured way people looked at her when they thought her attention was elsewhere. But she was right there, feeling every awful eye lurking.

She pressed her fork into the soft truffle, more to have something to do with her hands than out of any real hunger. The richness of the dish sat heavy on her tongue, but every swallow felt like forcing down a stone. The hum of conversation carried on around her, but she was lost in her head, wishing she and Harry were back alone in their chambers together.

A steward stepped forward to refill her glass, his movements efficient. She caught the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he’d swallowed words he wished to say. Sometimes it was hard to know who was for or against her.

On Harry’s other side, the Earl of Broadmere leaned in to speak across him, bypassing Y/n entirely as though she were not there. “Your Majesty, the southern border’s levy will be due for review come spring. I do hope we’ll see familiar hands overseeing it.”

Harry didn’t take his eyes off his wine as he replied, “We’ll see competent hands. Familiarity is hardly the measure.”

The Earl smiled without a measure of warmth. “Of course. Competence above all.”

Even in so few words, Y/n heard the scrape beneath the polish, the way it slid beneath the polite surface. She reached for her goblet, hoping the wine might dull the edges pressing at her ribs.

Across the table, Phoebe caught her eye briefly, just long enough for the smallest reassuring nod before turning to direct a footman. Niall had already set himself to watchfulness, gaze moving over the room with the sense of a man who knew when the air was changing. He slid his gaze, pausing briefly, on one or two faces before returning to his post.

The next course arrived, and for a few minutes, the sounds of knives and forks overtook the chatter. But even the clink of silver seemed subdued, every gesture measured as though the entire table was waiting for someone, anyone, to speak plainly.

Harry did not indulge them, for his purpose was to spare Y/n any undue burden. Were it not for her presence, he might have spoken out with far less restraint. He carried on eating with the same deliberate calm as before, speaking only when spoken to, and then with such concise civility that no one could take hold of his words to twist them. It was a skill Y/n envied. That ability to command the room not by filling the air, but by controlling its silences.

She wished she could say she was unmoved by the atmosphere, but the truth was it clung to her, seeping into her skin despite the king's aim to shield her. The day had been just lovely before the dinner. But this was her new role; her new station’s price. And she understood that all of this was just the beginning. She would grow used to the disdain, to the ease with which she was overlooked. She would have to.

When the final course was cleared and the last of the wine poured, Harry rose from his seat, offering his arm to her. The scrape of chairs and the muted shuffle of attendants filled the hall as the assembly began to disperse, the low buzz of conversation returning now that the evening’s formality was over. Still, she felt the eyes, some following them openly, others hidden behind the dip of a head or the rim of a cup.

Harry guided her out through the double doors, the heavy wood closing behind them with a muted thud. The echoing quiet of the corridor was a relief after the close press of the great hall.

“You did well,” he said at last, his tone calm.

“I didn’t do anything."

“You did everything right,” he countered. “You kept your head, you didn’t rise to their bait. That is worth more than you think.”

She pushed out a humourless laugh. “It felt more like shrinking than keeping my head.”

His hand pressed lightly at her back as they climbed the stairs. “You needn't overthink, mouse. Not a soul in that room deserves concern.”

By the time they reached their chambers, the air inside was warm and the fire was throwing soft light over the thick rugs and the freshly turned-down bed. Y/n exhaled deeply as her shoulders loosened for the first time since they'd left for dinner. Harry helped her out of her heavier outer layers, setting her crown aside.

When she sat on the edge of the bed, he knelt briefly to remove her shoes, his fingers brushing lightly against her ankle. “You’re quiet as a mouse,” he said, a small grin lifting the edges of his lips. He was trying to lift her spirits the best he could.

“I’m tired,” she admitted, but smiling back at his jest. “And I don’t want to think of them any longer tonight.”

He looked up at her, his expression soft. “Good. Nor do I.”

Drawing her back against the pillows, he stretched out beside her, the scent of rosemary oil still clinging to them both. She rested her head against his shoulder, the slow beat of his heart steady under her ear. His hand found hers beneath the blankets, fingers lacing with her own.

.

Y/n woke to the chill in their room, the fire only an ember-glow now. She felt it on her shoulder first, cool against the heat where Harry had slept. She sighed and stretched her limbs.

He made a sound low in his throat when she shifted, the kind of sleepy, unguarded noise she’d never have imagined coming from a king. His arm tightened over her waist, drawing her back into the warm space of him. She could feel the steady rise of his chest at her spine, his breath coasting over the line of her neck.

“Don’t move,” he said, voice still rough with sleep. “I’m very comfortable.”

“You’re heavy,” she said, though she didn’t mean it as a complaint.

“Hmm.” He slid his hand up, palm flattening just beneath her ribs, the weight of it loving. “Just a little longer, mouse.”

They lay like that for a while, listening to the small sounds of morning, the tick of the flue in the chimney, and the smallest crack of the embers in the hearth. Her fingers drifted lazily over the back of his wrist, tracing over his skin and the raised pale line that crossed into his flesh, the ghost of some long-ago nick. He let her look without commentary, only pressing his warm mouth to the curve where neck became shoulder.

When she finally turned to face him, his hair was a mess, stubborn pieces falling into his eyes. He didn’t bother to push them back. He just watched her with that softened version of his gaze she’d only ever seen when the doors were locked and the world was on the other side. His thumb skimmed the corner of her mouth, and she felt the tug of a smile before it formed.

“What?” she asked.

“You look like you’ve stolen something,” he said. “And you’re deciding whether to run.”

“Will you chase me?”

“Across the whole of Thornekeep. And beyond. Wherever you run to, I'll follow. You cannot escape.”

He kissed her then, tasting of warm sleep. It was indulgent, slow, as if he were embracing his newly discovered permission to take his time with her. She answered in kind, fingers slipping into his hair, and a small, greedy sound came from her throat.

He rolled to his back and drew her with him until she was straddling his hips, the blanket sliding to her waist. The air was cool on her skin, but his hands were warm where they curved around her thighs. He looked up at her like a man cataloguing a private collection.

“Morning suits you,” he said, thumbs stroking along the inside of her knees.

She leaned down to kiss him again, slower, and felt him answer under her, heat, thick with promise. When she shifted against him, he inhaled sharply and his hands skimmed to her hips without thought, guiding her along, not pushing. She felt the girth of him, the inevitable path of it, and the awareness sent a slow ache spiraling low.

“Harry,” she moaned his name into the room.

“Here,” he told her, voice diffused at the edges. He settled one palm at the small of her back and the other just above her hip, the way a commander might place a soldier before a charge. He guided her gingerly to her back. The blanket fell away from her. He kissed her once more, then another just under her jaw, charting an unhurried path: throat, the hollow at her collarbone, the soft rise of her breast. His mouth was patient, and when she arched, he murmured into her skin, “Easy,” as if that word alone could loosen the tightness in her ribs.

“May I assist?” he asked against her sternum, not quite a question, not quite a command.

She nodded, the sound she made small and helpless.

He slid lower, palms smoothing along her sides to her hips. A kiss to her belly. Another. Then lower still, his breath was warm where the morning air was cool. He eased her knees apart with his hands and leveled his head with her quim.

The first lick was exploratory, but the second one was intentional. He took his time, attentive, listening with his mouth, answering every tremor with a gentler pass of his tongue, then a little more pressure, then retreating to tease when her fingers curled in the linen. When she slid her fingers into his hair, he stilled to glance up, checking her face before chasing the sound he’d drawn out of her once again with a broad lave of tongue.

“There you are. Nice and wet.”

Heat built in languid, tidy circles, one hand anchoring her thigh, the other splayed wide over her belly to keep her from holding herself too tight. She tried to swallow the noises he coaxed from her, but they slipped out anyway, small pieces of her coming loose under his mouth. He hummed, and the vibration tipped the feeling hotter, closer.

“Harry—” Her voice cracked.

She let her head fall back, let the ceiling blur. The world narrowed to the pull of his mouth and the sure press of his fingers, and she felt the edges begin to gather, bright and warm—

A sudden knock cut cleanly through the room. They froze. Then the sound came again, three measured raps that belonged to duty and daybreak, not to them.

Harry’s hand tightened at her thigh, a mute refusal. He rested his forehead there for a heartbeat as he swore softly under his breath, and then lifted his head. He exhaled raggedly, eyes already hardening into the day’s version of himself.

“I’m going to kill whoever that is,” he said.

He reached up, pulled the blanket over her with a gentleness at odds with the muscle ticking in his jaw, and pressed one last, apologetic kiss to the inside of her knee. “Do not move,” he said, and stood to answer the door, grabbing a robe on the way.

He cracked the door, robe hanging loose at his hips. Fred stood there with his eyes somewhere near the lintel, voice pitched low. “Your Majesty… apologies. An urgent sitting of the council regarding the Lord Mayor's dismissal of duties. His Grace, the Duke Hughes, has called it. The Proctor requests your presence at once.”

Harry’s jaw went hard. “Of course he has. I will be down at once.” He shut the door with a quiet click, raked a hand through his hair, and looked back at her with unsteady breath, a sheet pulled up over her body as she watched him with wide eyes. The apology was in his face before he spoke.

“I have to go.”

“I gathered,” she said, trying for lightness and not quite finding it as she sat up.

He crossed to the clothes press in three strides, dragging on breeches, then a shirt, talking as he buttoned. “Stay here. Eat. I’ll send Phoebe in with a tray. Tea, fruit, something warm. You need to eat. Do not open the door to anyone but me or Niall.”

He knelt to pull on his boots, glanced up, and the edge in him eased. “I’ll finish what I started when I return,” he added, softer. “You have my word.”

A reluctant smile tugged at her mouth, but she did not respond. She held the front of the sheet to her breast as she watched him quietly. He stood and leaned in, stole a quick kiss, then another, less quick, as if he couldn’t help himself. When he drew back, he was already fastening his waistcoat.

He pulled the door open wide and raised his voice just enough to carry down the corridor. “Phoebe!”

She appeared only a few counts later, breathless from the stairs, hands already smoothing her apron when she saw him dressed. “Your Majesty?”

“A breakfast tray for the Queen. Hot tea. And have the fire built up. She’s not to be disturbed otherwise.”

Phoebe dipped her head. “Right away, my lord.” She flicked a quick glance past him toward Y/n, worry and something warmer in it, then vanished down the hall.

“Niall,” Harry called, and the guard stepped from his post, straight-backed. “With me. The council will need your account, and I want their ears full of it.”

“Yes, Majesty.” Niall’s gaze slid once to Y/n through the doorway before he fell in behind the king.

Harry turned back one last time. “Bolt the door,” he said, gentler now. “I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”

She nodded and did as he asked, the heavy metal dropping into place the moment she crossed to the door. Through the wood, she heard the muted cadence of his boots and Niall’s, the murmur of Fred’s voice as they moved away, then the hush of the corridor swallowing them.

Silence settled, save for the weak crackle of the embers and the rasp of her own breath. She lay back into the bed, the sheet cool where his mouth had been warm, and let her eyes close for a moment, the promise he’d left her with lingering like heat in the room.

A few minutes later, there was a knock to the door and the muffled sound of Phoebe on the other side. Y/n crossed the room, lifted the latch, and Phoebe slipped inside with a robe over her arm and a small, conspiratorial smile. “Fire first,” she whispered, already feeding kindling to the hearth. “Then tea. And I’ll tell the footmen to keep everyone else well away.”

Phoebe had the room humming again by the time Y/n had settled into the lounge with tea, logs stacked and catching, curtains parted just so to pull a ribbon of pale light across the carpet. She set a low table near where Y/n sat and began arranging a tray. A covered dish breathing steam, a plate of sliced pear glossed with honey, a small mound of sugared pastilles, and a pot of dark tea that smelled faintly of orange peel.

“Sit with me,” Y/n said, drawing her robe closed. “You’ll make me nervous if you keep dusting things that are already clean.”

Phoebe laughed under her breath and obeyed, perching at the edge of the seat like a girl who hadn’t quite learned to take her ease. “It’s only habit. The steward prowls this hall like a cat.”

“Let him prowl. Doors closed,” Y/n said, pouring. “You’ve earned a cup.”

They drank together, steam fogging the space between them.

“Will they be very long?” Phoebe asked carefully.

Y/n shrugged one shoulder. “Long enough to make mischief of something simple, I imagine. Harry said they wanted Niall to speak.”

Phoebe’s mouth softened at his name before she caught herself. Y/n noticed and smiled into her cup. She had been enjoying watching the pair secretly dance around their feelings in front of others.

“He is very steady,” Y/n said mildly. “Even at dinner last night, when everyone else was crisp with pretense, he appeared… unmoved.”

Phoebe traced a finger along the saucer’s rim. “He is not like the others,” she smiled shyly. “He looks and listens before he speaks. I… like that.”

“You like him,” Y/n said. Reminding Phoebe that there were no secrets between them.

Phoebe’s cheeks warmed. “I like that he says as little as he must,” she tried again, failing at indifference. “And that when I pass, he always—he nods.” She laughed at herself. “Listen to me. Mooning over a nod.”

“It’s not the nod,” Y/n said softly. “It’s who it comes from. Anymore kisses?”

Phoebe peeked up through her lashes, as if testing whether the air would hold such talk. “Yes… but hardly worth the telling. Far too quick. And someone’s always about, ruining the best bits.”

“That will come,” Y/n assured her, voice warm with certainty. “And when it does, you’ll not be thinking of time at all.”

“And you,” Phoebe smiled wider, changing the focus away from herself, “are… happy this morning?”

Y/n felt the heat of Harry still, a flush that had nothing to do with the fire. She let her smile arrive slowly. “He is learning me,” she said, a little breathless even in memory. “And I think I am learning him.”

Phoebe’s answering grin was wicked and tender all at once. “About time someone taught the King patience.”

Y/n tipped her head back and laughed, the sound loosening something that the previous night's dinner had tightened. They fell into an easy hush after that. Y/n breaking a piece of bread, Phoebe buttering it with a practised hand; the small, home-like act almost comical against velvet drapes and gold-stitched cushions.

When a knock came, Phoebe stood and answered, calling back to Y/n. "It's Evan with a second tray of food."

Even though Harry had told her not to let anyone but Niall or Phoebe enter the room, she felt there was no harm in allowing the footman entry. He only came with more food from the kitchen. She'd seen Evan in passing before and decided to allow it, waving him in. The new tray was set with warm rolls, a dish of eggs baked with cream and herbs, a tiny pie whose crust shone with glaze, and a neat row of jewel-bright sweetmeats dusted with fine sugar. He set it down and bowed to both of them with the stiff care of someone warned thrice to behave.

“The pantry clerk sends their compliments by way of Mr. Hawkins,” he managed. “Shall I bring aught else, madam?”

“This is perfect,” Y/n said, and his shoulders lowered by a hair before he backed out.

“Sweet afters before noon,” Phoebe murmured, amused. “They’re trying to please you.”

“Or bribe me into liking them,” Y/n returned, but there was no bite in it. She touched the corner of one sugared morsel with a fingertip and left it for later, reaching instead for the warm roll.

The room held its peace, but the peace felt merited. Beyond the walls, the castle’s ordinary life stirred quietly at the edges: cart wheels rattling in the yard, a bell sounding from the chapel, the distant tramp of boots on the far stair.

. .

Down the length of the council chamber, the Duke Hughes drummed two fingers against the arm of his chair and called for order. The long table was a field of papers and inkpots, the air heavy with wax and damp wool. Harry stood rather than sit, the better to look down the line of faces that would be his weather, rain or clear, for as long as he wore the crown.

“The charge is simple,” the Proctor read, spectacles low on his nose. “Unauthorized seizure of Her Majesty Y/n of Thornekeep from royal quarters at dawn three days past; public humiliation; removal of a jewel of the Crown.”

“Alleged,” Lord Wescott drawled.

“Witnessed,” Harry corrected, voice flat. “Proceed.”

Names were recorded, movements accounted for, the Lord Mayor’s allies making a show of doubt that failed to hide its choreography. When it came time for a witness, Niall stepped forward without flourish and placed one hand on the leather-bound book the clerk thrust at him. He did not lift his eyes to the gallery when he spoke to the Proctor as though the room were otherwise empty.

“State your name and station.”

“Niall Horan, assigned to the King’s personal guard.”

“And what did you see?”

“I stood at the door to Her Majesty's quarters,” he said, his voice even. “The Lord Mayor arrived with two men and declared that, in the King’s absence, his word was law. He ordered the Queen removed. When she resisted, the men pushed her. She fell to her knees and hands on the stair. I helped her to rise.”

“Did the Lord Mayor touch her?”

“No,” Niall said. “He ordered the handling, watched, and then he took the brooch from her before he had her dragged out to the horse cart.”

Wescott shifted. “You expect us to hang a man on a scraped knee and a trinket?”

Harry’s gaze cut to him. “I expect you not to confuse cowardice with cleverness. Assault upon the Queen’s person is an affront to the Crown.”

A breath of amusement, nervous, unwise, passed down the table and died when the Duke lifted a hand. “Enough. The Proctor has his witness. We shall vote on the draft of removal and fine, and on whether the Lord Mayor is to be confined to his house until further order.”

“Confinement,” Harry said, “and his seal taken. He will not sign a single line in this kingdom again unless I allow it.” He leaned both palms to the table, the pose calm, the message not. “Write it.”

Quills scratched. Someone coughed into a handkerchief. Niall stepped back to his place at Harry’s shoulder and resumed his watch, a plain man under plain orders, yet the hinge upon which the morning turned.

. .

By the time Y/n was fully dressed and ready for the day, her nerves had settled into something like steadiness. She and Phoebe sat cross-legged on the rug with the newly delivered tray between them like children pilfering the pantry.

“Tell me truly,” Phoebe said, lowering her voice as if the gilt cornices might eavesdrop. “Does he speak kindly when no one’s looking?”

“When no one’s looking,” Y/n said, thinking of the way he had set his mouth against her skin and murmured nonsense as if it were a holy text, “he forgets to be a king.”

“That sounds dangerous,” Phoebe teased.

“It is,” Y/n said, smiling crookedly. “I rather like it.”

The latch lifted once, and Niall filled the doorway. He didn’t enter immediately, only took in the room with that quick, whole glance soldiers have: fire, windows, the two women safe on the floor, the untouched plate of sugared afters glinting like small jewels.

“Majesty,” he said with a nod to Y/n, then to Phoebe, softer. “Miss.”

Phoebe stood so fast she nearly upset the tea. “Is it done?”

“For now,” Niall said. “They write the instrument to strip him of office. His Grace will keep him to his house until the seal is taken. The King will come soon, when he’s set his hand to it.”

Relief loosened Y/n’s lungs. “Thank you,” she said. She gestured to the trays. “There’s food, if you’ve not eaten.”

"With your permission, Majesty.” He crossed to them, bending toward the plate. The movement was ordinary but the way his expression changed was not. Something flinted through his eyes, alert and hard.

“Don’t—” he said, already reaching toward her.

Y/n's fingers were at her lips when he knocked her hand aside, the sugared morsel flying. It struck the carpet and burst into glittering shards. In the same motion, his forearm swept the plate clean; the rest scattered like thrown dice. Phoebe yelped, knocking into her teacup, a wash of tea licking over the saucer and onto the rug.

“Niall!” Phoebe gasped his name in shock.

“Forgive me, Majesty.” He stepped between Y/n and the wreckage and dragged the low table back with his boot. His voice stayed level, though his body had gone to iron. “Did any of it touch your tongue? Or yours?” He turned to look at Phoebe.

“No. No, I hadn’t had the chance—”

"Nor I."

“Rinse your mouth all the same.” He yanked the bellpull hard enough that the brass struck the wall, then crouched, wrapping a handkerchief around his fingers to pick up one of the ruined sweets. He held it to his nose and flinched, jaw tightening. “Almond-bitter,” he said, low. “Wrong.”

Phoebe was already at the pitcher, sloshing water into a cup with shaking hands. “Poison?” she whispered.

“Maybe. Do not go near the tray,” Niall answered, not lifting his gaze. “Both of you.”

The door pushed open as Harry strode in, cold air chasing him. He stopped at the sight before him with sugar grit in the carpet, tea bleeding into wool, and Niall on one knee with a cloth-wrapped sweet in his hand.

“What in God’s name happened here?” Harry’s voice landed like a blade. “What is this?”

"Someone has tampered with the afters."

Harry took one look at Y/n’s face before he looked anywhere else and continued. “Are you harmed?”

She shook her head. “No. He stopped me.”

Harry’s gaze cut to Niall. “Good man.” Then, to the corridor, voice like a crack of ice. “Fred!”

The door hadn’t even finished closing behind Harry before Fred appeared, breathless. Harry didn’t raise his tone; he did not need to. “Seal the kitchens. Postern gates, scullery stairs, stillroom, confectioner’s pantry. No one in, no one out. Send the physician and the apothecary to this room. Find the Master of Household, the under-butler who signed for this tray, the confectioner, and the maid who carried it. They go under guard to the small council chamber. Now.”

Fred fled without a single word.

Harry crouched by Niall, eyeing the cloth-wrapped shard. “Laurel-water?” he asked, low.

Niall inclined his head once. “Could be. It stinks of almond.”

Harry’s jaw flexed. He straightened, kicked the scattered sweets farther from the hearth with the side of his boot, and shifted back to Y/n. The iron left his voice for a moment. “Sit,” he said softly, moving toward her and helping her down to a chair. “Let me see you.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone before he turned to face the wreckage again.

Phoebe hovered, white-knuckled around a cup. “It came up from the stillroom,” she managed. “Footman Evan carried it. He said Mr. Hawkins gave it to him from the pantry clerk’s hand.”

“Hawkins first,” Harry said, already moving. “Niall, keep that piece covered and no one touches anything else. Open the window two fingers. Phoebe, you stay with the Queen. Door barred from within. No one enters without my word. Who let the footman in?”

Phoebe blinked and looked at Y/n, opening her mouth to respond but Y/n quickly answered. "I told Phoebe to let him in. I didn't think there was harm in it. It was me who allowed it."

Harry nodded quietly as Niall rose, crossing to the casement and drawing it a careful inch. Cold air slid in, lifting the dying ash in the grate. He set the wrapped shard on the mantel out of reach.

Boots hammered in the hall with a ripple of orders, and the slap of pikes grounded. The physician shouldered in with his bag and a bow; the apothecary behind him with stoppered glass. Harry pointed toward the alleged poisoned sweets. "It smells of bitter almond, laurel-water perhaps."

"We'll confirm," the apothecary responded. The men immediately got to work.

The Master of Household arrived next, face leached of color, bowing too low. Harry didn’t look at him. “To the small council chamber,” he said, eyes on the floor. “Wait there. If you attempt to leave, the guard will clap you in irons.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“And send Hawkins. Now.”

When the door shut again, Harry glanced to Y/n; the set of his mouth eased a fraction at the sight of her sitting quietly, Phoebe’s palm firm at her shoulder.

It took a moment to sink in, that someone had attempted to poison her. To kill her. She felt a sharp rise of panic at the realization. She knew her post was ill-favored among many in the kingdom and even within the castle walls but she hadn't expected that someone would want her dead. Carted off in cattle cages, maybe, but death from poisoning? Who would dare do such a thing?

Harry turned, voice carrying clean through oak and stone loudly. “Captain! Double guard on the lower passage. Search every apron, every pocket, every basket. Every vial in the stillroom is to be accounted for and sealed.”

“Aye, Your Majesty.”

Harry’s hand closed once on the back of a chair. His knuckles whitening were the only sign of the temper he’d leashed. Then he released it and lifted his chin. “We are done being toyed with.”

He looked to Niall. “Bring the wrapped piece and attend me.”

He looked to Y/n last. For her alone, his tone gentled. “Lock the door behind me. I will not be far. And this time, my queen, I urge you: do not allow anyone to enter.”

He stepped into the corridor. “Bring me Hawkins, the confectioner, and the footman,” he said, the words ringing off stone. “We begin at once.”

. .

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. .

The king’s chambers were safe and inviting, unlike the rest of the castle. Or maybe it was just the way he'd kissed her. Lips soft and tender against hers, like he knew she was nervous. He cradled the back of her head, then slowly drew away, his nose brushing the side of hers.

Gone was the cold austerity of stone corridors and hateful gazes. In its place: warmth and hush. A low fire glowed in the hearth, casting flickering light across the dark wood walls and silk-draped furniture. The scent of rose oil and sweet wine hung faintly in the air, evidence of the staff’s discreet, meticulous preparation. A silver tray waited near the bed with fresh fruit, warm bread, and honey, with a decanter of brandy just beside it. Even the bed had been dressed more carefully than usual with new linens, a scattering of flower petals, and a thick velvet coverlet turned down in invitation.

Y/n stood clinging to the king, the heat of the chamber finally thawing the cold that had settled in her bones. The silk bodice of her gown still pinched her ribs, every shallow breath reminding her this was real. Her veil was gone, entrusted to Pheobe, but the pins remained, biting at her scalp like tiny teeth. She tried to steady her hands against the dark fabric of Harry’s frock coat, but they wouldn’t stop shaking.

They stared at each other… long enough that the fire popped behind them, long enough that she felt her pulse hammer against her throat. He looked as dazed as she felt, lips parted, eyes searching hers.

“You look scared,” he said softly, his brows knitting as he studied her face.

Y/n swallowed. “I suppose I am.”

He placed a gentle hand on her cheek. His eyes were shadowed, impossible to read, but there was warmth there too.

“You don’t have to be.”

She couldn't put it into words the way she truly felt. Every emotion inside of her clashed, unwieldy. She didn't want to be scared but it wasn't a matter of choice. She'd been crowned queen consort over a kingdom of people who despised her. And tonight, she would become a wife in every sense, whether she felt ready or not.

He slid his thumb over her cheekbone, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then lower. “The doctor wanted to have you inspected.”

She tensed.

“I said no,” he added quickly. "They wanted to be certain that you are a virgin. But that never held any importance with me."

Her eyes darted up to his. It didn't?

“I won’t have you touched by anyone unless you want to be,” he said. “And no one will be checking the bedsheets. If anyone asks, I’ll say it was done and they missed it.”

A strange relief gripped her chest. He could've been ruthless, brutal even, she’d seen it in court, heard it in the rumors, but with her, he spoke gently. Protective. Possessive, too, but in a way that made her pulse stir, not cower.

He leaned closer. “You’re mine to protect,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “But I’ll never take what isn’t given. Not from you.”

"I am a virgin. I know there are some who don't believe it, but I swear I am."

He nodded. "I know you are. You told me you were, and I believe you. Even if you were not, it wouldn't have stopped me from taking you as my wife."

She blinked at him. "How can you say that? Don't men want their wives to be virgins on their wedding night?"

He smiled. "Most do. But I, myself, am not a virgin. Would you have expected it of me?"

She shook her head. "No."

“Because in the end, it’s nothing compared to trust. Compared to respect.”

Casting her gaze toward the fire, she bit her lip and began to walk to it, holding her fingers toward the warmth. "Do you have respect for me?"

She felt his hands on the tops of her shoulders, and she turned her head to look up at him, his eyes on the flames in the hearth. "Yes."

"But you did not on the first night we met. You were awful. You frightened me."

He looked down at her, his hard expression softening. "I know. I am deeply sorry for how I treated you that night and the days after that."

She turned to look up at him directly, feeling as if she could speak freely. "Why? Why were you so harsh with me?"

"It's because I had the wrong impression. I've been accustomed to the ways of the kingdom and its people. It wasn't fair of me to judge you in the way I did without making your acquaintance first. It was wrong of me."

"What was your impression of me?"

He stepped back, eyes flicking over her. "On first glance, you seemed hollow-hearted like the rest. And I thought it was possible you were one of the girls who worked at the trap house—"

"You thought I was a prostitute. Is that why Mrs. Mable accused me of being a flag-hopper? Is this what everyone thinks of me?"

He blinked and shook his head. "I don't know what the others think of you, but what they think doesn't matter anyway. What matters is that you are far more interesting and smarter than the whole lot of them. You're better."

"If you thought I was so dull and unchaste, why did you pick me out of everyone?"

“Because you were beautiful, and at the time, I thought unchaste was what I wanted. And I knew it would scandalize everyone when they learned I’d chosen you. It meant almost nothing then. But it means something now. I hope you can see that.”

She stepped away from the hearth, her gaze drifting over the room without really seeing it. Should she feel hurt? She didn’t know. “So that night, when you summoned me… you thought I’d come willing. You thought I'd engage in licentious acts with you as you imagined I was accustomed to."

"Yes. I'd hoped for that. But I was wrong."

She looked at him, her fingers trailing over the table near the tray of fruit. "You were wrong. You treated me as if I were worthless refuse. And maybe in a way I am… I'm from the slums. A beggar with a sharp, unquenchable hunger deep down. No matter how much I eat, it never seems to go away. I always will be that girl. It's where I came from."

He did not answer at once. He understood her anger. He deserved it. He had treated her cruelly, and though his feelings had shifted entirely, he knew she still thought herself only the poor girl from the rookery. He watched as she drifted across the chamber, her gown trailing behind her in soft ripples, until she reached the balcony doors and slipped outside.

He had dreaded this reckoning, though he knew it was inevitable. Soon, she would demand more answers, for her spirit grew bolder each day. What he had not wished to confess was that, at first, he had taken her for nothing more than a common harlot with a fair countenance, someone whose elevation would scandalise the realm. That was all he required then: a face to stir gossip and a womb to bear his heir.

But he had discovered soon enough that Y/n possessed a depth he had not conceived. He regretted every careless slight, every cruel word. All he could do now was show her, in deed and word, that she had altered him and that he would never again fail her trust.

From behind, he admired the shape of her gown, the soft layers shifting as the wind blew against the material. He slowly made his way to stand behind her, placing his hands lightly upon her upper arms. Together they stood, gazing across Thornekeep’s moonlit walls. Beyond the gates, a small crowd lingered, their figures black against the lantern glow.

"You will never demean me so again. I would sooner fling myself from this wall than endure such foul words. I have dignity, and I will not remain the wife of a man who holds me in contempt, be he a king or no.”

He dipped his face close to the back of her hair, his breath warm at the nape of her neck. “I swear to you, I shall never again mistreat you, my queen. I behaved most shamefully, and I shall regret it all my days.”

She savoured the weight of his hands, the low heat of his voice at her ear, the faint trace of sandalwood upon his skin. In that moment, she believed him. She had watched him change… so swiftly it seemed near impossible. Once a brute she had feared, he was now gentle, almost tender. Still a devil, perhaps—but one she could almost trust. And if his kindness endured, she might even learn to yield her heart to him.

The night air bit cold through her lace sleeves, but his nearness set a warmth stirring low in her belly. She drew breath with difficulty, each inhalation a slow, shuddering thing. He always affected her so. His presence like a weight upon her senses. And now that her questions had been laid bare, she was ready to fulfil what was expected of her.

Y/n turned to face him, her palms gliding up his shoulders, down the breadth of his arms. “I am ready. Shall I summon Phoebe to unlace my gown?”

He cocked his head studying her with a look that mingled concern and a faint amusement. “There is no cause to hurry, mouse. We have until tomorrow evening before either of us is expected to emerge. If you wish to shed some of these layers, I am more than capable of unfastening your stays.”

“Are you not eager to have me in your bed? I had not thought you capable of such restraint.”

“I am quite beside myself to have you, my dear. But I suspect you will find more comfort in my restraint than you will from my eager desires," he said, gently turning her to face the balustrade. "You have no idea how much I've been looking forward to this night with you…" His fingers moved deftly along the ties of her bodice, slowly loosening each notch as he went up. "As anxious as I am to feel myself within your quim," his voice came warm over the back of her neck, making her close her eyes as he loosened her from her gown. “As much as I long to bury myself within you,” his voice drifted warm against her nape, making her breath catch, “I would rather you discover each sensation at your own pace.”

She looked upward to the starlit sky above. His words soothed the last of her dread. She had feared the pain of consummation must come at once, that she would have no moment to steel herself. But with each loosened loop and each quiet breath at her neck, her heart drew tight within her chest. Most bewildering of all was how the sliding fabric over her breasts and hips sent a shiver of pleasure low through her belly.

She reminded herself that such pleasure was no sin. That the carnal imaginings which visited her in the quiet hours were permitted now, even expected. She had tried, in small secret experiments, to prepare herself… slipping a hesitant finger within, but it had stirred little in her. No doubt the big nob that hung from him would prove far more demanding. The thought made her cheeks burn hot.

At last, her bodice slipped free, leaving only her chemise and skirts about her hips. His warm hands slid to her waist. He leaned closer, his breath ruffling her hair. “Shall we return indoors? I cannot trust that some watchful eye is not trained upon us this very instant.”

She folded her arms over her chest and nodded, turning toward him. "Yes."

It was far simpler to slip the heavy satin skirt from her hips than it had been to unfasten the bodice. Left in her chemise, while he wore only his linen shirt and breeches, they settled together upon the divan. A bowl of grapes rested on the carpet at their feet, and the fire glowed bright in the grate. She traced her fingertips across the velvet upholstery, striving to maintain her composure, though he sat perilously near, one arm stretched along the back of the seat as he watched the flames."How has your reading been going?"

Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She knew precisely what he meant, the scandalous tales. Only a handful of volumes dared offer the frank, wicked detail she secretly favoured, though she would never confess it aloud. The rest of the books danced around the truth of what was being written with flowery prose and reserved detail.

"Fine, I suppose."

“Merely fine? That does not strike me as a cause for much excitement. Be truthful with me, mouse. Have your readings not stirred a certain… awakening?” He traced a finger along the nape of her neck, gaze intent upon her profile.

An awakening… Well, yes, they had. She blinked her eyes slowly and gulped to wet her dry throat as she kept her gaze fixed on the flames. "A time or two."

His thumb drew gently up the side of her throat when she felt his plush lips graze her jaw. "Only a time or two? And how did it feel?"

She felt his words scatter across her skin and melt down to her neck as he kissed a slow path toward the underside of her chin. She tilted her head, granting him better access as a breathy gasp wobbled from her mouth. How was she to answer such a question when he was kissing her like that?

"It… It was… ahhh!"

He grinned at how swiftly she yielded to his touch. He had scarcely reached the place he knew would undo her entirely."Oh? Did it please you? Did you find your release?”

Her breathing faltered, chest rising as if the stays were still fastened to her ribs. She turned her face to look at him, lips parted, eyes heavy with confusion and longing.

“I… It…” she whispered, her voice soft. “It felt best when you did it.”

Harry's eyes softened, his hand settling over hers on her lap, thumb stroking the bones of her knuckles. “I see,” he said. He had not expected such candour. In fact, he could almost swear that was an invitation from her.

He leaned in again, that time placing a kiss just beside her mouth. A silent question to her subtle invitation.

She turned her body to face him fully, her hands rising to his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his collar as though daring herself to continue. She wanted more of that kiss. Wanted to feel the ache and the need kindling between them again.

He sat still as she shifted, her pretty eyes steady on his, palm sliding upward against the linen over his chest. Her lips were parted as she angled her face toward his, silently beseeching.

And then, to his quiet astonishment, she quickly moved into him, her lips brushing his with a tentative and curious peck. He hummed low in his throat as he responded, pressing more firmly into her mouth, drawing her deeper with every pass of his lips.

When she sighed into the kiss, he took it as permission, slipping a hand to the curve of her waist, guiding her closer. Her thigh brushed his, and he felt the hitch in her breath at the contact.

“You needn’t be afraid,” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers as he broke the kiss only long enough to see her eyes. “We shall take our time.”

“I do not fear the kiss,” she whispered. “Only what must follow after.”

He smiled. “We shall come to that only when you're ready. And when the moment arrives, I promise you shall find it as gentle and as sweet as you desire.”

He kissed her again, more deeply that time. His hand slipped behind her, tracing the gentle arch of her back, coaxing her to lean into him. And she did, cautiously at first, until her chest pressed to his, and her hands clutched his arms for balance.

She could feel the heat of him through her thin chemise, the strength of him, solid and broad, yet tempered by an unexpected tenderness. His touch remained patient, adoring, but each movement was deliberate, charting the shape of her, as though he meant to memorize every inch.

She startled a little when his palm swept over her hip and down to the back of her thigh. He paused, pulling back just enough to look her over. He needed to calm himself before he wound up devouring every inch of her like he wanted, the urge to overtake his reason.. Looking at her face, he saw only a beautiful woman, clinging to him, wanting… But he had to keep gentle with her. For now.

“Is this too much?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. I'm trying to settle myself.”

“Shall we stop?”

“No,” she whispered, her cheeks blooming with heat. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened, and he leaned in again, placing a kiss beneath her ear. “As you wish.”

He had envisioned the most wanton imaginings of her earlier that day. Had taken himself in hand, stroking with slow, deliberate intent to the thought of her spread across his velvet coverlet, her hips arching in desperate supplication as he tormented her with his touch. He had spilled the moment he pictured himself buried within her. Even now, he could scarcely fathom how she might feel… soft and wet and impossibly tight around him.

With great care, he guided her onto her back along the divan, the velvet cushions yielding beneath her. He followed, half atop her, propped on one elbow so as not to press his full weight against her. His other hand drifted slowly along the line of her hip, then upward, tracing the side of her ribcage through the soft fabric of her shift.

She arched faintly beneath him, startled by her body’s yearning. It was automatic. His mouth never left her skin. He kissed the slope of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the edge of her collarbone as she moaned quietly.

Her fingers found their way into his curls, tugging gently as he grazed the peak of her breast with the back of his hand. Even that small contact had her gasping, her legs shifting restlessly beneath her.

“Already trembling,” he said, his breath jagged. “You are so sensitive, little mouse."

“I feel it,” she whispered. “It's...” she trailed off, unable to finish any thoughts she had conjured.

He chuckled low against her chest, his nose brushing the thin fabric stretched over her breast. “It is natural to feel it. You are so good… perfect," his words were mumbled against the material. "I, too, feel it. It's in my bones…" He dotted kisses softly over her chemise. "… it's in my chest. And we’ve scarcely begun.”

He brought his mouth upward to hers again, his tongue brushing her lips in a way that made her back arch and her thighs clench beneath her clothing. She slowly parted her lips, her tongue meeting his in a shy, searching stroke. A low moan trembled between them.

Between the steady flicker of firelight and the warmth of his hands, Y/n could no longer recall what fear had once lived in her. He made her forget everything but his breath, his touch, the way his voice dropped when he praised her.

She could feel the hard ridge of him against her hip, unmistakable even through layers of linen and cotton. The knowledge of it sent a hot dizziness through her.

“Allow me to unlace this,” he said, tugging gently at the top of her chemise. “You are far too beautiful to be hidden behind cloth.”

She nodded, raising her arms to aid him. He had sworn he would be patient, that he would not rush her, but she was so pliant already. The soft panting of her breaths, the little gasps, the way she threaded her fingers into his hair and kissed him with shy fervour…the way she lifted her hips to meet him. All invitations.

And when the garment came loose, baring her to the warm air and his hungry gaze, the king did not seize her as some men might have, greedy and rough. He merely looked. Admired. Swallowed hard as if astonished.

He longed to touch her. Wanted to grab her flesh and squeeze at every inch of her that was laid before him. Wanted to dig his fingers into her hips and breasts and spread her thighs open so he could look upon all of her.

“God help me,” he said softly, his voice nearly breaking. “You’re exquisite.”

He was not a man given to faith. But right then, he could kneel in surrender to any deity who had brought her to him. He wanted to nose at her opening, to pry her apart and watch her face as he plunged into her depths.

She reached for him then, bolder than she’d ever been before, and pulled him down into her embrace, and perhaps for a break in the way his eyes were wandering over her peaked breasts and the stretch of her body where his fingers had once touched. She'd never been gazed upon like that before.

His mouth met hers again, slow and indulgent. He kissed her not as a king, but as a starving man at last allowed to feast. Her arms wrapped round his neck, drawing him nearer as his hand roamed down the soft plane of her side, over the tender rise of her hip. His palm, wide and warm, settled low, gripping just above her bottom as he deepened their kiss. She whimpered into his mouth, fingers slipping into his curls again, pulling at them with a desperation she scarcely understood.

Harry shifted atop her, careful not to rest too heavily on her frame, but eager for more of her body pressed against his. Her bare breasts, rising and falling in uneven rhythm, brushed against the linen of his shirt. The sensation tore another moan from her throat.

“There now,” he said between kisses. “D’you feel it, little mouse? What you’ve done to me?”

He took her hand and guided it downward, resting her palm over the thick, straining shape beneath his breeches. She gasped softly, her eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat.

He closed his hand over hers, encouraging her to press gently.

“That is what your sighs have made of me,” he whispered. “A beast of a man, barely leashed.”

Her skin burned hot. Still, she did not pull her hand away as she looked into his eyes.

“It feels so…” she trailed off, lashes fluttering as she dared another tentative touch.

“So alive?” he offered, his voice dark with pleasure.

She nodded, lips parted. “Yes.”

He smiled, then kissed her again, hungrier, less restrained. His hands returned to her body, roaming more freely. He cupped her breast, his thumb brushing over the pebbled peak, drawing a startled sound from her mouth. Her hips lifted slightly off the divan in response, instinctive and needy.

“May I touch you lower?” he asked against her neck, his breath scorching. “Properly?”

She hesitated, not out of fear, but from sheer wonder at the question. That he would ask at all. That he would wait. That a man known to be cruel in court would kiss her so sweetly and speak to her as though she were sacred.

“Yes,” she said, her voice small but clear. “Please.”

His fingers dipped downward, over the warm skin of her abdomen. She squirmed at the sensation, but he hushed her with a kiss to her cheek, trailing his mouth to her temple, her hairline, her ear.

When his hand finally slipped between her thighs, she gasped, her knees parting slightly of their own accord. He grazed her lightly at first with just a brush of knuckles over the soft curls between her legs.

“You’re already damp for me,” he whispered, sounding almost pained. “Oh, my love…”

Her heart was nearly bursting. She arched into him at the sound of that word.

Love.

Whether he meant it or not, it echoed through her like the strike of a bell.

He began to stroke her slowly with the flat of his fingers, spreading her slickness in languid circles without yet delving deeper. Her hips writhed beneath him, her hands twisting in his shirt as he coaxed her body into revelation.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing her chin as his fingers circled her pearl with careful attention. “Let yourself feel it, little mouse. There’s no shame in pleasure.”

The sounds she made startled even her… soft, broken cries she’d never known herself capable of. Her legs trembled, and he caught her with his free arm, holding her tightly as he continued to play her like a cherished instrument.

She felt how wet his fingers were as he slid them slowly, teasingly against her. She needed more, needed it desperately if she were to find any relief. But it seemed he had no intention of granting it. Not yet.

He smoothed his lips over hers, and the whole of the sensation was consuming every bit of her body and soul. She was brought to the brink, and then he moved his fingers down… over and over again as he kissed her until she could hear the wet, sinful sounds of her own arousal between them.

Even Harry felt himself nearing the edge, though she had scarcely touched him. Her fingers were still wrapped tightly over him, and the confining barrier of his breeches had begun to grate on his control. He pushed a heavy breath out through his nose when he felt her palm press firmly into him, tugging in a timid experiment.

And, at first, it had been an accident when he eased one thick finger into her. It was just barely, only to the first knuckle, causing her to gasp so sharply he kissed her again to steal the sound, stilling his digit inside of her. But then she shifted down against his fingers, pushing him deeper, to the second knuckle, until he was buried to the last joint and her ragged breaths dissolved into soft, helpless mewls.

Her walls fluttered around his finger, so tight and warm that it nearly undid him. But he held fast, working slowly, watching every flicker of her expression. He drew out and then in again, coaxing her body to relax.

“It feels—oh,” she cried softly, legs tightening around his hips.

“I know,” he breathed, as he watched her pretty face. “I know, darling. I can tell you like that.”

He found her pearl again with his thumb while his finger worked within her, and her whole body tensed, then softened around him. She did like that. He could see it in the way her hips began to roll into his palm, her breaths syncing to the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. Loosening his hold, he drew back just enough to look down and savour the sight of his new wife undone beneath him.

The room could have collapsed on him and he would not have stopped. Her hips were swaying in restless pleasure, her soft breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath, her mouth dropped open wide as her eyes glistened… and her cunt, sucking his finger in and in, making his hand gleam with her slippery, greedy need. He would stay like that with her for eternity if she wanted. Even if his cock was throbbing painfully.

"Mmm…" she whimpered, her eyes blinking up into his. "It's wet. Right here…" She slid her thumb along the head of his length, where he'd dampened the linen through his breeches.

"Yes. You've aroused me, little mouse. It means you're making me feel good. Your hand on me…"

She inhaled a harsh breath as he curled his fingers into her, dragging his pads into something that made her insides swell. "It's good?"

He smiled and pushed his nose into her cheek. "Very good."

The soaked sound of his finger pushing in and dragging out met with the crackle of the fire in the hearth, and their strained breaths and moans. His gaze drank in every detail of her, undone beneath him. She was more than ripe for him… but still… he wanted to see her writhing, begging for him to sink inside before he defiled her completely.

He closed his eyes, letting himself savor it: the feel of her, the scent of her skin, the soft, unguarded sounds she made. It was a dream, having her like this, and he felt certain that the moment he buried himself inside her, he might not survive it. For all his strength, his heart was sure to give out. But he would die happy.

Opening his eyes again, he slid his finger out, and she quickly grabbed onto his shoulder, her lips drawing downward into a sulk. "Harry…"

A low moan tore from him when she spoke his name. She so rarely said it that hearing it now was dizzying. "Oh, little mouse…" he cooed at her, changing the position of his hand, two fingertips circling at her little tight muscle as he looked down at her. "Do you need more?"

She nodded in haste. "More. Please."

"How about two fingers?"

She continued nodding as she glanced down at his hand, hovering just over her thighs in wait. "Yes."

Harry smiled and slowly eased two of his fingers into her. She gasped, her eyes widening with the new fullness. He began to thrust, unhurried, and she moaned, rolling her pelvis upward into his hand. Watching her face closely, ensuring her pleasure, he drew her hand from his shoulder and brought it downward to that tender place he had been stroking. She shivered as he guided her hand to where he had been touching her, where she was slick and tender and pulsing beneath her own hand.

“Feel that,” he said, his voice ragged. “How soft you are… how ready.”

He nudged his fingers inside of her gently as he steered her fingers. Her breath stuttered as she pressed down gently, her fingers slipping over the little pearl that throbbed with every heartbeat. Her thighs tried to close, but he nudged them apart again, kissing her shoulder.

“Take it easy,” he whispered. “Does it feel nice?”

She nodded, unable to find words, her mouth open in a soundless gasp as she watched his face intently. But “nice” was not the word for it. It was so much more. More than she had ever imagined. Better.

He watched her touch herself, her eyes wide, her chest rising and falling, and he knew he would never recover from the sight. But he couldn’t resist adding his own touch, his hand sliding to cover hers, pressing just a little firmer, coaxing a broken cry from her throat as he continued working his other fingers as deeply as she could take.

He didn't rush her. Even as he looked upon her laid bare, perfect and lovely in the firelight, he held her gaze and waited. Anyone watching have thought him a man of infinite patience, given he'd restrained himself from taking her how he wanted over the last month, but truth was, it cost him nearly every ounce of strength not to lay her flat and take her wholly just then.

For the king, this was also a new experience. Her virginity would be his, and it would be the first time he'd ever taken such a thing, from anyone. It had never appealed to him to have to teach and guide a lover during such a delicate moment. To make sure she was happy and that her body was relaxed and receptive.

Yet he found himself rather enjoying this slow, tender exploration. His patience was tested to its limits, but there was no other way. Y/n needed time to open up properly, so, time he would give her, even though every aching inch of him rebelled against such restraint.

When at last she moved her hand from herself and pulled him down to kiss him, he made a soft sound of gratitude in the back of his throat. He let her lead for a time—her sweet, tentative mouth against his, her hands exploring the breadth of his back, the shape of his arms. He could feel the damp trace of her arousal upon her fingertips as they brushed his skin.

Cupping her breast again, he rasped his thumb gently over the sensitive peak, and she gasped, her hips shifting upward toward him, as if she needed more than just his two fingers dragging through her insides.

“You must tell me if anything displeases you,” he murmured against her cheek, voice husky. “I mean to learn every inch of you, but not at the cost of your peace.”

“It does not displease me,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice. “I can hardly find the words to tell you how I enjoy it.”

He smiled faintly. “That is no ill thing, little mouse. You're so good.”

Slowly, he pulled his fingers from her and trailed his hand down the length of her belly, smearing a glistening trace along the path. She bucked as his fingers grazed the softness between her thighs. He kissed her again to soothe her, then slipped lower, brushing her slit with two fingers. She was so soft and yielding. He nearly lost himself at the feel of it, at the sight.

“Shall I taste you?” he asked, voice scarcely more than a ragged breath.

Her lashes fluttered, her lips parting as she swallowed hard. “If…if you desire it…”

He laughed softly. “I do more than wish it.”

He slipped down to his knees beside the divan, urging her to shift her hips closer to the edge. She felt nearly too shy to look down at him, but when she dared, her heart tripped at the sight… her husband, the King of Thornekeep, bowing as though to worship.

He kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh, his hands firm on her hips to keep her from shying away. When he parted her folds with careful fingers and pressed his mouth to her, she cried out in shock, her hand flying to his hair.

“Oh—oh God—”

“Mmm,” he moaned against her.

His tongue traced her with slow, deliberate sweeps, tasting her as though he might starve without it. He relished every sound she made, every broken gasp, every elated cry.

When he closed his lips around her tender pearl and suckled, she jolted so violently he had to press a hand to her belly to steady her. Her thighs trembled as her spine arched off the divan. It was nothing like she'd felt before. Fingers rubbing her little nub were one thing but his lips and his tongue gliding softly, teasing at her and then sucking… For one bewildered instant, she wondered whether such bliss could be sanctioned by God, or was it a wicked, sinful act.

“Harry—oh—oh, I—” she pushed softly at his head, and he lifted upward to look at her, resting his chin on her thigh.

“What is it, mouse?” he asked softly.

"It feels too good. I'm not sure this is right—"

"It's meant to feel good."

"But is it… improper? We haven't consummated the marriage yet, and I'm worried we're in sin."

Harry tugged her fingers into his, squeezing around her knuckles as he climbed back up to the cushion with her. "You and I are husband and wife. We may enjoy one another in whatever way we like. There is no sin here, Y/n. Just me and you together."

She swallowed and nodded, though uncertainty lingered in her gaze. “It feels so…more exquisite than anything I have ever known. I cannot believe something so indulgent bears no consequence.”

"I'm sad that someone taught you that pleasure is akin to wickedness. We are meant to enjoy each other. It is our wedding night."

She moved her palm up to his shoulder. "You should have me then. So we can consummate the marriage first. Is that not what we're really meant to be doing?"

He spread his lips against her cheek tenderly. "Oh, Y/n. We will get to that when it's time. It is important we have patience, so that you find joy in it.”

He kissed her again, lingering near the corner of her mouth. “You are in no danger of judgment here. No priest, no scripture, no God who loves you would condemn the sweetness of a husband tending to his wife.”

Her eyes searched his face, uncertain. “But—”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “Listen to me.” One of his hands came up to cradle her jaw. “You were made to be cherished. To be touched. To be pleasured. If you believe God made you, then you must believe he made all this softness, all this sweetness, too.”

Her chest rose and fell, breath catching. It felt too good to be innocent, and yet, the king's words calmed her racing thoughts.

“Let me show you,” he murmured, pressing a last kiss to her lips before sliding down again.

This time, she did not look away and she did not deny herself his gifts.

He settled between her thighs, hands gentle but insistent as he urged them further apart. She felt a shiver run the length of her spine when he kissed the delicate place above her mound, then lower, his mouth warm and wet.

He licked her slowly, unhurried, savoring her. His tongue pressed and circled and tasted her with aching devotion. A whimper rose in her throat, and she felt her hips tipping toward him, all her careful modesty dissolving.

“There,” he breathed between strokes, voice husky and warm. “That’s it… You see? No sin. Only your body caught in desire… perfect and good.”

Her fingers threaded into his hair again, but this time she did not push him away. She held him there, trembling as his mouth coaxed more of those helpless little sounds from her.

“Harry…oh…”

He hummed softly in answer, the vibration sparking heat that coiled deep inside her belly. He parted her gently with his tongue and closed his lips around that tender little bud again, suckling with steady, delicate pulls.

Her breath fractured. She clutched at his shoulders, eyes squeezing shut as she gasped. Her body gave way to him, and to herself.

He kept her pinned sweetly beneath his mouth, kept coaxing her higher, higher, until the last of her fear slipped away. Until the only thing she could feel was the pleasure cresting in a rising wave she could not have denied if she tried.

When she came apart, crying his name, he held her steady. Her breath came in ragged sobs. Her body clenched, and he nearly spilled himself just from the sounds she made.

When she sagged back at last, dazed and spent, he kissed her thigh one final time and drew himself up over her. She looked up at him, her eyes luminous and soft with wonder, her lips parted.

“I did not know…” She paused, struggling for air. “I did not know it could feel so…so…”

He kissed her softly. “It pleases me you enjoyed yourself.”

He shifted to sit beside her, his breeches tight to the point of agony. She reached out, hesitant, then laid her hand over the hard ridge straining against the laces.

“I would like…to do something for you,” she said, her voice wavering but earnest.

“Ah.” He swallowed hard. “You’ve no notion how dearly I desire that.”

She sat up on her knees, fingers trembling as she worked the fastenings. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick, the tip glistening. She drew in a startled breath as he drank in the sight of her naked and kneeling.

“It's quite large. I'd forgotten…” she said faintly. The memory of what she'd seen on the first night was distorted. She recalled only the tumult of feeling, but seeing him now, the sheer size of him was formidable.

He laughed then, a rough, quiet laugh. “Aye. But you shall have time to grow accustomed.”

He guided her hand to him, wrapping her fingers around the base. “Just here,” he said. “Slow strokes… That’s it.”

She moved carefully at first, watching his face. His eyes fell shut, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

“Spit on it,” he rasped, voice nearly gone. “Easier for you and better for me.”

Her face warmed, but she obeyed, her tongue peeking between her lips before she gathered her courage and let a small line of spit fall onto the crown. He shuddered, his hand covering hers again.

“That’s it, so sweet,” he breathed. “Ah—God, you are…you’ve no notion…”

When she grew bolder, sliding her palm up and down the rigid length, he dropped his head back against the cushion, breathing raggedly.

“You may lick it if you wish,” he managed, craning his neck to watch. He would ease her into learning how to suck on him, but for now, just to have her tongue against him would tide him over.

She leaned forward, her lips brushing just beneath the tip before she thought better of it, her courage failing. He looked down, his expression soft with amusement at the attempt. She was precious.

“No,” he said, lifting her chin. “You needn't do that tonight. Another time perhaps.”

She swallowed and gathered her courage again, her hand gliding up and down the thick length, the side of her fist grazing the hair at the root of him. Each stroke grew surer, slicker with her spit and the warmth seeping from him at the tip.

He closed his eyes, lashes shadowing his cheeks. “Yes…just like that,” he panted, voice hoarse. “Ah… You are…Christ, you are a marvel…”

She watched in fascination as his chest rose and fell, every muscle taut beneath the fine white shirt he had not bothered to remove. His hips shifted subtly, seeking more friction.

“Is it…very good?” she asked, breathless, astounded.

His eyes opened then, dark and heavy-lidded. “Very good, little mouse. You cannot fathom what it is to feel your hand on me.”

Her cheeks flamed at that, but she did not stop. She tried a firmer stroke, and he groaned deep in his throat, his abdomen tightening as though he fought to restrain himself.

“God above,” he rasped. “Sweet wife—if you keep on in such a fashion—”

He did not finish the warning. His breath turned ragged, one hand clutching her wrist as though to steady himself.

She looked down at her hand moving over him, at the flushed crown peeking from her curled fingers. A drop of pearly fluid welled there, smearing over her knuckles. Her heart thumped madly, part embarrassment, part something far stranger… an unnameable thrill that he trusted her with this, that she could undo him with only her touch.

“Do not stop,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Oh, God, do not—”

And she did not. She watched, transfixed, as his body shuddered beneath her hand. A low groan tore free of his chest, and his hips lifted once, twice… and then he spent himself, hot and thick over her fingers and the flat of his stomach.

She stilled, blinking down at the evidence of what she had done. Her palm felt slippery, and she could see the way he still pulsed softly against her grip as she slowed down the way her hand moved over him.

A curious wonder stole through her, mingled with a shy pride. She had never imagined such a sight, nor that she would be the cause of it. She'd never seen him like that before, but she quite liked it, she decided.

He reached to curl his hand around her wrist, gently drawing her away. His chest still heaved, a dazed smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“My love,” he managed at last, voice warm and ragged, “you have undone me entirely.”

She glanced down again, unable to help herself, her lips parting in astonishment. “I had not known…that it would look so…so much...”

He laughed then, soft and unguarded, even as he caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her damp fingers. “Forgive me. You might have found I am quite helpless where you are concerned.”

Her throat bobbed on a swallow. “I do not mind. I…rather like that you should be.”

They both stilled. The only sound was the fire snapping in the hearth.

“I shall see to this,” he said hoarsely, reaching for a kerchief to clean them both.

Once they were made tidy, he drew her into his lap, her bare thighs straddling his. He poured them each a small brandy and pressed the glass into her hand. She sipped, feeling the warmth spread down her throat to join the heat still coiled low in her belly. He watched her over the rim of his cup, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“You look thoughtful,” he said.

She lowered her gaze to the cup in her hands. “I was only considering how strange it is that one may feel so much and still be found well in the eyes of God.”

He chuckled, low and fond. “Aye, that is the wonder of it. Pleasure does not kill us, and neither will God.”

Her lips curved shyly. “You are very certain.”

“I am a man of some experience,” he admitted, one brow lifting in a silent dare for her to tease him. But she did not. She only traced the edge of her glass with a pensive fingertip.

“It did not hurt you?” she asked quietly, curiously.

He looked surprised, then softened, setting his cup aside so he could brush his knuckles down her cheek. “No, sweet. Far from it. You could do the same every night, and I would never grow weary of you.”

Her face warmed again, but she did not look away. “And now? Do you feel well enough to… to continue?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Greedy little thing.”

She bit her lip, half-ashamed of the way her body still ached to be touched. The way she wanted more.

He tipped her chin up, meeting her gaze with a softness that made her chest flutter. “I am well enough. But let us take a moment to rest. There is no race to be run here.”

She nodded, exhaling softly. His hands drifted down to her hips, thumbs stroking the tender skin. “If you are patient, I promise I shall have you writhing again before the hour is out.”

Heat moved through her at the promise. She swallowed and lifted her glass for another small sip, grateful for the excuse to busy her hands. And though she was not entirely fond of the drink, the way it warmed her belly and made her limbs loosen was awfully nice.

For a time, they sat like that… her straddling his thighs, the brandy slowly emptying from their cups to the warmth of their bellies, the firelight gilding every slow blink and secret smile. She felt a peace she could not recall ever knowing, threaded through with the anticipation that soon, very soon, he would touch her again. She was entirely too impatient, but she would try not to push more.

Every little stroke of his fingers over her skin drew chill bumps in their path. She toyed with the hem of his linen shirt, pushing at the fabric so she could touch his skin the way he was touching hers. When she'd reached up above his naval, he pushed out an amused breath.

"What is it, little mouse?"

She swallowed, unable to stop herself from asking once more. “I was only… wondering whether it might feel so pleasant again.”

He chuckled, setting his glass aside. “Little glutton.”

She huffed, cheeks hot. “You are unkind.”

“Am I?” He took her face in his hands. “Or am I merely perceptive?”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he kissed her, and her thoughts scattered. When he broke away, his hands drifted down to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples until she arched. His mouth found her neck, sucking gently.

“You wish for more,” he murmured against her skin.

“I…” She swallowed. “Yes.”

He laid her back once more and began anew—fingers sliding between her thighs, stroking until she whimpered. Until he was fully recovered and his prick was thickened once again.

"Let us go to our bed." He helped her up, his fingers purposely grazing her hip as they both moved to the much more comfortable feather mattress. She climbed on first while Harry stripped his shirt away, his gaze drinking in the sight of her… her bare back, the soft curve of her hips, as she settled onto the coverlet and watched him with wide, wondering eyes.

He could have her any way he wished, and she would not deny him. He moved in next to her and pulled at her hips, settling her astride his hips, his length slipping between her slick folds as he lay down on his back.

“Stay just here,” he said, voice rough. “Let us find it together.”

He guided her hands to rest against his chest before taking hold of her hips. When she looked down, her breath caught at the sight of their bodies pressed together with her slickness glistening on the ruddy crown of him. She gasped as he began to guide her, their bare flesh sliding together, hot and unashamed.

“Oh…” she pushed out the exclamation in a breath. It was so much. So warm and strange and perfect, she could scarcely hold the sensation in her mind.

He watched her face, gaze dark and steady. “Does it please you?”

She nodded, unable to form a word. Her hands splayed over his chest, feeling the solid rise and fall of his breaths. He rocked his hips gently, the hard length of him gliding against the tender pearl of her desire.

The first time she shifted her hips on her own, she startled at the burst of pleasure that sparked through her belly. He groaned low, the sound curling around her spine.

“Again,” he coaxed. “Just like that.”

She swallowed and did as he asked, sliding forward and back with more intention. It was not the same as being filled with his fingers, but oh, it was nearly too sweet to bear. The ridge of his cock rubbed exactly where she needed, every stroke leaving her breathless.

“God…” she whispered, her eyes falling shut. “It's so warm...”

His hands flexed over her hips, guiding her when she faltered. “Yes. That’s it, little mouse… take what you need.”

The fire cracked beside them, casting golden light over their joined bodies. She could not look away from the sight, her slick folds gliding over the length of him, his skin shining with her wetness. His abdomen tightened with each motion, the muscles shifting beneath the fine hair on his belly.

A soft keening sound escaped her, and her cheeks flamed hot at the thought that it belonged to her. But he only groaned in answer, the roughness of it making her clench.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

She opened her eyes, and their gazes locked… hers wide and wondering, his dark with hunger and a tenderness she could not have imagined.

“It feels too good,” she confessed, voice breaking. “I shall die of it.”

He huffed a ragged laugh, his thumbs pressing sweet circles into her hips. “If you die, I shall perish with you.”

It was nearly too much, too raw, too intimate. She pressed her palms harder to his chest and moved faster in instinct, the slippery slide of him sending little shocks of pleasure all through her. He guided her at a slow pace, letting her grind herself over him until her thighs quivered.

“Harry…” she gasped. “I think—I think it’s coming again!”

“Let it,” he urged, his own voice unsteady. “Let it, sweet girl.”

She cried out, her head tipping back, the pleasure cresting all at once. Every muscle in her body tensed as she came, her slick pulsing hot over him.

The sight of her, glorious and undone, dragged him right to the edge. He cursed softly, his hips thrusting up once, twice before he spilled between them, hot and thick, their bellies streaked with the proof of it.

For a moment, neither of them moved. She stayed straddling him, breathing hard, her skin flushed. She could feel the throb of him still fading against her. Her mind was slow to return to itself, dazed and glowing with a satisfaction she had never dreamed of.

At last, he cupped her cheek, smiling up at her with eyes gone soft. “I think,” he murmured, “we have done very well indeed. You are far better than you know.”

Heat prickled along her throat at the praise. She looked down where their bodies were still joined by the evidence of all they’d shared, then quickly averted her gaze, shy all over again.

“Come,” he said. “Let me see you settled.”

He eased her carefully off his hips, rising to fetch a fresh cloth. She lay back against the pillows, limbs loose and boneless, watching as he cleaned them both with gentle hands. When he finished, he drew the coverlet up over her bare body before sliding in beside her.

His arm slipped beneath her neck, gathering her close. She turned to bury her face against his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of linen and the warm salt of his skin.

“You are okay?” he asked quietly, lips near her temple.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I'm soaring.”

He exhaled a slow, relieved sigh and pressed a kiss to her brow. The fire burned low, throwing shadows across the chamber walls. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with the soft ache of satisfaction and the weight of her own contentment.

. .

Sunlight slipped past the drapes, warm on her bare shoulder. She stirred, stretching her limbs with tentative caution. Every part of her felt tender, softened by the night they’d shared. When she blinked her eyes open, she found him awake beside her, propped on an elbow.

“Good morning, little mouse.”

She smiled drowsily. “Good morning.”

He kissed her temple. “How do you fare?”

He smiled faintly and reached to stroke the skin of her cheek. “How fares your body?”

She hesitated, then let her hand shyly drift down to rest over his length, already stirring with interest against her thigh. Everything from the night before had been nothing but a delight. She couldn't understand the ache for more, but it was there.

“I would like to do it properly,” she whispered, her skin aflame. “I wish you to have me… wholly.”

His brows lifted, and he cupped her face in both hands. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” she said, her heart thrumming. “I want to feel you. I want… to give it to you.”

He slipped his hand to her throat, thumb brushing the place her pulse beat so fast. “And what is it you desire to give me?”

He knew what she was seeking but before he took it from her, he wanted to hear her say the words. Her breath came unsteady. She felt reckless, near undone by the safety she had found in his arms.

“I want,” she began, and paused, gathering her courage. “I want to feel you inside me. Entirely. I want to give it to you.”

His eyes darkened, the mirth fading to something deeper. “Do you know what you ask?”

“I do.” She lifted her chin. “I know you said there was no need to rush. But I do not wish to wait. Not if you will have me.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed as he searched her face for any sign of fear. When he found none, only resolve bright as morning, he exhaled and pressed his forehead to her shoulder, his own body vibrating with need.

“Then I shall have you,” he whispered. “But we shall go slowly, and you will tell me of every discomfort. Swear it.”

“I swear.”

He kissed her mouth, unhurried, as though they had endless hours to lie abed. His hand trailed down her side, then further, coaxing her thighs apart. She felt her body already answering him, readying itself as his fingers slid between her folds.

“You see?” he murmured against her cheek. “Your body knows what is to come.”

He worked her gently, drawing small circles that made her hips shift and her lips part with a quiet gasp. She clung to his shoulder, unable to think, only to feel.

When she grew wet and pliant under his touch, he pressed a finger inside, then a second, coaxing her with slow strokes. The stretch made her whimper, but she did not shy away.

“Easy,” he breathed. “Easy now.”

Even as he said the word—easy—he himself was reeling. His heart pounded, his skin was burning, his hand was shaking. He'd never needed to display such restraint in his life and he was nearly at the edge of himself to lose control.

Her body clenched and softened, her breaths coming shallow as he prepared her. When she began to tremble again, he drew his fingers back, pressing a kiss to her temple.

He guided her onto her back and settled between her thighs, bracing himself on one elbow so he could look into her eyes. With his free hand, he took himself in hand, the tip gliding through her slick heat.

Her breath caught as she felt him there, so close she thought she might faint from the wanting. The warmth of him pressing and sliding against her was not unlike the night before, but this time it was different.

“Breathe,” he said softly. “You must breathe.”

She nodded, her chest rising as she tried to steady herself, waiting for him to get on with it. Waiting for the sting, the pain… the blood.

With a low groan, he pressed forward, the thick head of him pushing into her inch by inch. She gasped at the burn, her fingers clutching at his arms. It was much, much more than she thought.

He stilled at once, voice rough. “Is it too much?”

“N-no—only—”

“Only different.” He kissed her jaw, her throat, waiting. “You are doing beautifully.”

When she exhaled and her hips tipped up, he eased deeper, the slow stretch making her cry out, though not in pain alone. He was inside her, truly inside, filling her in a way she could never have imagined.

“God,” he rasped, his breath ragged against her skin. He couldn't help but to peer down at their bodies joined. His cock throbbed at the lewd sight. “You are… you are…”

Her body tightened around him, and he groaned, fighting for composure. His instinct told him to bury in and begin sliding into her at full intensity so he could finally indulge in the slick hug of her cunt around him.

Instead, he took her hand and pulled it down her body, guiding her fingers over her pearl. "Touch. The way you do when you are alone. Like this…"

He moved her fingers there, and she blinked up at him, wide-eyed. She understood his instructions and began to rub over herself, two fingers drifting in circles, pressing until she began to feel the delight all over. It was then that he began to move again.

The king kept slow and steady, pulling back and pushing deeper as she kept her fingers gliding. He could feel her knuckles bumping at his low tummy as she clenched delicately around him. And the deeper he nudged the more she stretched to take him, until at last he was seated fully within her. He stilled, pressing his brow to hers.

“Does it ache?”

“A little,” she whispered. “But—oh—”

He shifted, just enough to make her gasp. “But it is…so full.”

"Don't stop your fingers. Keep them moving, yes?"

She nodded as he moaned against her cheek. He could wreck her without consequence. He could find his own end as he so pleased. But she was too sweet for that. And he was finding that prolonging his own pleasure was quite divine. He'd never experienced it before, always having whatever he wanted when he wanted it.

He kissed her then, his hand gentle where it cupped her face. “We shall wait,” he whispered. “Until you tell me you are ready. Keep going like you are.”

She blinked, her eyes wet. And after a long moment when the ache began to ease and the strange fullness began to feel like something better, she tilted her hips and whispered, “Harry…”

He closed his eyes. "Tell me, mouse. What is it?"

"I think it's okay. Please…"

Her fingers were wet, his length was soaked in her, her body was buzzing with need just as intended. He moved in her slowly, each stroke drawing a breathless sound from her lips. Her hands slipped up his back, holding tight as her body began to learn the rhythm, the pleasure that built with each thrust.

Her hands clung to his shoulders, her breath breaking on every slow push and pull. It was almost too much, the stretch of him, the heat, the knowledge of what they were doing. And yet it was never quite enough to tip her into that blinding release she’d felt before.

He rocked into her in a steady rhythm, his jaw tight with restraint. Every time her body gripped him, he felt himself sliding closer to the brink.

“Ah—God,” he groaned, voice ragged. “You feel…you feel as though you were made to take me.”

Heat swept over her chest. She couldn’t look away from his face, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his mouth fell open when he thrust a little deeper.

“Harry…” she gasped.

“Tell me,” he rasped. “Does it please you?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes—it’s…it’s so good.”

She meant it. Every slow glide was a kind of sweetness she had never known, an ache she did not wish to end. But it did not gather her up the way his mouth and his fingers had. It only made her feel stretched, possessed. Like she was coming apart without quite falling.

He felt it too, her trembling but never quite peaking. His hand slipped between them, thumb circling over the place she touched before, but still she only sighed, her hips tipping up for more without that final surrender. The angle wasn't quite right, but god did it feel good.

“It's enough,” she whispered, her voice soft and certain. “It is perfect like this.”

He made a strangled sound, the control finally slipping from him. “I cannot—”

She felt the change in him, the deeper push, the tension that turned his body hard beneath her hands. A helpless cry tore from his throat as he spilled inside her, his hips pressing flush as he shuddered against her.

She held him, her palms splayed over his back, her heart thundering. The heat of him filling her was a wonder in itself, even without the peak that eluded her.

When at last he stilled, he pressed his face to her throat, breath coming in ragged gasps. “Forgive me,” he mumbled, his lips moving against her skin. “I could not—”

She hushed him gently, sliding her hands to cradle his face. “It was beautiful.”

His eyes lifted, still dark with the last shreds of hunger. “You didn't finish…”

She shook her head, though she smiled. “Not this time.”

His gaze searched hers, then he withdrew slowly, carefully, drawing a soft gasp from her lips. Before she could shy away, he pressed a lingering kiss to her breast, her collarbone, her throat.

“Lie back,” he whispered, his voice gone low and rough again.

She blinked, uncertain. “Harry?”

“Lie back,” he repeated, easing her down into the pillows. “I would have you finish as you deserve.”

Heat rushed up her neck, but before she could protest, he kissed the inside of her knee, parting her thighs with sure hands. She felt his breath against her, the brush of his mouth.

“You are too good,” she whispered, her voice breaking, not even aware of what she was saying.

He only looked up at her, eyes fierce with devotion. “I shall never have enough of you.”

And then his mouth was on her, hot, slow, unhurried. He tasted her with the same reverence as the night before, his tongue coaxing her toward the pleasure she thought she’d lost.

He laved her tenderly, his spend mingling with her sweetness on his tongue. And he didn't know why but it only made him feel more ravenous. That she was filled up with him, and it was leaking like a posset filled with sweet cream.

This time, there was no strain or fear. Only the molten sweetness building with every stroke of him. And then his fingers met her tender opening, where he pushed them in and suckled her bud with his lips.

Her hand flew to his hair, her thighs trembling as she moaned aloud. “Oh—oh—”

He hummed low against her, fingers gently curling inside of her, and the vibration tipped her over the edge at last. Her body seized, all that wanting flooding out in a rush she could not stop.

She cried out, her voice echoing off the chamber walls. He did not stop until she went limp against the pillows, her breath coming in small, broken sobs of relief.

When he lifted his head, his mouth glistened with her. He kissed the inside of her thigh before gathering her into his arms, holding her close as her heart slowly quieted.

“I believe I adore everything about you,” he whispered into her hair.

She blinked up at him, dazed, her lips parting. “I think… I think I adore you as well.”

He smiled, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “Then you are mine,” he said softly.

She touched his cheek, her own face warm with wonder. “And you are mine.”

They lay in the hush, their breathing the only sound.

He stroked her arm, his hand lingering at her side. “You are so good,” he said, his voice hoarse. “My sweet one.”

She smiled at the name. “I thought it would hurt more,” she confessed, blinking up at him. “But it was… Heaven.”

He smiled faintly. “I meant to be careful so it would feel good. I should like you to recall this night with gladness, not dread.”

She let her palm drift over his chest, the steady thump of his heart beneath her fingers. “I think I shall remember it as the night you were…very gentle.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh, now, mouse… I am always gentle.”

She lifted a brow. “You are not.”

His mouth curved as he leaned down to kiss her, slow and unhurried. “No,” he admitted when he drew back. “But with you, I find I have a mind to be.”

She felt something unfurl low in her chest… something that had little to do with lust and everything to do with the peculiar tenderness he showed only to her.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “For waiting. For…asking.”

He studied her face as his hand moved idly over her hip, not in invitation but in reassurance. She traced the shape of his collarbone, the line of his jaw.

At last, she sighed. “I think I'm hungry.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “So soon? Have I worn you out only to leave you famished?”

“A bit,” she said, smiling. “And I would like something warm.”

“Then you shall have it.”

Reluctantly, he shifted to sit up. He reached for the bell cord near the bed and gave it a firm tug. She watched him, her heart turning over in her chest. Even in the simplest movements, reaching for the cord, smoothing the coverlet around her… he carried himself with a kind of unthinking authority. But there was nothing cold in it now, nothing cruel. Only the easy gravity of a man content to care for her.

“Will they think it odd?” she asked softly. “To be summoned so early?”

He looked back at her, a glint of amusement in his gaze. “Let them think what they like. We have nothing to prove to any of them. My little mouse is hungry; that is my only concern.”

She sank back into the pillows, her body tender and satisfied, her mind hazy with the sweetness of it all.

“Shall we take our breakfast here?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, returning to the bed to gather her against his side. “I should like to keep you to myself a little longer.”

And when the knock came at the outer door, he kissed her hair and mumbled, “After this, we shall rest as long as we please. The kingdom can wait.”

She smiled and let herself believe him.

. .

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. .

The king’s chambers were safe and inviting, unlike the rest of the castle. Or maybe it was just the way he'd kissed her. Lips soft and tender against hers, like he knew she was nervous. He cradled the back of her head, then slowly drew away, his nose brushing the side of hers.

Gone was the cold austerity of stone corridors and hateful gazes. In its place: warmth and hush. A low fire glowed in the hearth, casting flickering light across the dark wood walls and silk-draped furniture. The scent of rose oil and sweet wine hung faintly in the air, evidence of the staff’s discreet, meticulous preparation. A silver tray waited near the bed with fresh fruit, warm bread, and honey, with a decanter of brandy just beside it. Even the bed had been dressed more carefully than usual with new linens, a scattering of flower petals, and a thick velvet coverlet turned down in invitation.

Y/n stood clinging to the king, the heat of the chamber finally thawing the cold that had settled in her bones. The silk bodice of her gown still pinched her ribs, every shallow breath reminding her this was real. Her veil was gone, entrusted to Pheobe, but the pins remained, biting at her scalp like tiny teeth. She tried to steady her hands against the dark fabric of Harry’s frock coat, but they wouldn’t stop shaking.

They stared at each other… long enough that the fire popped behind them, long enough that she felt her pulse hammer against her throat. He looked as dazed as she felt, lips parted, eyes searching hers.

“You look scared,” he said softly, his brows knitting as he studied her face.

Y/n swallowed. “I suppose I am.”

He placed a gentle hand on her cheek. His eyes were shadowed, impossible to read, but there was warmth there too.

“You don’t have to be.”

She couldn't put it into words the way she truly felt. Every emotion inside of her clashed, unwieldy. She didn't want to be scared but it wasn't a matter of choice. She'd been crowned queen consort over a kingdom of people who despised her. And tonight, she would become a wife in every sense, whether she felt ready or not.

He slid his thumb over her cheekbone, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then lower. “The doctor wanted to have you inspected.”

She tensed.

“I said no,” he added quickly. "They wanted to be certain that you are a virgin. But that never held any importance with me."

Her eyes darted up to his. It didn't?

“I won’t have you touched by anyone unless you want to be,” he said. “And no one will be checking the bedsheets. If anyone asks, I’ll say it was done and they missed it.”

A strange relief gripped her chest. He could've been ruthless, brutal even, she’d seen it in court, heard it in the rumors, but with her, he spoke gently. Protective. Possessive, too, but in a way that made her pulse stir, not cower.

He leaned closer. “You’re mine to protect,” he said, voice quiet but certain. “But I’ll never take what isn’t given. Not from you.”

"I am a virgin. I know there are some who don't believe it, but I swear I am."

He nodded. "I know you are. You told me you were, and I believe you. Even if you were not, it wouldn't have stopped me from taking you as my wife."

She blinked at him. "How can you say that? Don't men want their wives to be virgins on their wedding night?"

He smiled. "Most do. But I, myself, am not a virgin. Would you have expected it of me?"

She shook her head. "No."

“Because in the end, it’s nothing compared to trust. Compared to respect.”

Casting her gaze toward the fire, she bit her lip and began to walk to it, holding her fingers toward the warmth. "Do you have respect for me?"

She felt his hands on the tops of her shoulders, and she turned her head to look up at him, his eyes on the flames in the hearth. "Yes."

"But you did not on the first night we met. You were awful. You frightened me."

He looked down at her, his hard expression softening. "I know. I am deeply sorry for how I treated you that night and the days after that."

She turned to look up at him directly, feeling as if she could speak freely. "Why? Why were you so harsh with me?"

"It's because I had the wrong impression. I've been accustomed to the ways of the kingdom and its people. It wasn't fair of me to judge you in the way I did without making your acquaintance first. It was wrong of me."

"What was your impression of me?"

He stepped back, eyes flicking over her. "On first glance, you seemed hollow-hearted like the rest. And I thought it was possible you were one of the girls who worked at the trap house—"

"You thought I was a prostitute. Is that why Mrs. Mable accused me of being a flag-hopper? Is this what everyone thinks of me?"

He blinked and shook his head. "I don't know what the others think of you, but what they think doesn't matter anyway. What matters is that you are far more interesting and smarter than the whole lot of them. You're better."

"If you thought I was so dull and unchaste, why did you pick me out of everyone?"

“Because you were beautiful, and at the time, I thought unchaste was what I wanted. And I knew it would scandalize everyone when they learned I’d chosen you. It meant almost nothing then. But it means something now. I hope you can see that.”

She stepped away from the hearth, her gaze drifting over the room without really seeing it. Should she feel hurt? She didn’t know. “So that night, when you summoned me… you thought I’d come willing. You thought I'd engage in licentious acts with you as you imagined I was accustomed to."

"Yes. I'd hoped for that. But I was wrong."

She looked at him, her fingers trailing over the table near the tray of fruit. "You were wrong. You treated me as if I were worthless refuse. And maybe in a way I am… I'm from the slums. A beggar with a sharp, unquenchable hunger deep down. No matter how much I eat, it never seems to go away. I always will be that girl. It's where I came from."

He did not answer at once. He understood her anger. He deserved it. He had treated her cruelly, and though his feelings had shifted entirely, he knew she still thought herself only the poor girl from the rookery. He watched as she drifted across the chamber, her gown trailing behind her in soft ripples, until she reached the balcony doors and slipped outside.

He had dreaded this reckoning, though he knew it was inevitable. Soon, she would demand more answers, for her spirit grew bolder each day. What he had not wished to confess was that, at first, he had taken her for nothing more than a common harlot with a fair countenance, someone whose elevation would scandalise the realm. That was all he required then: a face to stir gossip and a womb to bear his heir.

But he had discovered soon enough that Y/n possessed a depth he had not conceived. He regretted every careless slight, every cruel word. All he could do now was show her, in deed and word, that she had altered him and that he would never again fail her trust.

From behind, he admired the shape of her gown, the soft layers shifting as the wind blew against the material. He slowly made his way to stand behind her, placing his hands lightly upon her upper arms. Together they stood, gazing across Thornekeep’s moonlit walls. Beyond the gates, a small crowd lingered, their figures black against the lantern glow.

"You will never demean me so again. I would sooner fling myself from this wall than endure such foul words. I have dignity, and I will not remain the wife of a man who holds me in contempt, be he a king or no.”

He dipped his face close to the back of her hair, his breath warm at the nape of her neck. “I swear to you, I shall never again mistreat you, my queen. I behaved most shamefully, and I shall regret it all my days.”

She savoured the weight of his hands, the low heat of his voice at her ear, the faint trace of sandalwood upon his skin. In that moment, she believed him. She had watched him change… so swiftly it seemed near impossible. Once a brute she had feared, he was now gentle, almost tender. Still a devil, perhaps—but one she could almost trust. And if his kindness endured, she might even learn to yield her heart to him.

The night air bit cold through her lace sleeves, but his nearness set a warmth stirring low in her belly. She drew breath with difficulty, each inhalation a slow, shuddering thing. He always affected her so. His presence like a weight upon her senses. And now that her questions had been laid bare, she was ready to fulfil what was expected of her.

Y/n turned to face him, her palms gliding up his shoulders, down the breadth of his arms. “I am ready. Shall I summon Phoebe to unlace my gown?”

He cocked his head studying her with a look that mingled concern and a faint amusement. “There is no cause to hurry, mouse. We have until tomorrow evening before either of us is expected to emerge. If you wish to shed some of these layers, I am more than capable of unfastening your stays.”

“Are you not eager to have me in your bed? I had not thought you capable of such restraint.”

“I am quite beside myself to have you, my dear. But I suspect you will find more comfort in my restraint than you will from my eager desires," he said, gently turning her to face the balustrade. "You have no idea how much I've been looking forward to this night with you…" His fingers moved deftly along the ties of her bodice, slowly loosening each notch as he went up. "As anxious as I am to feel myself within your quim," his voice came warm over the back of her neck, making her close her eyes as he loosened her from her gown. “As much as I long to bury myself within you,” his voice drifted warm against her nape, making her breath catch, “I would rather you discover each sensation at your own pace.”

She looked upward to the starlit sky above. His words soothed the last of her dread. She had feared the pain of consummation must come at once, that she would have no moment to steel herself. But with each loosened loop and each quiet breath at her neck, her heart drew tight within her chest. Most bewildering of all was how the sliding fabric over her breasts and hips sent a shiver of pleasure low through her belly.

She reminded herself that such pleasure was no sin. That the carnal imaginings which visited her in the quiet hours were permitted now, even expected. She had tried, in small secret experiments, to prepare herself… slipping a hesitant finger within, but it had stirred little in her. No doubt the big nob that hung from him would prove far more demanding. The thought made her cheeks burn hot.

At last, her bodice slipped free, leaving only her chemise and skirts about her hips. His warm hands slid to her waist. He leaned closer, his breath ruffling her hair. “Shall we return indoors? I cannot trust that some watchful eye is not trained upon us this very instant.”

She folded her arms over her chest and nodded, turning toward him. "Yes."

It was far simpler to slip the heavy satin skirt from her hips than it had been to unfasten the bodice. Left in her chemise, while he wore only his linen shirt and breeches, they settled together upon the divan. A bowl of grapes rested on the carpet at their feet, and the fire glowed bright in the grate. She traced her fingertips across the velvet upholstery, striving to maintain her composure, though he sat perilously near, one arm stretched along the back of the seat as he watched the flames."How has your reading been going?"

Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. She knew precisely what he meant, the scandalous tales. Only a handful of volumes dared offer the frank, wicked detail she secretly favoured, though she would never confess it aloud. The rest of the books danced around the truth of what was being written with flowery prose and reserved detail.

"Fine, I suppose."

“Merely fine? That does not strike me as a cause for much excitement. Be truthful with me, mouse. Have your readings not stirred a certain… awakening?” He traced a finger along the nape of her neck, gaze intent upon her profile.

An awakening… Well, yes, they had. She blinked her eyes slowly and gulped to wet her dry throat as she kept her gaze fixed on the flames. "A time or two."

His thumb drew gently up the side of her throat when she felt his plush lips graze her jaw. "Only a time or two? And how did it feel?"

She felt his words scatter across her skin and melt down to her neck as he kissed a slow path toward the underside of her chin. She tilted her head, granting him better access as a breathy gasp wobbled from her mouth. How was she to answer such a question when he was kissing her like that?

"It… It was… ahhh!"

He grinned at how swiftly she yielded to his touch. He had scarcely reached the place he knew would undo her entirely."Oh? Did it please you? Did you find your release?”

Her breathing faltered, chest rising as if the stays were still fastened to her ribs. She turned her face to look at him, lips parted, eyes heavy with confusion and longing.

“I… It…” she whispered, her voice soft. “It felt best when you did it.”

Harry's eyes softened, his hand settling over hers on her lap, thumb stroking the bones of her knuckles. “I see,” he said. He had not expected such candour. In fact, he could almost swear that was an invitation from her.

He leaned in again, that time placing a kiss just beside her mouth. A silent question to her subtle invitation.

She turned her body to face him fully, her hands rising to his chest, fingers brushing the edge of his collar as though daring herself to continue. She wanted more of that kiss. Wanted to feel the ache and the need kindling between them again.

He sat still as she shifted, her pretty eyes steady on his, palm sliding upward against the linen over his chest. Her lips were parted as she angled her face toward his, silently beseeching.

And then, to his quiet astonishment, she quickly moved into him, her lips brushing his with a tentative and curious peck. He hummed low in his throat as he responded, pressing more firmly into her mouth, drawing her deeper with every pass of his lips.

When she sighed into the kiss, he took it as permission, slipping a hand to the curve of her waist, guiding her closer. Her thigh brushed his, and he felt the hitch in her breath at the contact.

“You needn’t be afraid,” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers as he broke the kiss only long enough to see her eyes. “We shall take our time.”

“I do not fear the kiss,” she whispered. “Only what must follow after.”

He smiled. “We shall come to that only when you're ready. And when the moment arrives, I promise you shall find it as gentle and as sweet as you desire.”

He kissed her again, more deeply that time. His hand slipped behind her, tracing the gentle arch of her back, coaxing her to lean into him. And she did, cautiously at first, until her chest pressed to his, and her hands clutched his arms for balance.

She could feel the heat of him through her thin chemise, the strength of him, solid and broad, yet tempered by an unexpected tenderness. His touch remained patient, adoring, but each movement was deliberate, charting the shape of her, as though he meant to memorize every inch.

She startled a little when his palm swept over her hip and down to the back of her thigh. He paused, pulling back just enough to look her over. He needed to calm himself before he wound up devouring every inch of her like he wanted, the urge to overtake his reason.. Looking at her face, he saw only a beautiful woman, clinging to him, wanting… But he had to keep gentle with her. For now.

“Is this too much?”

She shook her head quickly. “No. I'm trying to settle myself.”

“Shall we stop?”

“No,” she whispered, her cheeks blooming with heat. “Please don’t stop.”

His eyes darkened, and he leaned in again, placing a kiss beneath her ear. “As you wish.”

He had envisioned the most wanton imaginings of her earlier that day. Had taken himself in hand, stroking with slow, deliberate intent to the thought of her spread across his velvet coverlet, her hips arching in desperate supplication as he tormented her with his touch. He had spilled the moment he pictured himself buried within her. Even now, he could scarcely fathom how she might feel… soft and wet and impossibly tight around him.

With great care, he guided her onto her back along the divan, the velvet cushions yielding beneath her. He followed, half atop her, propped on one elbow so as not to press his full weight against her. His other hand drifted slowly along the line of her hip, then upward, tracing the side of her ribcage through the soft fabric of her shift.

She arched faintly beneath him, startled by her body’s yearning. It was automatic. His mouth never left her skin. He kissed the slope of her neck, the hollow of her throat, the edge of her collarbone as she moaned quietly.

Her fingers found their way into his curls, tugging gently as he grazed the peak of her breast with the back of his hand. Even that small contact had her gasping, her legs shifting restlessly beneath her.

“Already trembling,” he said, his breath jagged. “You are so sensitive, little mouse."

“I feel it,” she whispered. “It's...” she trailed off, unable to finish any thoughts she had conjured.

He chuckled low against her chest, his nose brushing the thin fabric stretched over her breast. “It is natural to feel it. You are so good… perfect," his words were mumbled against the material. "I, too, feel it. It's in my bones…" He dotted kisses softly over her chemise. "… it's in my chest. And we’ve scarcely begun.”

He brought his mouth upward to hers again, his tongue brushing her lips in a way that made her back arch and her thighs clench beneath her clothing. She slowly parted her lips, her tongue meeting his in a shy, searching stroke. A low moan trembled between them.

Between the steady flicker of firelight and the warmth of his hands, Y/n could no longer recall what fear had once lived in her. He made her forget everything but his breath, his touch, the way his voice dropped when he praised her.

She could feel the hard ridge of him against her hip, unmistakable even through layers of linen and cotton. The knowledge of it sent a hot dizziness through her.

“Allow me to unlace this,” he said, tugging gently at the top of her chemise. “You are far too beautiful to be hidden behind cloth.”

She nodded, raising her arms to aid him. He had sworn he would be patient, that he would not rush her, but she was so pliant already. The soft panting of her breaths, the little gasps, the way she threaded her fingers into his hair and kissed him with shy fervour…the way she lifted her hips to meet him. All invitations.

And when the garment came loose, baring her to the warm air and his hungry gaze, the king did not seize her as some men might have, greedy and rough. He merely looked. Admired. Swallowed hard as if astonished.

He longed to touch her. Wanted to grab her flesh and squeeze at every inch of her that was laid before him. Wanted to dig his fingers into her hips and breasts and spread her thighs open so he could look upon all of her.

“God help me,” he said softly, his voice nearly breaking. “You’re exquisite.”

He was not a man given to faith. But right then, he could kneel in surrender to any deity who had brought her to him. He wanted to nose at her opening, to pry her apart and watch her face as he plunged into her depths.

She reached for him then, bolder than she’d ever been before, and pulled him down into her embrace, and perhaps for a break in the way his eyes were wandering over her peaked breasts and the stretch of her body where his fingers had once touched. She'd never been gazed upon like that before.

His mouth met hers again, slow and indulgent. He kissed her not as a king, but as a starving man at last allowed to feast. Her arms wrapped round his neck, drawing him nearer as his hand roamed down the soft plane of her side, over the tender rise of her hip. His palm, wide and warm, settled low, gripping just above her bottom as he deepened their kiss. She whimpered into his mouth, fingers slipping into his curls again, pulling at them with a desperation she scarcely understood.

Harry shifted atop her, careful not to rest too heavily on her frame, but eager for more of her body pressed against his. Her bare breasts, rising and falling in uneven rhythm, brushed against the linen of his shirt. The sensation tore another moan from her throat.

“There now,” he said between kisses. “D’you feel it, little mouse? What you’ve done to me?”

He took her hand and guided it downward, resting her palm over the thick, straining shape beneath his breeches. She gasped softly, her eyes wide, her breath caught in her throat.

He closed his hand over hers, encouraging her to press gently.

“That is what your sighs have made of me,” he whispered. “A beast of a man, barely leashed.”

Her skin burned hot. Still, she did not pull her hand away as she looked into his eyes.

“It feels so…” she trailed off, lashes fluttering as she dared another tentative touch.

“So alive?” he offered, his voice dark with pleasure.

She nodded, lips parted. “Yes.”

He smiled, then kissed her again, hungrier, less restrained. His hands returned to her body, roaming more freely. He cupped her breast, his thumb brushing over the pebbled peak, drawing a startled sound from her mouth. Her hips lifted slightly off the divan in response, instinctive and needy.

“May I touch you lower?” he asked against her neck, his breath scorching. “Properly?”

She hesitated, not out of fear, but from sheer wonder at the question. That he would ask at all. That he would wait. That a man known to be cruel in court would kiss her so sweetly and speak to her as though she were sacred.

“Yes,” she said, her voice small but clear. “Please.”

His fingers dipped downward, over the warm skin of her abdomen. She squirmed at the sensation, but he hushed her with a kiss to her cheek, trailing his mouth to her temple, her hairline, her ear.

When his hand finally slipped between her thighs, she gasped, her knees parting slightly of their own accord. He grazed her lightly at first with just a brush of knuckles over the soft curls between her legs.

“You’re already damp for me,” he whispered, sounding almost pained. “Oh, my love…”

Her heart was nearly bursting. She arched into him at the sound of that word.

Love.

Whether he meant it or not, it echoed through her like the strike of a bell.

He began to stroke her slowly with the flat of his fingers, spreading her slickness in languid circles without yet delving deeper. Her hips writhed beneath him, her hands twisting in his shirt as he coaxed her body into revelation.

“That’s it,” he murmured, kissing her chin as his fingers circled her pearl with careful attention. “Let yourself feel it, little mouse. There’s no shame in pleasure.”

The sounds she made startled even her… soft, broken cries she’d never known herself capable of. Her legs trembled, and he caught her with his free arm, holding her tightly as he continued to play her like a cherished instrument.

She felt how wet his fingers were as he slid them slowly, teasingly against her. She needed more, needed it desperately if she were to find any relief. But it seemed he had no intention of granting it. Not yet.

He smoothed his lips over hers, and the whole of the sensation was consuming every bit of her body and soul. She was brought to the brink, and then he moved his fingers down… over and over again as he kissed her until she could hear the wet, sinful sounds of her own arousal between them.

Even Harry felt himself nearing the edge, though she had scarcely touched him. Her fingers were still wrapped tightly over him, and the confining barrier of his breeches had begun to grate on his control. He pushed a heavy breath out through his nose when he felt her palm press firmly into him, tugging in a timid experiment.

And, at first, it had been an accident when he eased one thick finger into her. It was just barely, only to the first knuckle, causing her to gasp so sharply he kissed her again to steal the sound, stilling his digit inside of her. But then she shifted down against his fingers, pushing him deeper, to the second knuckle, until he was buried to the last joint and her ragged breaths dissolved into soft, helpless mewls.

Her walls fluttered around his finger, so tight and warm that it nearly undid him. But he held fast, working slowly, watching every flicker of her expression. He drew out and then in again, coaxing her body to relax.

“It feels—oh,” she cried softly, legs tightening around his hips.

“I know,” he breathed, as he watched her pretty face. “I know, darling. I can tell you like that.”

He found her pearl again with his thumb while his finger worked within her, and her whole body tensed, then softened around him. She did like that. He could see it in the way her hips began to roll into his palm, her breaths syncing to the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. Loosening his hold, he drew back just enough to look down and savour the sight of his new wife undone beneath him.

The room could have collapsed on him and he would not have stopped. Her hips were swaying in restless pleasure, her soft breasts rising and falling with each ragged breath, her mouth dropped open wide as her eyes glistened… and her cunt, sucking his finger in and in, making his hand gleam with her slippery, greedy need. He would stay like that with her for eternity if she wanted. Even if his cock was throbbing painfully.

"Mmm…" she whimpered, her eyes blinking up into his. "It's wet. Right here…" She slid her thumb along the head of his length, where he'd dampened the linen through his breeches.

"Yes. You've aroused me, little mouse. It means you're making me feel good. Your hand on me…"

She inhaled a harsh breath as he curled his fingers into her, dragging his pads into something that made her insides swell. "It's good?"

He smiled and pushed his nose into her cheek. "Very good."

The soaked sound of his finger pushing in and dragging out met with the crackle of the fire in the hearth, and their strained breaths and moans. His gaze drank in every detail of her, undone beneath him. She was more than ripe for him… but still… he wanted to see her writhing, begging for him to sink inside before he defiled her completely.

He closed his eyes, letting himself savor it: the feel of her, the scent of her skin, the soft, unguarded sounds she made. It was a dream, having her like this, and he felt certain that the moment he buried himself inside her, he might not survive it. For all his strength, his heart was sure to give out. But he would die happy.

Opening his eyes again, he slid his finger out, and she quickly grabbed onto his shoulder, her lips drawing downward into a sulk. "Harry…"

A low moan tore from him when she spoke his name. She so rarely said it that hearing it now was dizzying. "Oh, little mouse…" he cooed at her, changing the position of his hand, two fingertips circling at her little tight muscle as he looked down at her. "Do you need more?"

She nodded in haste. "More. Please."

"How about two fingers?"

She continued nodding as she glanced down at his hand, hovering just over her thighs in wait. "Yes."

Harry smiled and slowly eased two of his fingers into her. She gasped, her eyes widening with the new fullness. He began to thrust, unhurried, and she moaned, rolling her pelvis upward into his hand. Watching her face closely, ensuring her pleasure, he drew her hand from his shoulder and brought it downward to that tender place he had been stroking. She shivered as he guided her hand to where he had been touching her, where she was slick and tender and pulsing beneath her own hand.

“Feel that,” he said, his voice ragged. “How soft you are… how ready.”

He nudged his fingers inside of her gently as he steered her fingers. Her breath stuttered as she pressed down gently, her fingers slipping over the little pearl that throbbed with every heartbeat. Her thighs tried to close, but he nudged them apart again, kissing her shoulder.

“Take it easy,” he whispered. “Does it feel nice?”

She nodded, unable to find words, her mouth open in a soundless gasp as she watched his face intently. But “nice” was not the word for it. It was so much more. More than she had ever imagined. Better.

He watched her touch herself, her eyes wide, her chest rising and falling, and he knew he would never recover from the sight. But he couldn’t resist adding his own touch, his hand sliding to cover hers, pressing just a little firmer, coaxing a broken cry from her throat as he continued working his other fingers as deeply as she could take.

He didn't rush her. Even as he looked upon her laid bare, perfect and lovely in the firelight, he held her gaze and waited. Anyone watching have thought him a man of infinite patience, given he'd restrained himself from taking her how he wanted over the last month, but truth was, it cost him nearly every ounce of strength not to lay her flat and take her wholly just then.

For the king, this was also a new experience. Her virginity would be his, and it would be the first time he'd ever taken such a thing, from anyone. It had never appealed to him to have to teach and guide a lover during such a delicate moment. To make sure she was happy and that her body was relaxed and receptive.

Yet he found himself rather enjoying this slow, tender exploration. His patience was tested to its limits, but there was no other way. Y/n needed time to open up properly, so, time he would give her, even though every aching inch of him rebelled against such restraint.

When at last she moved her hand from herself and pulled him down to kiss him, he made a soft sound of gratitude in the back of his throat. He let her lead for a time—her sweet, tentative mouth against his, her hands exploring the breadth of his back, the shape of his arms. He could feel the damp trace of her arousal upon her fingertips as they brushed his skin.

Cupping her breast again, he rasped his thumb gently over the sensitive peak, and she gasped, her hips shifting upward toward him, as if she needed more than just his two fingers dragging through her insides.

“You must tell me if anything displeases you,” he murmured against her cheek, voice husky. “I mean to learn every inch of you, but not at the cost of your peace.”

“It does not displease me,” she whispered, a tremor in her voice. “I can hardly find the words to tell you how I enjoy it.”

He smiled faintly. “That is no ill thing, little mouse. You're so good.”

Slowly, he pulled his fingers from her and trailed his hand down the length of her belly, smearing a glistening trace along the path. She bucked as his fingers grazed the softness between her thighs. He kissed her again to soothe her, then slipped lower, brushing her slit with two fingers. She was so soft and yielding. He nearly lost himself at the feel of it, at the sight.

“Shall I taste you?” he asked, voice scarcely more than a ragged breath.

Her lashes fluttered, her lips parting as she swallowed hard. “If…if you desire it…”

He laughed softly. “I do more than wish it.”

He slipped down to his knees beside the divan, urging her to shift her hips closer to the edge. She felt nearly too shy to look down at him, but when she dared, her heart tripped at the sight… her husband, the King of Thornekeep, bowing as though to worship.

He kissed the soft skin of her inner thigh, his hands firm on her hips to keep her from shying away. When he parted her folds with careful fingers and pressed his mouth to her, she cried out in shock, her hand flying to his hair.

“Oh—oh God—”

“Mmm,” he moaned against her.

His tongue traced her with slow, deliberate sweeps, tasting her as though he might starve without it. He relished every sound she made, every broken gasp, every elated cry.

When he closed his lips around her tender pearl and suckled, she jolted so violently he had to press a hand to her belly to steady her. Her thighs trembled as her spine arched off the divan. It was nothing like she'd felt before. Fingers rubbing her little nub were one thing but his lips and his tongue gliding softly, teasing at her and then sucking… For one bewildered instant, she wondered whether such bliss could be sanctioned by God, or was it a wicked, sinful act.

“Harry—oh—oh, I—” she pushed softly at his head, and he lifted upward to look at her, resting his chin on her thigh.

“What is it, mouse?” he asked softly.

"It feels too good. I'm not sure this is right—"

"It's meant to feel good."

"But is it… improper? We haven't consummated the marriage yet, and I'm worried we're in sin."

Harry tugged her fingers into his, squeezing around her knuckles as he climbed back up to the cushion with her. "You and I are husband and wife. We may enjoy one another in whatever way we like. There is no sin here, Y/n. Just me and you together."

She swallowed and nodded, though uncertainty lingered in her gaze. “It feels so…more exquisite than anything I have ever known. I cannot believe something so indulgent bears no consequence.”

"I'm sad that someone taught you that pleasure is akin to wickedness. We are meant to enjoy each other. It is our wedding night."

She moved her palm up to his shoulder. "You should have me then. So we can consummate the marriage first. Is that not what we're really meant to be doing?"

He spread his lips against her cheek tenderly. "Oh, Y/n. We will get to that when it's time. It is important we have patience, so that you find joy in it.”

He kissed her again, lingering near the corner of her mouth. “You are in no danger of judgment here. No priest, no scripture, no God who loves you would condemn the sweetness of a husband tending to his wife.”

Her eyes searched his face, uncertain. “But—”

“No.” He shook his head slowly. “Listen to me.” One of his hands came up to cradle her jaw. “You were made to be cherished. To be touched. To be pleasured. If you believe God made you, then you must believe he made all this softness, all this sweetness, too.”

Her chest rose and fell, breath catching. It felt too good to be innocent, and yet, the king's words calmed her racing thoughts.

“Let me show you,” he murmured, pressing a last kiss to her lips before sliding down again.

This time, she did not look away and she did not deny herself his gifts.

He settled between her thighs, hands gentle but insistent as he urged them further apart. She felt a shiver run the length of her spine when he kissed the delicate place above her mound, then lower, his mouth warm and wet.

He licked her slowly, unhurried, savoring her. His tongue pressed and circled and tasted her with aching devotion. A whimper rose in her throat, and she felt her hips tipping toward him, all her careful modesty dissolving.

“There,” he breathed between strokes, voice husky and warm. “That’s it… You see? No sin. Only your body caught in desire… perfect and good.”

Her fingers threaded into his hair again, but this time she did not push him away. She held him there, trembling as his mouth coaxed more of those helpless little sounds from her.

“Harry…oh…”

He hummed softly in answer, the vibration sparking heat that coiled deep inside her belly. He parted her gently with his tongue and closed his lips around that tender little bud again, suckling with steady, delicate pulls.

Her breath fractured. She clutched at his shoulders, eyes squeezing shut as she gasped. Her body gave way to him, and to herself.

He kept her pinned sweetly beneath his mouth, kept coaxing her higher, higher, until the last of her fear slipped away. Until the only thing she could feel was the pleasure cresting in a rising wave she could not have denied if she tried.

When she came apart, crying his name, he held her steady. Her breath came in ragged sobs. Her body clenched, and he nearly spilled himself just from the sounds she made.

When she sagged back at last, dazed and spent, he kissed her thigh one final time and drew himself up over her. She looked up at him, her eyes luminous and soft with wonder, her lips parted.

“I did not know…” She paused, struggling for air. “I did not know it could feel so…so…”

He kissed her softly. “It pleases me you enjoyed yourself.”

He shifted to sit beside her, his breeches tight to the point of agony. She reached out, hesitant, then laid her hand over the hard ridge straining against the laces.

“I would like…to do something for you,” she said, her voice wavering but earnest.

“Ah.” He swallowed hard. “You’ve no notion how dearly I desire that.”

She sat up on her knees, fingers trembling as she worked the fastenings. His cock sprang free, flushed and thick, the tip glistening. She drew in a startled breath as he drank in the sight of her naked and kneeling.

“It's quite large. I'd forgotten…” she said faintly. The memory of what she'd seen on the first night was distorted. She recalled only the tumult of feeling, but seeing him now, the sheer size of him was formidable.

He laughed then, a rough, quiet laugh. “Aye. But you shall have time to grow accustomed.”

He guided her hand to him, wrapping her fingers around the base. “Just here,” he said. “Slow strokes… That’s it.”

She moved carefully at first, watching his face. His eyes fell shut, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

“Spit on it,” he rasped, voice nearly gone. “Easier for you and better for me.”

Her face warmed, but she obeyed, her tongue peeking between her lips before she gathered her courage and let a small line of spit fall onto the crown. He shuddered, his hand covering hers again.

“That’s it, so sweet,” he breathed. “Ah—God, you are…you’ve no notion…”

When she grew bolder, sliding her palm up and down the rigid length, he dropped his head back against the cushion, breathing raggedly.

“You may lick it if you wish,” he managed, craning his neck to watch. He would ease her into learning how to suck on him, but for now, just to have her tongue against him would tide him over.

She leaned forward, her lips brushing just beneath the tip before she thought better of it, her courage failing. He looked down, his expression soft with amusement at the attempt. She was precious.

“No,” he said, lifting her chin. “You needn't do that tonight. Another time perhaps.”

She swallowed and gathered her courage again, her hand gliding up and down the thick length, the side of her fist grazing the hair at the root of him. Each stroke grew surer, slicker with her spit and the warmth seeping from him at the tip.

He closed his eyes, lashes shadowing his cheeks. “Yes…just like that,” he panted, voice hoarse. “Ah… You are…Christ, you are a marvel…”

She watched in fascination as his chest rose and fell, every muscle taut beneath the fine white shirt he had not bothered to remove. His hips shifted subtly, seeking more friction.

“Is it…very good?” she asked, breathless, astounded.

His eyes opened then, dark and heavy-lidded. “Very good, little mouse. You cannot fathom what it is to feel your hand on me.”

Her cheeks flamed at that, but she did not stop. She tried a firmer stroke, and he groaned deep in his throat, his abdomen tightening as though he fought to restrain himself.

“God above,” he rasped. “Sweet wife—if you keep on in such a fashion—”

He did not finish the warning. His breath turned ragged, one hand clutching her wrist as though to steady himself.

She looked down at her hand moving over him, at the flushed crown peeking from her curled fingers. A drop of pearly fluid welled there, smearing over her knuckles. Her heart thumped madly, part embarrassment, part something far stranger… an unnameable thrill that he trusted her with this, that she could undo him with only her touch.

“Do not stop,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Oh, God, do not—”

And she did not. She watched, transfixed, as his body shuddered beneath her hand. A low groan tore free of his chest, and his hips lifted once, twice… and then he spent himself, hot and thick over her fingers and the flat of his stomach.

She stilled, blinking down at the evidence of what she had done. Her palm felt slippery, and she could see the way he still pulsed softly against her grip as she slowed down the way her hand moved over him.

A curious wonder stole through her, mingled with a shy pride. She had never imagined such a sight, nor that she would be the cause of it. She'd never seen him like that before, but she quite liked it, she decided.

He reached to curl his hand around her wrist, gently drawing her away. His chest still heaved, a dazed smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“My love,” he managed at last, voice warm and ragged, “you have undone me entirely.”

She glanced down again, unable to help herself, her lips parting in astonishment. “I had not known…that it would look so…so much...”

He laughed then, soft and unguarded, even as he caught her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her damp fingers. “Forgive me. You might have found I am quite helpless where you are concerned.”

Her throat bobbed on a swallow. “I do not mind. I…rather like that you should be.”

They both stilled. The only sound was the fire snapping in the hearth.

“I shall see to this,” he said hoarsely, reaching for a kerchief to clean them both.

Once they were made tidy, he drew her into his lap, her bare thighs straddling his. He poured them each a small brandy and pressed the glass into her hand. She sipped, feeling the warmth spread down her throat to join the heat still coiled low in her belly. He watched her over the rim of his cup, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“You look thoughtful,” he said.

She lowered her gaze to the cup in her hands. “I was only considering how strange it is that one may feel so much and still be found well in the eyes of God.”

He chuckled, low and fond. “Aye, that is the wonder of it. Pleasure does not kill us, and neither will God.”

Her lips curved shyly. “You are very certain.”

“I am a man of some experience,” he admitted, one brow lifting in a silent dare for her to tease him. But she did not. She only traced the edge of her glass with a pensive fingertip.

“It did not hurt you?” she asked quietly, curiously.

He looked surprised, then softened, setting his cup aside so he could brush his knuckles down her cheek. “No, sweet. Far from it. You could do the same every night, and I would never grow weary of you.”

Her face warmed again, but she did not look away. “And now? Do you feel well enough to… to continue?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “Greedy little thing.”

She bit her lip, half-ashamed of the way her body still ached to be touched. The way she wanted more.

He tipped her chin up, meeting her gaze with a softness that made her chest flutter. “I am well enough. But let us take a moment to rest. There is no race to be run here.”

She nodded, exhaling softly. His hands drifted down to her hips, thumbs stroking the tender skin. “If you are patient, I promise I shall have you writhing again before the hour is out.”

Heat moved through her at the promise. She swallowed and lifted her glass for another small sip, grateful for the excuse to busy her hands. And though she was not entirely fond of the drink, the way it warmed her belly and made her limbs loosen was awfully nice.

For a time, they sat like that… her straddling his thighs, the brandy slowly emptying from their cups to the warmth of their bellies, the firelight gilding every slow blink and secret smile. She felt a peace she could not recall ever knowing, threaded through with the anticipation that soon, very soon, he would touch her again. She was entirely too impatient, but she would try not to push more.

Every little stroke of his fingers over her skin drew chill bumps in their path. She toyed with the hem of his linen shirt, pushing at the fabric so she could touch his skin the way he was touching hers. When she'd reached up above his naval, he pushed out an amused breath.

"What is it, little mouse?"

She swallowed, unable to stop herself from asking once more. “I was only… wondering whether it might feel so pleasant again.”

He chuckled, setting his glass aside. “Little glutton.”

She huffed, cheeks hot. “You are unkind.”

“Am I?” He took her face in his hands. “Or am I merely perceptive?”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he kissed her, and her thoughts scattered. When he broke away, his hands drifted down to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples until she arched. His mouth found her neck, sucking gently.

“You wish for more,” he murmured against her skin.

“I…” She swallowed. “Yes.”

He laid her back once more and began anew—fingers sliding between her thighs, stroking until she whimpered. Until he was fully recovered and his prick was thickened once again.

"Let us go to our bed." He helped her up, his fingers purposely grazing her hip as they both moved to the much more comfortable feather mattress. She climbed on first while Harry stripped his shirt away, his gaze drinking in the sight of her… her bare back, the soft curve of her hips, as she settled onto the coverlet and watched him with wide, wondering eyes.

He could have her any way he wished, and she would not deny him. He moved in next to her and pulled at her hips, settling her astride his hips, his length slipping between her slick folds as he lay down on his back.

“Stay just here,” he said, voice rough. “Let us find it together.”

He guided her hands to rest against his chest before taking hold of her hips. When she looked down, her breath caught at the sight of their bodies pressed together with her slickness glistening on the ruddy crown of him. She gasped as he began to guide her, their bare flesh sliding together, hot and unashamed.

“Oh…” she pushed out the exclamation in a breath. It was so much. So warm and strange and perfect, she could scarcely hold the sensation in her mind.

He watched her face, gaze dark and steady. “Does it please you?”

She nodded, unable to form a word. Her hands splayed over his chest, feeling the solid rise and fall of his breaths. He rocked his hips gently, the hard length of him gliding against the tender pearl of her desire.

The first time she shifted her hips on her own, she startled at the burst of pleasure that sparked through her belly. He groaned low, the sound curling around her spine.

“Again,” he coaxed. “Just like that.”

She swallowed and did as he asked, sliding forward and back with more intention. It was not the same as being filled with his fingers, but oh, it was nearly too sweet to bear. The ridge of his cock rubbed exactly where she needed, every stroke leaving her breathless.

“God…” she whispered, her eyes falling shut. “It's so warm...”

His hands flexed over her hips, guiding her when she faltered. “Yes. That’s it, little mouse… take what you need.”

The fire cracked beside them, casting golden light over their joined bodies. She could not look away from the sight, her slick folds gliding over the length of him, his skin shining with her wetness. His abdomen tightened with each motion, the muscles shifting beneath the fine hair on his belly.

A soft keening sound escaped her, and her cheeks flamed hot at the thought that it belonged to her. But he only groaned in answer, the roughness of it making her clench.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

She opened her eyes, and their gazes locked… hers wide and wondering, his dark with hunger and a tenderness she could not have imagined.

“It feels too good,” she confessed, voice breaking. “I shall die of it.”

He huffed a ragged laugh, his thumbs pressing sweet circles into her hips. “If you die, I shall perish with you.”

It was nearly too much, too raw, too intimate. She pressed her palms harder to his chest and moved faster in instinct, the slippery slide of him sending little shocks of pleasure all through her. He guided her at a slow pace, letting her grind herself over him until her thighs quivered.

“Harry…” she gasped. “I think—I think it’s coming again!”

“Let it,” he urged, his own voice unsteady. “Let it, sweet girl.”

She cried out, her head tipping back, the pleasure cresting all at once. Every muscle in her body tensed as she came, her slick pulsing hot over him.

The sight of her, glorious and undone, dragged him right to the edge. He cursed softly, his hips thrusting up once, twice before he spilled between them, hot and thick, their bellies streaked with the proof of it.

For a moment, neither of them moved. She stayed straddling him, breathing hard, her skin flushed. She could feel the throb of him still fading against her. Her mind was slow to return to itself, dazed and glowing with a satisfaction she had never dreamed of.

At last, he cupped her cheek, smiling up at her with eyes gone soft. “I think,” he murmured, “we have done very well indeed. You are far better than you know.”

Heat prickled along her throat at the praise. She looked down where their bodies were still joined by the evidence of all they’d shared, then quickly averted her gaze, shy all over again.

“Come,” he said. “Let me see you settled.”

He eased her carefully off his hips, rising to fetch a fresh cloth. She lay back against the pillows, limbs loose and boneless, watching as he cleaned them both with gentle hands. When he finished, he drew the coverlet up over her bare body before sliding in beside her.

His arm slipped beneath her neck, gathering her close. She turned to bury her face against his shoulder, breathing in the clean scent of linen and the warm salt of his skin.

“You are okay?” he asked quietly, lips near her temple.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I'm soaring.”

He exhaled a slow, relieved sigh and pressed a kiss to her brow. The fire burned low, throwing shadows across the chamber walls. Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with the soft ache of satisfaction and the weight of her own contentment.

. .

Sunlight slipped past the drapes, warm on her bare shoulder. She stirred, stretching her limbs with tentative caution. Every part of her felt tender, softened by the night they’d shared. When she blinked her eyes open, she found him awake beside her, propped on an elbow.

“Good morning, little mouse.”

She smiled drowsily. “Good morning.”

He kissed her temple. “How do you fare?”

He smiled faintly and reached to stroke the skin of her cheek. “How fares your body?”

She hesitated, then let her hand shyly drift down to rest over his length, already stirring with interest against her thigh. Everything from the night before had been nothing but a delight. She couldn't understand the ache for more, but it was there.

“I would like to do it properly,” she whispered, her skin aflame. “I wish you to have me… wholly.”

His brows lifted, and he cupped her face in both hands. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” she said, her heart thrumming. “I want to feel you. I want… to give it to you.”

He slipped his hand to her throat, thumb brushing the place her pulse beat so fast. “And what is it you desire to give me?”

He knew what she was seeking but before he took it from her, he wanted to hear her say the words. Her breath came unsteady. She felt reckless, near undone by the safety she had found in his arms.

“I want,” she began, and paused, gathering her courage. “I want to feel you inside me. Entirely. I want to give it to you.”

His eyes darkened, the mirth fading to something deeper. “Do you know what you ask?”

“I do.” She lifted her chin. “I know you said there was no need to rush. But I do not wish to wait. Not if you will have me.”

A muscle in his jaw flexed as he searched her face for any sign of fear. When he found none, only resolve bright as morning, he exhaled and pressed his forehead to her shoulder, his own body vibrating with need.

“Then I shall have you,” he whispered. “But we shall go slowly, and you will tell me of every discomfort. Swear it.”

“I swear.”

He kissed her mouth, unhurried, as though they had endless hours to lie abed. His hand trailed down her side, then further, coaxing her thighs apart. She felt her body already answering him, readying itself as his fingers slid between her folds.

“You see?” he murmured against her cheek. “Your body knows what is to come.”

He worked her gently, drawing small circles that made her hips shift and her lips part with a quiet gasp. She clung to his shoulder, unable to think, only to feel.

When she grew wet and pliant under his touch, he pressed a finger inside, then a second, coaxing her with slow strokes. The stretch made her whimper, but she did not shy away.

“Easy,” he breathed. “Easy now.”

Even as he said the word—easy—he himself was reeling. His heart pounded, his skin was burning, his hand was shaking. He'd never needed to display such restraint in his life and he was nearly at the edge of himself to lose control.

Her body clenched and softened, her breaths coming shallow as he prepared her. When she began to tremble again, he drew his fingers back, pressing a kiss to her temple.

He guided her onto her back and settled between her thighs, bracing himself on one elbow so he could look into her eyes. With his free hand, he took himself in hand, the tip gliding through her slick heat.

Her breath caught as she felt him there, so close she thought she might faint from the wanting. The warmth of him pressing and sliding against her was not unlike the night before, but this time it was different.

“Breathe,” he said softly. “You must breathe.”

She nodded, her chest rising as she tried to steady herself, waiting for him to get on with it. Waiting for the sting, the pain… the blood.

With a low groan, he pressed forward, the thick head of him pushing into her inch by inch. She gasped at the burn, her fingers clutching at his arms. It was much, much more than she thought.

He stilled at once, voice rough. “Is it too much?”

“N-no—only—”

“Only different.” He kissed her jaw, her throat, waiting. “You are doing beautifully.”

When she exhaled and her hips tipped up, he eased deeper, the slow stretch making her cry out, though not in pain alone. He was inside her, truly inside, filling her in a way she could never have imagined.

“God,” he rasped, his breath ragged against her skin. He couldn't help but to peer down at their bodies joined. His cock throbbed at the lewd sight. “You are… you are…”

Her body tightened around him, and he groaned, fighting for composure. His instinct told him to bury in and begin sliding into her at full intensity so he could finally indulge in the slick hug of her cunt around him.

Instead, he took her hand and pulled it down her body, guiding her fingers over her pearl. "Touch. The way you do when you are alone. Like this…"

He moved her fingers there, and she blinked up at him, wide-eyed. She understood his instructions and began to rub over herself, two fingers drifting in circles, pressing until she began to feel the delight all over. It was then that he began to move again.

The king kept slow and steady, pulling back and pushing deeper as she kept her fingers gliding. He could feel her knuckles bumping at his low tummy as she clenched delicately around him. And the deeper he nudged the more she stretched to take him, until at last he was seated fully within her. He stilled, pressing his brow to hers.

“Does it ache?”

“A little,” she whispered. “But—oh—”

He shifted, just enough to make her gasp. “But it is…so full.”

"Don't stop your fingers. Keep them moving, yes?"

She nodded as he moaned against her cheek. He could wreck her without consequence. He could find his own end as he so pleased. But she was too sweet for that. And he was finding that prolonging his own pleasure was quite divine. He'd never experienced it before, always having whatever he wanted when he wanted it.

He kissed her then, his hand gentle where it cupped her face. “We shall wait,” he whispered. “Until you tell me you are ready. Keep going like you are.”

She blinked, her eyes wet. And after a long moment when the ache began to ease and the strange fullness began to feel like something better, she tilted her hips and whispered, “Harry…”

He closed his eyes. "Tell me, mouse. What is it?"

"I think it's okay. Please…"

Her fingers were wet, his length was soaked in her, her body was buzzing with need just as intended. He moved in her slowly, each stroke drawing a breathless sound from her lips. Her hands slipped up his back, holding tight as her body began to learn the rhythm, the pleasure that built with each thrust.

Her hands clung to his shoulders, her breath breaking on every slow push and pull. It was almost too much, the stretch of him, the heat, the knowledge of what they were doing. And yet it was never quite enough to tip her into that blinding release she’d felt before.

He rocked into her in a steady rhythm, his jaw tight with restraint. Every time her body gripped him, he felt himself sliding closer to the brink.

“Ah—God,” he groaned, voice ragged. “You feel…you feel as though you were made to take me.”

Heat swept over her chest. She couldn’t look away from his face, the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his mouth fell open when he thrust a little deeper.

“Harry…” she gasped.

“Tell me,” he rasped. “Does it please you?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes—it’s…it’s so good.”

She meant it. Every slow glide was a kind of sweetness she had never known, an ache she did not wish to end. But it did not gather her up the way his mouth and his fingers had. It only made her feel stretched, possessed. Like she was coming apart without quite falling.

He felt it too, her trembling but never quite peaking. His hand slipped between them, thumb circling over the place she touched before, but still she only sighed, her hips tipping up for more without that final surrender. The angle wasn't quite right, but god did it feel good.

“It's enough,” she whispered, her voice soft and certain. “It is perfect like this.”

He made a strangled sound, the control finally slipping from him. “I cannot—”

She felt the change in him, the deeper push, the tension that turned his body hard beneath her hands. A helpless cry tore from his throat as he spilled inside her, his hips pressing flush as he shuddered against her.

She held him, her palms splayed over his back, her heart thundering. The heat of him filling her was a wonder in itself, even without the peak that eluded her.

When at last he stilled, he pressed his face to her throat, breath coming in ragged gasps. “Forgive me,” he mumbled, his lips moving against her skin. “I could not—”

She hushed him gently, sliding her hands to cradle his face. “It was beautiful.”

His eyes lifted, still dark with the last shreds of hunger. “You didn't finish…”

She shook her head, though she smiled. “Not this time.”

His gaze searched hers, then he withdrew slowly, carefully, drawing a soft gasp from her lips. Before she could shy away, he pressed a lingering kiss to her breast, her collarbone, her throat.

“Lie back,” he whispered, his voice gone low and rough again.

She blinked, uncertain. “Harry?”

“Lie back,” he repeated, easing her down into the pillows. “I would have you finish as you deserve.”

Heat rushed up her neck, but before she could protest, he kissed the inside of her knee, parting her thighs with sure hands. She felt his breath against her, the brush of his mouth.

“You are too good,” she whispered, her voice breaking, not even aware of what she was saying.

He only looked up at her, eyes fierce with devotion. “I shall never have enough of you.”

And then his mouth was on her, hot, slow, unhurried. He tasted her with the same reverence as the night before, his tongue coaxing her toward the pleasure she thought she’d lost.

He laved her tenderly, his spend mingling with her sweetness on his tongue. And he didn't know why but it only made him feel more ravenous. That she was filled up with him, and it was leaking like a posset filled with sweet cream.

This time, there was no strain or fear. Only the molten sweetness building with every stroke of him. And then his fingers met her tender opening, where he pushed them in and suckled her bud with his lips.

Her hand flew to his hair, her thighs trembling as she moaned aloud. “Oh—oh—”

He hummed low against her, fingers gently curling inside of her, and the vibration tipped her over the edge at last. Her body seized, all that wanting flooding out in a rush she could not stop.

She cried out, her voice echoing off the chamber walls. He did not stop until she went limp against the pillows, her breath coming in small, broken sobs of relief.

When he lifted his head, his mouth glistened with her. He kissed the inside of her thigh before gathering her into his arms, holding her close as her heart slowly quieted.

“I believe I adore everything about you,” he whispered into her hair.

She blinked up at him, dazed, her lips parting. “I think… I think I adore you as well.”

He smiled, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “Then you are mine,” he said softly.

She touched his cheek, her own face warm with wonder. “And you are mine.”

They lay in the hush, their breathing the only sound.

He stroked her arm, his hand lingering at her side. “You are so good,” he said, his voice hoarse. “My sweet one.”

She smiled at the name. “I thought it would hurt more,” she confessed, blinking up at him. “But it was… Heaven.”

He smiled faintly. “I meant to be careful so it would feel good. I should like you to recall this night with gladness, not dread.”

She let her palm drift over his chest, the steady thump of his heart beneath her fingers. “I think I shall remember it as the night you were…very gentle.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Oh, now, mouse… I am always gentle.”

She lifted a brow. “You are not.”

His mouth curved as he leaned down to kiss her, slow and unhurried. “No,” he admitted when he drew back. “But with you, I find I have a mind to be.”

She felt something unfurl low in her chest… something that had little to do with lust and everything to do with the peculiar tenderness he showed only to her.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “For waiting. For…asking.”

He studied her face as his hand moved idly over her hip, not in invitation but in reassurance. She traced the shape of his collarbone, the line of his jaw.

At last, she sighed. “I think I'm hungry.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “So soon? Have I worn you out only to leave you famished?”

“A bit,” she said, smiling. “And I would like something warm.”

“Then you shall have it.”

Reluctantly, he shifted to sit up. He reached for the bell cord near the bed and gave it a firm tug. She watched him, her heart turning over in her chest. Even in the simplest movements, reaching for the cord, smoothing the coverlet around her… he carried himself with a kind of unthinking authority. But there was nothing cold in it now, nothing cruel. Only the easy gravity of a man content to care for her.

“Will they think it odd?” she asked softly. “To be summoned so early?”

He looked back at her, a glint of amusement in his gaze. “Let them think what they like. We have nothing to prove to any of them. My little mouse is hungry; that is my only concern.”

She sank back into the pillows, her body tender and satisfied, her mind hazy with the sweetness of it all.

“Shall we take our breakfast here?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, returning to the bed to gather her against his side. “I should like to keep you to myself a little longer.”

And when the knock came at the outer door, he kissed her hair and mumbled, “After this, we shall rest as long as we please. The kingdom can wait.”

She smiled and let herself believe him.

. .

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. .

The Duke remained quiet and sat in the comfortable feather-down cushioned chair near the fire as he watched Harry and Virgil go back and forth. He'd been meant to mediate the discussion, but Harry overrode that decision and told him to sit before he was removed from the castle. The king didn't need someone there to arbitrate anything. Harry would be the one with the final say, no matter what the Duke's opinion.

It started, on the surface, amicably. But quickly spiraled when Virgil told him he'd regret his choices as king (stripping the Lord Mayor of his title for one, and marrying Y/n for another). Harry'd expected to hear the Lord Mayor bemoan his decisions again. It was no surprise to him, but it was quite galling to listen once again to the same justifications.

Harry rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. "And I thought you came here to accuse me of theft. You are a sad, tiresome man, Virgil. I'm bored listening to this drivel."

Niall watched from the door, letting his eyes rove the three gentlemen slowly. He was only there to protect Harry, should he have needed to. But more than that, he found their little tiff to be quite amusing, though he'd never let on to it.

The Lord Mayor continued, dismissing Harry's comments. "And furthermore, it's clear to everyone that you do not have Thornekeep's best interest in mind. Marrying a gutter-waif? Setting her up in the castle like she's been bred for the crown? Why… It's preposterous!"

Harry bristled at gutter-waif, but decided to hold his tongue (and his anger) in front of the Duke. "Bred for the crown? What are you? A husbandry worker now? You breed animals and ready them for royalty?"

A quiet breath fell from the Duke as he turned his head away from the pair arguing. Even he was amused.

A sputtered noise of disbelief fell from the Lord Mayor as he shook his head. "Quite vulgar! Once again!"

The king laughed sardonically and stepped around the edge of the table, glancing at Niall as he ticked his fingers, tapping his nails together slowly. "Are we done here?"

"Before we make our leave, I want to discuss the young woman again. Pearl."

"And what would you like to tell me about the young woman with whom you are infatuated?"

"Your Highness! I am not infatuated!" Virgil pushed himself up from the chair and stepped near to Harry, but not close enough that the king could get his hands on him. "I'm trying to offer you a better choice of wife. Pearl will not disappoint you. She is happy to serve you as a good wife and queen should, and she learns quickly. She will see to it that you are well taken care of."

"I do not want Pearl. I've already made my choice. If you want her so badly, you can have her. Your wife seems quite meek. She wouldn't mind you taking a lover, I'm sure. Most men of your ilk do."

Virgil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, ignoring how Harry had once again suggested that he wanted Pearl for himself. "My Lord, we can attest to and confirm that Pearl is a virgin, which is required of the queen consort. I have my doubts that Y/n is pure and virginal."

Harry laughed darkly, without a single drop of humor. "I suggest you make your leave before I become violent with you. My future wife is not up for discussion. I will not have you speak her name again."

"Then a mistress! Pearl would make a lovely mistress for you. She's fine to take on the role as long as you keep her and take care of her and her family in return."

Clenching his jaw, he shook his head and looked at the Duke. "Is he deaf? Dumb? Were you able to understand my orders just now, or am I the mad one here?"

"My Lord, I understood well your desires," the Duke said, not daring to look the Lord Mayor in the eye as he sided with the king.

"You cannot expect to be satisfied with just one woman. Surely you have plans in place to accommodate a mistress, if you haven't already," the Lord Mayor added.

Harry sighed and looked toward Niall again before stepping closer to the old man. "I think I can infer what's going on here. You and Mrs. Mable were quite close at one time, weren't you? The rumors were true then. She was your house-fed lamb, and you're a bedswerver. Your poor wife. Is Mrs. Mable threatening to let the cat out of the bag if you don't secure her virgin daughter a place in the castle?"

Virgil's mouth dropped open as his eyes nearly bulged from his head. "I… Why that's not even—"

The king moved closer, and the old man backed up to keep his distance. "That is what this is all about, isn't it? Most would wonder if Pearl was your daughter and not Mr. Mable's, but I'm convinced you're all dried up, impotent. And you, being like every other fleece-monger in Thornekeep, took Mrs. Mable as your secret, fancy piece."

"This is outrageous! I take umbrage at your accusations!"

Calmly, Harry looked at the Duke with a pleased grin. "Our old billygoat here takes umbrage. What do you say to that, Duke?"

Duke Hughes looked from the King to the Lord Mayor and stood up from his seat. "I say that it's time for us to make our leave."

"Now that is a smart answer. You could learn a lot from the Duke, Virgil."

"Just one meeting with Pearl, my Lord. She is ready to serve and would make a beautiful Queen, if not a kept mistress…"

"I said, get out! I'm quite finished with you, worm. Niall, remove him from the lounge…"

The old man raised his hands in surrender as Niall stepped forward. "We're leaving. No need for intervention. But please, consider meeting with the girl once. You will not be disappointed."

The dress was exquisite. Y/n glanced at Phoebe, who had covered her mouth with her hands after seeing all the pieces put together. She grinned at her friend and looked back at her reflection and couldn't help but focus on the young woman who Mrs. Mable had brought along for the final fitting. She had not been introduced to her, but Y/n could see that the girl was dissatisfied and annoyed.

"It's a shame this wedding and everything to do with the king's selection was rushed," the dressmaker said as she pulled at the fabric and tightened the bust, making Y/n gasp.

"Mama… When can I meet King Styles? I'm bored, and the stench in here is unbearable."

The young woman looked directly at Y/n as she mentioned the stench but Y/n was more worried about the girl's request to see the king. She'd become accustomed to insinuitive remarks and had learned to brush them off. But she did not like the idea of this pretty, young, blonde asking about her husband-to-be.

"Soon. He's been summoned. I imagine he'll be coming in any minute."

Y/n quickly grabbed her skirts and lifted them as she stepped down from the platform and looked at Phoebe. "He can't come in here! I'm in my bridal gown. It's bad luck—"

"It won't matter anyway. There's nothing customary about any of this. No one is so deceived as to think you're a virgin anyway…"

"It's so vulgar to think of it!" The pretty blonde said as she stood up and stepped in front of the mirror, smoothing out the silk panel in her dress. "The king deserves purity and beauty above all."

"Who is this? Why is she here? What business has she with the king?" Y/n pointed at the blonde as she stepped in behind her.

"There's the stench," Pearl said as she turned to look at Y/n, a smug expression drawn on her face.

Just then, the door opened and Harry barreled in with Niall and his assistant Fred trailing behind him. "Y/n… Is—what is this?"

He looked at Pearl, her mother, and the other women in the room, his brows pinched together dubiously. Y/n tried to hide the fabric of her skirts and duck behind a wooden table, but it had all been too late. He'd seen her gown.

"This is my dress fitting. You're not supposed to see me like this!" Y/n was almost in tears, and she knew it was a trivial thing to be so worked up over, but she had envisioned the surprised look on his face when she walked down the aisle toward the altar. She'd been so excited for that moment, and now that would be taken from her. He'd already seen her beautiful dress and it would no longer be a surprise.

Harry let his eyes sweep over her gown and back up to her face. "I was told that I was needed urgently. Who sent for me?"

The room fell quiet as Y/n narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Mable and then Pearl. "They did." She pointed. "I heard her tell this one that you'd been summoned but I did not call for you."

Harry could see the dismay on her face. To him, it was all the same. It didn't matter if he saw the dress now or on the day of their ceremony. But it was clear that it meant a lot more to Y/n and so for that he was livid.

"You're the dressmaker. Mrs. Mable…" Harry said and then he set his eyes on the pretty young blonde who was blushing softly and lowering her gaze in respect. "And you must be Pearl. Virgil has spoken highly of you, but unfortunately, you're wasting your time here."

Mrs. Mable rushed toward Harry and pointed at her daughter. "She is ready, Your Highness. She's been trained for this and she will do anything you ask of her. Give her a chance. You may take her into your chambers if you'd like to make a more informed choice."

Harry sniffed and looked at Y/n before he shot a look of disdain at Mrs. Mable. "Are you dull in the head? Your conniving with the Lord Mayor is pathetic. I know what you two have done and I care not if you expose him and yourself for the bedswervers you are. But do not pull my bride-to-be into this ratbag scheme."

"Is she not more lovely, not more fit to your tastes and to the kingdom's? You will require a virgin—"

"Pish! You and Virgil seem to think I hold virgins in high regard when that is the least of my concerns. Take her away. I don't wish to look at your daughter or to have her near Y/n. I can tell by just a glance that she's jealous."

Pearl let out a frustrated laugh. "I would never be jealous of her! She's akin to the filthy swine at the entry of the rookeries from where she came!"

Harry calmly stepped in front of the blonde, a rage boiling beneath the surface that he had to tame. She had to crane her neck back to look up at him. "I pity people like you," he said in a dark, spiteful tone. "Wrapped up in silk with pink lace bows and a turned-up nose. You haven't a single original thought in that tiny brain of yours and that's the most unattractive thing about you. Moreover, I can't find a solitary redeeming quality that you possess. I do not find you to be pretty. On the contrary… Your face is too wide and pasty, your wrists like a hollowed sprig, and your eyes are set too close, reminiscent of those fat bugs that like to feed off dung in the farmyards. I would never take you as my wife, much less a mistress. You are no better than anyone in this room, and you never will be."

Pearl stepped back and turned her face downward as tears threatened to burst from her eyes. Y/n felt a spike of satisfaction course up the knobs of her spine. She had been blind sided by their little trick to get the king to walk into her room for her fitting, so to hear Harry speak his mind to the young girl in that way had her holding her head a little higher, despite the devastation she felt at him seeing her dress before he was meant to.

"You bootjack! Do not speak to my daughter that way!" Mrs. Mable wrapped her arms around Pearl protectively.

Harry laughed. "Brave soul you are to mock the king and your queen-to-be. What did you expect of this disgraceful, desperate exhibit? That I'd look at her…" He gestured toward Pearl, who still had her face downcast. "And find myself smitten by her pastel garments and curled locks? She is nothing more than the dressmaker's daughter. She does not interest me in the least."

Mrs. Mable scoffed and looked at Y/n, Phoebe next to her, holding her arm. "She's a regular street beggar turned flag-hopper. Who knows how many men she's done the business with and if you want to marry into that kind of rubbish, then you dishonor your father's legacy. You are an embarrassment to the kingdom."

Letting his eyes flicker over his bride-to-be, he clenched his jaw. "If you were a man I'd have you tossed from the window down to your painful demise for speaking that way about her. Does she look rubbish to you? And who do you see standing before you as King? Not my father. He's dead, buried in the ground where he belongs."

One of the seamstresses gasped and turned away quickly in surprise at Harry's rough words for the beloved, deceased King Augustus. He shook his head and pointed toward the door. "Niall, take Mrs. Mable and her daughter down to the study and wait with them until I arrive. The rest of you are dismissed. Phoebe, you may stay with Y/n and help her out of this dress."

Niall motioned to the pair and Mrs. Mable scowled at the king on her way out of the room. Pearl kept her head down in shame with cheeks wetted by tears. Y/n watched with cautious delight, her eyes shifting from Mrs. Mable and Pearl, and then the workers as they all filed out of the Rose Room.

Then, before she even realized he'd made his way to her side, she felt his hand wrap around hers, and she turned to look up at him. "We'll have a new dress made for you. A better one. You will never have to see Mrs. Mable and her insufferable, hideous daughter ever again." He thumbed at her cheek as she nodded, a small smile working up on her lips.

"But the wedding is in two days. I don't know that that's possible. There is no better dressmaker in the kingdom than Mrs. Mable."

"I will find you a better dressmaker even if I have to bring them in from another province. Fred," Harry said, his sight still on his bride-to-be, "go find Luther and have him send for that Parisian man in Bethel. Find out who he uses and have them brought here at any cost."

The door closed behind Fred, and Phoebe stood to the side, watching as Harry and Y/n stared at one another. "You are not upset by them, are you?"

She blinked and looked toward the door. "I'm unsure how I feel. I found Pearl to be very pretty, and I imagined you would like the looks of her." She turned her gaze back to him. "Is it true you find her to be hideous?"

Harry continued running his thumb along her cheek as he lifted his other hand to the opposite side of her face. "Compared to you? She's repulsive and boring."

"But you wouldn't even take her as your mistress?"

"I won't be taking a mistress."

Y/n shook her head. "Isn't it customary for the king to have mistresses to keep him satisfied? What if I cannot make you happy?"

"Do not worry about that, little mouse. Now, I need to go and sort out the hatchet-faced sows who await me."

She giggled quietly as he stepped away from her, a cheeky grin on his face.

The moment he closed the door, Phoebe stepped in behind her and began helping her untie the corset. "She's not pretty. Not at all."

"Who? Pearl? I believe she was very pretty."

"Her attitude was ugly. I can't believe he compared her to a dung bug!"

The girls laughed together. "I wonder what he's going to say to them in his study."

"He's already love-stricken. It's so romantic," Phoebe said as she laid the corset down on the dressing table.

"Love-stricken? I don't believe so."

"Oh, but he is. I have a secret. Something I've wanted to say but didn't know if I should… But now I can't hold it in any longer…"

Y/n looked at Phoebe. "Well, what is it?"

"He's telling you the truth that he doesn't want a lover. I overheard him with his assistant and the castle steward telling them to clear the room that was meant to be kept for a mistress, but he didn't want it. He had changed his mind. Mr. Fred told him to leave it just in case, but the King insisted they give the room another use. He said it was no longer necessary, and I think it's because he can't imagine having anyone but you."

Y/n smiled and looked toward the window as her heart thumped in her chest. It was becoming quite common for her heart to patter harder every time she thought about Harry. He made her skin heat and her fingertips tingle. And she even indulged in touching herself as she imagined his eyes and his lips and his fingers… She knew her feelings about him were different than anything she'd felt before.

She had never belonged anywhere before, begging in alleyways, sleeping on the floor in her family's cramped tenement, ignored by carriages that splashed muddy water on her skirts. And now, she stood in there in castle with a little more meat on her bones and a relaxed smile on her face. The king had not only chosen her but defended her with the kind of fury only true feelings could ignite. Her feelings of being an impostor still bubbled to the surface at times, but she couldn't deny that Harry soothed the rising simmer with each passing day.

When the new dressmaker, Eugène Louise Lafitte, arrived the following evening, he had brought with him a whole caravan of helpers. Three covered carts filled with dresses, designs, supplies, and materials; two hairdressers, three seamstresses, a milliner, and two of his own assistants; as well as all of his personal belongings, as he was going to replace Mrs. Mable as the official royal dressmaker.

Y/n found the whole ordeal to be chaotic, but if she insisted on a new gown (she didn't really), then this was the only way. Eugène had set up everything in the Rose Room, and he began to measure and fit her right away. And despite the fact that there were a dozen people milling about in the room, jumping at every command Eugène spat, she found this fitting to be much better than with Mrs. Mable. For one, he never "accidentally" poked her with the pins the way Mrs. Mable had. For another, he treated her with appropriate respect. As if she were the queen already.

"Bring me the white silk Lanvin bodice…" Eugène said as he waved an arm toward his assistant, his other hand clutched at the middle of Y/n's back as he held fabric in place, and then snapped his fingers. "And check the third trunk for the custom silk skirt with cream lace. And those silk flourettes I've got in my leather satchel. I need them here."

And it went like that until Y/n could barely hold her eyes open. The buzz in the room continued for hours until Eugène was pleased with the look. Of course, he checked in with Y/n, often asking her opinion, of which she had none.

It embarrassed her, in a way, that she had no clue about what looked pretty and what did not. She didn't know fashion, but she did love the little silk flowers that were pinned along her outer skirt between bunched lace and smooth satin. The dress was lovely, Y/n could tell that much. And the finished product (which needed to be ready by midday) would be stunning. It would be paired with the original Turkish diamond necklace she'd been gifted and the finished veil that Mrs. Mable had made.

"Now, you rest," Eugène said to Y/n after Phoebe had helped her out of the delicate material and tucked a robe around her chemise. "The most important part of any outfit is the person wearing it and her disposition. Your beautiful smile will be the star of the ceremony, and you need your sleep. I will take care of the rest for you, madam. Leave the stress to me."

She paused and squinted at the odd man (he was quite odd, but she rather liked him). She wasn't sure if he'd said leave this dress to me, or leave the stress to me… Either way, she was too exhausted to think of much else than her comfortable bed as all of the workers left the room and Phoebe tucked her in and kissed her cheek.

"Goodnight, Queen." Phoebe smiled.

Y/n fluttered her eyes closed with a small, quiet laugh and whispered tiredly, "I'm not Queen yet."

"You are to me."

Despite the pre-wedding spiky nerves Harry was feeling, he was pleased and maybe even a little excited. The ceremony was only a couple of hours away and the castle was abuzz with activity all over. His suit was ready. He'd hidden in his study in hopes of a bit of peace and quiet before the doctor had forced his way in and begun talking nonsense.

"She has not yet had her physical examination, My Lord. It would require, at minimum, a quick and simple two-finger test, which is very run-of-the-mill."

Harry pinched his brows together and nodded with a sneer, his leg draped over his knee as he listened to the castle doctor. Sucking at his teeth he narrowed his gaze. "That will not be happening."

"Excuse me?" The doctor looked surprised.

"I said… That .. will not .. be happening."

"I don't understand. It's customary to check that the bride of the king is a virgin. How will we determine her virginal status if she doesn't have an examination?"

"I am sorry you're confused, but I believe I made myself clear. She will not be needing an examination. She's already told me she's a virgin." Not that it mattered to him in the first place.

"Please accept my sincerest apologies, My Lord, but how do you know she's telling you the truth? That is why we have protocol for this kind of thing. We cannot trust her to be honest about that. Of course, she'd tell you she's a virgin in order to procure her spot as Queen."

Harry sighed and placed his foot down on the floor, as if her were about to stand, his posture only slightly threatening as he leaned forward and kept his eyes hard on the doctor. "When I first picked her, I sought a woman who was not a virgin on purpose. I had hoped to enjoy some wick-dipping with her right off, but she was quite unsettled by the idea, worried about God and purity and all that. She's a virgin."

"My Lord, this is a—"

"This is a discussion that has come to an end. I won't hear of it anymore. You may take your leave. I'm busy. If you hadn't already realized it, I'm getting married today. I don't have time for your nonsense."

The doctor seemed rather vexed but he left the king's study without another word. Harry understood the usual traditions. He knew that it was expected that Y/n be a virgin. He was also not under any illusion that the people would demand proof and want to see their bedsheets the following morning to check for her blood.

He shook his head and gulped down the last of his gin. He hadn't even wanted a virgin. Mostly for selfish reasons but also because he'd never been with a virgin before. The very first time he saw her up close outside the castle gates, he found her features to be very pleasing and he made the mistake of assuming she was not a virgin. Though even after learning she was, he didn't regret his choice after getting acquainted with her.

He smiled as he stood from the chair. That's what she did to him when he thought of her. She made him smile. The kind of drowsy, sappy smile that told the world he was done for.

He wished he could see her right then. Ask her how she was doing, make sure she was being treated well… and perhaps to soothe his own nerves as well. What if she ran off? What if the foul treatment she'd been subjected to had finally gotten to her and she was on the run? Not many would stop her from running because they didn't like her anyway.

With a heavy sigh, he looked out the window to find the day overcast in soft pewters, clouds hanging low as if reluctant to bear witness to the scandal of the century. He was looking forward to making Y/n the Queen, but even more than that, he was looking forward to having her as his wife.

Y/n tried to stop the tears from escaping her eyes as she looked at herself in the mirror, the final product of her hair, the dress, her jewelry... The gown was even more luxurious than the previous. It had a fuller silk skirt with ribbons of cream lace and soft pink, green, and yellow satin flowers delicately sewn in. The bodice gave everything structure and form at the top, and the thin lace sleeves fitted over her arms like a second skin.

She grazed her fingers over the diamond necklace and inhaled a wobbly breath. "I can't believe it. I've never seen anything so beautiful."

Eugène stood behind her with a smile on his face. "I've never seen a more beautiful bride. You wear this dress well, my dear. I know it's not in keeping with tradition but I've been told that you and Harry are not a traditional royal couple. I hope it's just scandalous enough to make everyone turn heads and talk. If anyone can pull this off, it's you."

"And all in less than 12 hours! It's magnificent!" Pheobe exclaimed.

"Thank you, sir. I didn't believe it would be possible, but you've proven me wrong. I'm overwhelmed with happiness."

"Then I've done my job. Now, I believe your carriage awaits to bring you to the cathedral. I will be riding with you and your family, should anything come loose and need fastening."

.

The bells of Thornekeep Cathedral tolled with a heavy, ceremonial rhythm, each echo rolling over the gray-tipped rooftops of the town center like a reluctant proclamation. Inside, sunlight filtered through tall stained-glass windows, coloring the polished stone floor with fragments of ruby, emerald, and sapphire light. It was beautiful, solemn, and grand.

The nave was lined with nobles, foreign dignitaries, and members of the peerage, each clad in their finest silks, lace, and tailored uniforms. Rows of powdered wigs and jeweled collars bobbed stiffly above tight lips and narrowed eyes. They did not applaud. They did not smile. But they did watch carefully. Judging as if they were qualified.

A hush settled as the great organ began to play, a stately, thunderous processional. In the vestibule, Y/n stood just beyond the threshold, her hands trembling against the folds of her gown. The dress was nothing like the ones she used to imagine when watching brides pass in the street. It was better. Phoebe stood at her side, fussing with the long veil that trailed like mist behind her, whispering encouragement.

“You look divine,” Phoebe said, adjusting the fabric atop Y/n’s head. “Now, chin up. If they’re going to hate you, let them hate a queen, not a beggar.”

At the front of the cathedral, King Harry stood waiting beneath the high stone arch of the altar, dressed in a black frock coat with gold embroidery along the cuffs and collar. His ceremonial sword hung from his hip—a nod to tradition he’d allowed begrudgingly—but his cravat was loosened ever so slightly in subtle rebellion. Fred stood just behind him, rigid as he watched on.

Harry’s expression, however, was anything but restrained. He grinned brightly when he saw her appear at the end of the aisle, arm looped with her father's. Gasps rippled through the crowd, not at the gown, not at the diamond necklace, but at the girl wearing them. A commoner. A beggar, soon to be their queen.

Y/n walked slowly down the aisle, trying not to falter under the weight of stares that clung to her like sticky brambles. Her breath caught when she met Harry’s eyes, mischievous, proud, and tender. There was something grounding in his gaze, like a rope cast to a woman who was still learning to stand on marble floors.

At the altar, the Archbishop cleared his throat and began the ceremony, reading from the Book of Common Prayer, as was custom. The vows were traditional, spoken clearly before God and court:

“Will you, Harry, take this woman to be your wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I will.”

“Will you, Y/n, take this man to be your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance—”

“I will,” she said, quietly but firmly, not letting her voice sound weak in front of the staring spectators.

There were no whispers of love, no passionate declarations. But when Harry slid the ornate ring, a band of twisted gold and sapphire, onto her finger, his thumb brushed hers with lingering affection. A touch that said more than their vows ever could.

When they were pronounced husband and wife, the organ swelled. Tradition usually dictated a polite kiss on the cheek before turning to face the congregation. But Harry, never one for subtlety, leaned in and kissed her full on the lips, dipping her ever so slightly, and Y/n grabbed onto his coat to steady herself. Gasps rose, half in horror, half in delight. He pulled back with a wink only she could see.

Then, side by side, they faced the court. Stone faces stared back. Y/n straightened her spine.

"Let them glare," he said under his breath as they smiled.

The cathedral bells rang again as the newly crowned Queen Y/n emerged from the grand oak doors on Harry’s arm. A scattering of cheers broke out in the crowd gathered beyond the palace gates, though they were thin and uncertain, peppered with scowls, taciturn nobles, and commoners caught between fascination and suspicion.

The royal carriage stood gleaming in the late afternoon light, a glossy black and gold coach pulled by six white horses adorned in crested harnesses. Its polished sides mirrored the anxious faces that lined the route, and the royal seal glinted on the carriage doors.

Y/n climbed in first, the veil like a cloud behind her. Harry followed, waving once to the crowd with an exaggerated flourish, as if daring them to boo. Fred closed the door after them with a look of quiet resignation, before hopping into the carriage behind with the footmen.

Inside, the carriage was warm and velvet-lined, the heavy scent of roses clinging to the seats. Y/n stared out the window as they began to move, flanked by guards on horseback.

“They hate me,” she whispered.

Harry leaned against the cushion and smiled as he pulled her hand into his. “You shouldn't worry about what a bunch of thick-headed sardines think of you. They'er blind.”

She looked up at him and smiled. "I woke up thinking that you'd come to your senses and call it off. That I'd be waiting, all dressed and ready, and you'd be locked in your chambers and have me removed."

He shook his head, soft green irises sliding over her frame and up to her face. “I’ve come to my senses, all right. That’s why you’re sitting here now.”

Y/n looked down at their joined hands—his thumb gently stroking over her knuckles—and for a moment, the heavy world outside the carriage fell away.

“I don’t know how to be a queen,” she admitted, voice barely audible over the rhythmic clatter of wheels on cobblestone.

Harry leaned closer, his voice lower, softer now. “Good.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, and he smiled at the sound, genuine and unguarded. Then he brought her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss against her fingers. “You don’t have to be perfect, Y/n. You just have to be real.”

Outside, the crowd grew louder as the palace gates loomed ahead, but inside the carriage, it was warm and still. She shifted closer to him, their shoulders touching now, the lace of her sleeve brushing the brocade of his coat.

And though the kingdom buzzed with scandal, and the court plotted behind polished smiles, in that quiet stretch of space before the next curtain rose, King Harry and Queen Y/n simply breathed, side by side.

.

The Great Hall of Thornekeep Palace was transformed for the occasion—hundreds of beeswax candles glittered from chandeliers high above, and polished mirrors doubled the light across the walls. Tapestries were drawn back to reveal the grand stonework of the castle’s bones, lending an air of both splendor and severity. Long banquet tables were laid out in rows, gleaming with silverware, crystal goblets, and floral arrangements that spilled over with wildflowers and white roses.

Music floated through the room, an ensemble of violinists and harpists near the hearth played a series of traditional waltzes, though the tempo felt more funereal than festive. No one danced yet. The air was too tight.

At the head table, Y/n sat beside Harry beneath a carved wooden canopy bearing the royal crest. Her plate was filled, but her appetite lagged behind her nerves. The food was elaborate: roast venison with plum glaze, lemon-rosemary quail, bowls of minted peas and white asparagus, and trenchers of honeyed bread and soft cheeses. There was wine from the southern vineyards and towering sugar confections shaped like swans and crowns.

Phoebe stood nearby, ever watchful, whispering quiet instructions on what to do with each fork, when to dab her mouth, when to rise. Y/n nodded gratefully.

The murmurs never stopped.

“She curtsied too shallow.”

“She speaks like she’s from the gutter.”

“Can’t even hold a wineglass properly…”

Harry heard them. Y/n could see it in the tick of his jaw. At one point, a nobleman seated halfway down the table made a thinly veiled comment about the "peculiar scent of fishmongers at court." Harry stood, clinked his glass, and with all the weight of his crown and grin declared:

“I rather like the smell of a woman who knows how to survive.”

The room went silent. Then, reluctantly—awkwardly—a few polite claps began. Phoebe stifled a laugh. Fred looked like he’d aged ten years.

As the night wore on, the air grew looser. Jugglers and acrobats entered, performing near the rear hearth to entertain the children and lower nobility. A small group of traveling actors performed a dramatic retelling of King Augustus the Wise, a none-too-subtle dig at Harry’s late father, much to Harry’s delight.

Y/n watched it all in a dreamlike haze, the velvet of her seat warm beneath her and her crown tugging gently at her temples. She caught Harry looking at her between sips of wine. He reached across the table, not for her hand, but to slide a sugared fig onto her plate.

Y/n picked it up and bit into the fig. Sweet. Sharp. Decadent.

She looked at him with gratitude, holding his gaze a beat longer than proper, feeling something settle in her chest, something warm, steady, and terrifyingly real. Before she could say anything, Fred appeared beside the table with the stiff posture of a man who’d tried to interrupt twice already and failed.

“Your Majesty,” he said quietly, bowing slightly toward Harry. “Lord Chancellor Whitely requests a word regarding the foreign trade representatives. He says it won’t wait.”

Harry groaned under his breath, tilting his head back like a man being dragged to the gallows. “Of course it won’t.” He gave Y/n’s hand a final squeeze under the table. “This is important. I will return as quickly as possible.”

As Fred guided him away, a soft voice called Y/n’s name from just behind her. She turned to find Phoebe leaning in with that same practiced smile she wore whenever navigating nobility like thorns.

“Your mother’s asking for you. I told her you’d come as soon as you’d had a moment and now that the king has been called off…”

Y/n blinked, surprised, rising carefully, nodding her thanks as Phoebe adjusted the fall of her gown behind her. The palace loomed vast and glittering, but with Harry’s warmth still clinging to her skin. Y/n lifted her chin and walked toward where her mother and sisters were standing.

Her mother let out a dramatic sob and pulled Y/n's hands into her warm ones. "You are the Queen. I hear the whispers of everyone around me, but I know you and you are worthy. Even if he already has his mistress up in his room waiting, we all know who his wife is. Whom he has chosen as his queen."

"His mistress?" Y/n looked over her shoulder at Phoebe, who shook her head in confusion, eyes flitting between the mother and daughter.

"Yes. I heard some people talking about a woman named Pearl. She's waiting for him in his chambers right now. Did you not know?"

Y/n swallowed, the back of her throat hollow as she shook her head in disbelief. Her head swirled, making her dizzy, and her sight suddenly shaded in red. Had that been the real reason why he was called off so suddenly? Had he lied to her about what he thought of Pearl? But why?

"I did not know. Thank you, mother. I need to sit."

Y/n tried not to let the dismay that clenched at her heart show on her face. Phoebe was speaking, but Y/n couldn't put together the sentences or make sense of anything. If he'd just been honest the first time around, she wouldn't have so suddenly been caught off guard. She had expected him to take a mistress but when he told her he wouldn't be…

Sitting back in her place, she looked around at the lingering gazes and then at her plate in silence. The food she hadn't finished staring back up at her in a taunt. She couldn't believe that she'd been deceived by him. But she refused to let tears stain her cheeks. She was already the butt of the joke and now she knew it to be true. She'd been so stupid.

Even though the room was full of wealth and opulence, no one danced to the music, and very few applauded the children's entertainment on the other side of the Great Hall. The longer she sat in her fancy chair, in her beautiful dress, without Harry by her side, the more she became certain that he was with Pearl. Why would he be rushed away on the evening of his wedding if not to secretly see his new lover? Would he really allow a business meeting to take precedence? None of it made sense anymore.

Y/n drank down her glass of wine and motioned to have another filled. If she was going to be ignored by her new husband while he played with his mistress behind her back, she was going to try and get on with things, and a bit of drink couldn't hurt. Phoebe had tried to offer her comforting words but it didn't help.

"He's off with her. How long has he already been gone? It's been an hour? I know better than to trust him again."

"Please, madam… I think your mother was mistaken. The king only has eyes for you—"

"My mother knew her name. Someone was speaking about it right in front of her, and she learned a secret that was not meant to be exposed. I'm happy to be armed with the truth. At least I know now."

The chatter in the room softened as heads turned toward the hall's arched entry when Harry and Fred stepped back inside. Y/n looked away. It wasn't fair that he was so handsome after having come back from wherever he'd been. His bed with Pearl likely.

When he sat back down, he reached his hand under the table to place over her skirt but she scooted herself away as much as possible and turned sharply to look anywhere but at him.

"What's wrong, mouse?"

She lifted her glass to her lips and took a long pull of her drink before setting it back down with a loud clunk onto the table. She refused to look at his face. "Do not call me mouse ever again."

Harry glanced up at Phoebe, who was standing near Y/n's chair and then back at his bride's side profile, speaking louder that time. "What is wrong? Tell me what has happened?"

Those who sat closest to the king and queen watched on curiously.

"Did you have fun while you were away? Was it necessary to take an hour to do it?"

"The Lord Chancellor had very important news, and I needed to settle an issue. I did not intend for it to take as long as it did. I apologize. Is that why you're angry?"

She felt her heart thudding in her chest as anger rose up her spine. "Liar."

"Liar? Do you think I am lying right now? Why would I lie to you about something like this? I did not… Will you turn and look at me?"

Y/n turned away further stubbornly, into an uncomfortable position in her seat as she kept her gaze set away from him. Harry groaned and a few seconds later, Y/n felt her chair being pulled back and a hand grasping at the top of her arm, pulling her up to stand. She huffed as Harry brought her with him away from the table and toward the servant's door out of earshot of the guests.

"Look at me right now, Y/n. I will not tolerate your cryptic anger. Tell me what's wrong at once."

She clenched her jaw and slowly, ever so slowly, let her eyes land on his. "I know what you did. You don't need to lie to me and make a fool of me. At least have the respect to be honest with me!"

Harry wanted to laugh, but he was beginning to get angry himself. He hadn't the slightest idea of what she was on about. "Okay. Then tell me what you think I did."

Y/n tried to maintain a stern, defiant expression and not let her emotions rise to the surface but the longer she looked at his pretty face the harder it was. "Pearl."

He raised his brows and blinked. "What about Pearl? The Mables were all disinvited from the wedding. They are not here. What of Pearl?"

"She was waiting for you in your chambers, and you just went to her. Everyone already knows that's what you did. Your secret got out, and now I know."

He couldn't help it when he a laugh fell from his mouth, and Y/n scowled. "You think that I was with Pearl? Are you serious? Have you not learned yet that believing the whispers of the overly pampered people in this room are as good as fiction?"

She blinked at him, her lips turning downward as her conviction faltered. "My mother told me."

He shook his head. "I don't care who told you. You were lied to. I was with Fred, the Lord Chancellor, and two of his men…" Harry pointed behind Y/n. "Look. There they are now. Taking their seats."

She turned to see three men sitting down, smiles on their faces. And as she let her eyes wander the room, she noticed that many people were not paying much attention to her at that moment. A few were staring, but most were drinking their wine and talking to the people around them.

She looked back up at him. "Do you have a mistress? You might as well tell me now, Harry. At least be honest with me. It's not like I'm going to end the courtship or anything. Too late for that."

"I told you I wasn't taking a mistress, and I meant it."

Y/n searched his face, eyes flitting between his irises and the anger, and the sharp ache of betrayal slowly dissolved when she found nothing but honesty in his eyes. She realized that someone had purposely said those things about Pearl in front of her mother for this very outcome. She'd fallen for the lies.

"You need to trust me. No one else here can be trusted. No one cares about you like I do, so you can't listen to them. They are lying to put a wall between us but it won't work because you're smarter than that. Look who I married?" He ran his knuckles along her jaw. "You're all I want. Why would I ever go with Opal when I have you, here, looking like this…" he said as he looked down over her gown.

"Pearl."

"Who?" He grinned playfully.

She smiled, finally, and Harry let out a breath. "There's that smile. Beautiful."

Y/n looked down, feeling embarrassed by her behavior.

Harry ran his hand down her arm and pulled her closer. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She breathed out a soft laugh. "And you're the devil."

"A handsome one?"

Nodding, she grinned wider, unable to stifle it any longer.

"Let's go back and take our seats before we politely make leave."

The great hall had grown quieter. The candlelight, though still plentiful, seemed to flicker more lazily now, wax dripping down to silver trays as though the evening itself were beginning to loosen its corset. The musicians had shifted to slower, gentler melodies, less formal, less performative. A lull had settled in.

Guests were beginning to drift away in pairs and small clusters, offering final bows and well-wishes to chamberlains and assistants rather than seeking out the king or queen directly. No one had announced the end, but the message was clear: the night was folding itself closed, and that was more than fine with Harry and Y/n.

Y/n's back ached faintly beneath the weight of her new crown as they took their seats again. Across the room, Phoebe stood watchfully near the far wall with Niall next to her, whispering, while the kitchen staff had begun clearing away the final courses with quiet precision.

Harry slid his hand against hers under the table, and quiet chatter surrounded them. She was ready to leave the Great Hall and be done with the theatrics of the day. Her emotions had been quite volatile all day, and the quiet of Harry's bedchambers was beginning to sound like a dream right then.

Fred appeared at Harry’s side and said something in his ear. Harry gave a faint nod, then turned to Y/n with that same roguish smile he’d worn at the altar, but softer, laced with something she couldn’t quite name.

He leaned toward her, close enough that only she could hear. “It's time for us to depart.”

She rose with him, and though no formal announcement followed, the shift was immediate. Some of the guests turned their eyes away in practiced discretion. A few nobles bowed as they passed. Some merely watched with disapproving eyes.

They exited through a smaller side corridor, footsteps muffled on hand-woven rugs. The hall behind them continued to hum, but it was like walking away from a fever dream, something ornate and strange, but already fading.

Once they were alone, past the eyes and expectations, Harry reached for her hand again as he led her up to his room. The corridors of the royal wing were hushed, dimly lit by flickering sconces.

Neither of them spoke. There had been enough of the show. Enough talking and forced smiles. As their footsteps echoed down the long hallway, Harry’s thumb traced idle circles against her knuckles, and Y/n held onto his hand like it was the first real thing she’d touched all day.

At the doors to his chambers, he paused only briefly before pushing them open. The room had been set up for the wedding night, warm with candlelight and perfumed faintly with cedar as the fireplaced crackled. The moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind them, something inside the silence softened. The weight of the crown, the stifling eyes of the court, the perfect stillness she’d worn like armor… it all began to peel away.

Harry turned to her and reached for her waist to pull her close, his touch gentle and secure. Her hands slid over the lapels of his coat, anchoring herself in the solid warmth of him.

"My Queen," he spoke just above a whisper as he palmed at her cheek softly.

Y/n smiled shyly. "My King."

He leaned down, slowly, unhurried, and pressed his forehead to hers as they both closed their eyes. There was no rush to move away from the quiet moment; in fact, it had been necessary, vital. The sound of their breaths, the feel of closeness between them… Y/n trailed her fingers up his arm and tilted her face toward his lips, before pressing them to his in a kiss that was sweet and filled with quiet relief.

. .

Chapter 6 is where we'll finally be getting the smut. I'll be dedicating the entire next part to their wedding night 🤭 xoxo

. .

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Lucas cut in, his voice sharp. "Think you're being clever, do you? Breaking up something real like that? Well, here's the truth—Harry's head wasn't turned at all. You're just causing drama for the sake of it."

Sophia’s calm façade cracked slightly as she glanced around at the glares from the group. “Why are you all acting like I’ve committed a crime? It’s a game.”

“No, it’s people’s feelings,” Chloe spat. “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Meanwhile, Harry moved toward Y/N, who was still seated on the bench, her face pale but composed. He crouched down in front of her, his hands hovering as if unsure whether to touch her.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice thick with regret. “I swear to you, this wasn’t what I wanted. I told her I didn’t—”

“I know,” Y/N interrupted, her voice steady but quiet. She looked at him, her eyes filled with shock rather than anger. “I know it wasn’t you. I’m not mad at you.”

His shoulders sagged in relief, but guilt still lingered in his expression. “You believe me?”

“I do,” she whispered. “I just… I didn’t see this coming. I don’t even know what to think right now.”

Harry nodded, his hands finally reaching for hers. “We’ll figure it out, okay? I’m not giving up on us.”

Their conversation was cut short by Chloe’s sharp voice. “Oi, Sophia, if you think you’re getting away with this, think again!”

The group had fully turned against Sophia now. Even Max, who often stayed out of the drama, shook his head. “You crossed a line, Sophia. There’s no coming back from this.”

Ian’s voice cut through the chaos in his usual dry tone. “Well, Sophia’s big move didn’t quite land the way she thought it would. It’s like trying to light a sparkler in a hurricane—good luck with that, love.”

Sophia, realizing she was completely outnumbered, huffed and walked off toward the villa, her heels clicking sharply against the stone.

The group began to disperse, but the damage had been done. Y/N was left sitting by the fire pit, Harry by her side, both of them processing the night’s events. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his voice low.

“You’re not leaving. I won’t let that happen.”

Y/N gave him a small smile, though her eyes still betrayed her nerves. “Let’s just see what tomorrow brings.”

The makeup room hummed with quiet activity as the girls trickled in one by one. Chloe immediately grabbed Y/N's hand and guided her to the chair in front of the mirror. "Sit, babe. You need to take a breath for a second."

Amber grabbed a tissue from the counter and handed it to Y/N, her tone soft but firm. “You’ve been holding it together all night. You don’t have to do that here.”

Y/N tried to muster a smile, but the lump in her throat made it impossible. The moment she looked up at the girls—Chloe, Amber, and the others all standing around her, their faces full of concern—it hit her like a wave. Everything. The recoupling, Sophia’s betrayal, the looming uncertainty about her place in the villa. It was too much.

“I—” Her voice cracked, and she looked down, shaking her head. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Chloe said gently, crouching beside her. “And that’s okay. We’re here for you.”

At that, Y/N’s walls crumbled. Tears spilled over her cheeks as she finally let herself feel everything. Chloe wrapped her arms around her, holding her tightly while Amber rubbed her back.

“I just… I don’t understand,” Y/N sobbed. “I might be leaving tomorrow, and it’s just—it’s too much.”

“She’s a snake, that’s why,” Amber said firmly. “She doesn’t care about anyone but herself, and we all see it. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Exactly,” Chloe agreed. “You’re not leaving, okay? We won’t let that happen.”

Lila piped up from across the room, her tone warm. “You’re one of the strongest girls here, Y/N. Everyone knows it. And Harry? He’s mad about you. Don’t let Sophia’s petty little game make you doubt that.”

“She’s jealous,” Amber added. “That’s all this is. She’s jealous of you, your connection with Harry, everything. And if she thinks this stunt is going to get her what she wants, she’s in for a rude awakening.”

Y/N sniffled, dabbing at her eyes with the tissue. “It’s just… overwhelming, you know? I didn’t expect any of this.”

“We know,” Chloe said softly. “But you’re not alone, babe. We’ve got you.”

The girls nodded in unison, each offering words of comfort and solidarity. The energy in the room shifted, transforming it into a safe space where Y/N could release her emotions without judgment.

“Thanks, guys,” Y/N said finally, her voice still shaky but steadier than before. “I don’t know what I’d do without you lot.”

As Y/N finished wiping her eyes, her soft smile still lingering, the door to the makeup room creaked open. The girls instinctively straightened, their chatter halting as Sophia walked in, arm-in-arm with Georgia. The room’s atmosphere shifted in an instant, the warmth replaced by a chill of unease.

Chloe raised an eyebrow, muttering under her breath, “Oh, here we go…”

Sophia’s confident smirk didn’t waver as she glanced around the room. Her gaze settled on Y/N for a fraction longer than necessary, and the tension became palpable. Georgia, whose posture mirrored Sophia’s smugness, leaned against the doorframe with her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but clearly siding with her newfound ally.

Amber let out a low scoff, folding her arms. “Guess snakes travel in pairs now.”

Sophia’s smirk widened. “Don’t stop on our account, girls. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?”

Chloe took a deliberate step forward, her chin raised. “Friends? You’re joking, right? Because the last time I checked, friends don’t throw each other under the bus for a lad.”

“Ah, Chloe.” Sophia’s tone was mock-sweet, her smile sharp. “Always the loudest in the room, aren’t you?”

“Better than being the most desperate,” Chloe shot back without missing a beat.

Georgia, stepping further into the room, chuckled dryly. “You lot are acting like Sophia’s the villain when she’s just doing what the game’s about. Recoupling, yeah? Isn’t that the point?”

Amber stood up, her glare cutting through the tension. “There’s a difference between playing the game and playing dirty, Georgia. But I wouldn’t expect you to know the difference.”

Sophia raised a hand, feigning innocence. “Alright, let’s not make this a whole thing. I came in to grab my gloss, not to start World War Three.”

Her gaze flicked to Y/N again, this time sharper. “You alright, Y/N? Looked like you were having a little moment there.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. She sat a little straighter, her expression calm despite the anger bubbling beneath her surface. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

The girls around her bristled, ready to jump in, but Y/N’s steady demeanor seemed to hold them back. It was Chloe who finally broke the silence.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve walking in here after the shit you’ve pulled, Sophia.”

Sophia rolled her eyes, grabbing her gloss from the counter. “Oh, give it a rest, Chloe. You’d do the same if you were in my shoes.”

“Thing is, I’d never be in your shoes,” Chloe snapped. “Because I’ve got a thing called loyalty.”

Sophia let out a low laugh, linking her arm with Georgia’s again as she turned toward the door. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, babe.”

As the pair left the room, Georgia glanced back with a smirk. “Have fun licking your wounds.”

The door closed behind them, leaving the room heavy with silence.

Amber exhaled sharply. “I swear, if looks could kill…”

Chloe turned to Y/N, her voice softer now. “You okay, babe?”

Y/N nodded, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Yeah. Let them have their moment. It won’t last.”

Amber stepped closer, placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. “Damn right it won’t. We’ve got your back.”

Y/N looked at her reflection in the mirror, her resolve hardening. “Good,” she said, her voice steady. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

“Well, well, well. Looks like things in the villa have hit boiling point, and we’re not just talking about the Spanish sun. Sophia and Georgia, arm-in-arm, marching into the makeup room like two villains in a budget action movie? Iconic. But let’s be honest—Y/N’s calm clap-back was the real power move here”

The villa had a strange, tense quietness about it as the Islanders wound down for the night. The usual chatter and laughter had been replaced with hushed whispers and awkward glances. In the shared bathroom, Harry stood at the sink, brushing his teeth with slow, deliberate motions. His mind raced, replaying the chaos of the evening, especially the image of Y/N's face when Sophia made her bold move.

He spat into the sink, rinsing his mouth as he leaned on the counter, staring at his reflection. The weight of the drama was heavy on his chest, but there was only one thought in his mind: he couldn’t let Sophia dictate his actions—or his feelings.

Walking into the dimly lit bedroom, Harry spotted the bed he now technically shared with Sophia. She was already lying there, her hair fanned out over the pillow and a coy smile on her lips as she propped herself up on one elbow.

“Hey,” she greeted softly, her tone intentionally sweet. “Finally decided to join me?”

Harry didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he reached for the pillow beside her, tugging it out from under the covers.

“What are you doing?” Sophia asked, her voice sharper now, but still attempting to stay light.

Harry straightened up, clutching the pillow in his hand. His jaw tightened as he looked down at her. “I’m sleeping somewhere else tonight.”

Sophia’s smile faltered, and she sat up fully. “Harry, come on. We’ve got to share this bed. It’s part of the rules.”

“I’m not breaking any rules by sleeping somewhere else,” he replied calmly but firmly. “And let’s not pretend this situation is normal, Sophia.”

Sophia tilted her head, her tone shifting to one of mock innocence. “You’re acting like I forced you into something. This is what the game is about—recoupling. If Y/N can’t handle it—”

Harry cut her off, his voice low but filled with warning. “Don’t bring her into this. Y/N’s not the problem here, Sophia.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t push further.

Across the room, Chloe gave Y/N a look of encouragement, whispering, "Go after him."

Without hesitating, Y/N threw back the covers, slipped on her slippers, and quietly followed Harry out of the room. The dimly lit hallway led her to the common room, where she found him lying on the long couch, his arm draped over his eyes.

She stopped in the doorway, hesitating for just a moment. The sight of him there—alone, clearly grappling with everything that had happened—made her chest ache.

“Harry,” she said softly, stepping into the room.

He shifted slightly, lowering his arm to look at her. “Hey” His voice was low, almost a whisper.

She walked closer, her bare feet padding softly against the floor. “Why are you out here?”

Harry let out a small sigh, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t stay in there. Not with her.” He paused, meeting her eyes. “I just… I couldn’t.”

Y/N bit her lip, her fingers nervously playing with the hem of her pajama top. “You didn’t have to leave your bed, Harry. It’s your spot now. You shouldn’t have to—”

“I’m not staying in a bed with someone I don’t want to be with,” he interrupted firmly. His gaze softened as he looked at her. “I’m not giving her what she wants, Y/N. She can choose me, but she can’t make me care.”

Her heart fluttered at his words, but she quickly pushed it aside, focusing instead on the overwhelming guilt and sadness she felt for him. Without thinking, she sat down on the edge of the couch beside him.

“You didn’t deserve any of this,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “I hate that this is happening.”

Harry reached out, his hand brushing against hers. “You think I care about any of it? The only thing I care about is you.”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The room felt heavy with unspoken words, but Y/N didn’t want to ruin the moment by overthinking it.

“Come here,” Harry said softly, pulling her gently toward him.

His free hand came up to gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering as his fingers brushed against her cheek. “Nothing’s going to go wrong,” he murmured. “Not with us.”

His words were simple, but the sincerity in his voice made her chest tighten. Y/N searched his face, looking for any trace of doubt, but all she found was a steady, unwavering gaze that seemed to anchor her in place.

“You say that,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly, “but I’m scared, Harry. What if—”

Harry cut her off by leaning closer, his forehead resting against hers. “Stop,” he said softly. “Stop doubting this. Stop doubting me.”

Y/N closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him—fresh and warm, comforting in a way that made her feel safe.

“Every time I look at you,” Harry continued, his voice a low rumble, “I know exactly what I want. You. It’s always been you.”

Her eyes fluttered open, and before she could second-guess herself, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was soft at first, tentative, but it quickly deepened as Harry’s hand moved to the small of her back, pulling her closer.

Y/N melted into him, her fingers threading through his hair as their kiss grew more fervent, more desperate. It was as if all the tension and uncertainty of the day had boiled over, leaving nothing but raw emotion in its wake.

Harry's lips trailed down her neck, each kiss sending electric shivers down her spine. Y/N's fingers dug into his shoulders as he found that sensitive spot just below her ear, drawing a soft gasp from her lips. The world seemed to fade away until there was nothing but the heat between them, the way his hands traced fire across her skin, and the intoxicating rhythm of their hearts beating in sync.

"You drive me crazy," Harry whispered against her skin, his voice rough with desire. His hands tangled in her hair as he claimed her lips again in a kiss that made her toes curl and her mind go beautifully blank. In that moment, all the drama of the villa melted away—there was only this, only them, wrapped up in each other on the common room couch.

-----------------------------

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. .

Y/n hadn't been given a choice on the style of her wedding dress. It had already been selected for her. But it was breathtaking. She'd never seen anything like it before, and that she would soon be wearing it in front of the kingdom? It was no wonder she was not given a choice. She would never have picked such a lavish thing because she did not feel worthy of it.

That morning was her first fitting. She stood with her arms stretched outward, one person on each side, holding her steady, while the dressmaker pinned and tucked and cut at the lace and the silk, adjusting it to her size. Mrs. Mable was the royal seamstress, and Y/n couldn't help but feel she held some contempt for her. The way she was pulling and prodding, even poking her with pins, all felt intentional.

"Ow!" Y/n winced when Mrs. Mable stuck a pin through the silk skirt, and it grazed her skin. Again. She was becoming ireful toward the woman when all she wanted was to relive the kiss she'd just had with the king, not a few hours earlier. She'd received a handful of strangers into the Rose Room for the fitting, and she'd been soaring with hot cheeks and a softly fluttering heart before Mrs. Mable got her hands on her.

She didn't know that the lace had its own name, Honiton, or that the diamond necklace they showed her (to be kept in its satin case until the day of the wedding) was Turkish. The dress had an off-the-shoulder, open neckline, with layered sleeves down to her elbows, all lined with the special lace. The silk corset bodice was pointed downward in a deep V, while the skirt was full and pleated silk.

Staring at her figure in the mirror, she felt like a fraud. How had this happened to her? How had luck (or misfortune, she wasn't sure yet) stricken her so abruptly? It was one thing to have been expecting her new lot, to have been raised up for it and accustomed to royal life, but it was another to have been plucked from the streets, shoved into it blindly, and to have people enraged by her presence without ever getting to know her first.

"Please be careful. You're poking her…" Phoebe said to Mrs. Mable.

The woman, whose face was hidden behind silk and lace as she bunched up the bottom hem of the dress, dropped her pin cushion to the floor as she jabbed another sharp object into the fabric. "She'll be fine. I've only nicked her a few times. It's part of the work if you want it done properly."

"But she will be your queen. She is to be treated with the utmost care and —"

Mrs. Mable stood up and pulled at the back collar of Y/n's dress, making her nearly stumble. "Queen Consort. There is a difference. We'll see if she makes it that far."

"The King is taken by her. She will prove you all wrong. You'll see." Phoebe crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the dressmaker.

Y/n glanced at Phoebe in warning. She didn't want people arguing over her status. It wasn't worth it. If Mrs. Mable wanted to treat her like she was still a street beggar, all while fitting her for her royal wedding gown, then so be it. She'd soon learn who she was dealing with, and Y/n would not forget the treatment she was being subjected to.

"We will see." Mrs. Mable turned Y/n around and took her measuring tape to her hips, waist, and bust, before spinning her around again to help her step out of the dress. "I'll return two days before the wedding for the final fitting, along with the finished veil. And don't get too heavy-handed with tarts or the dress will be too tight."

Y/n looked down at her figure and glanced at it in the mirror. She hadn't gained very much weight at all, but kept being told she needed to gain more. Now there was the dressmaker telling her to go lightly on the very tart Y/n requested to have in the room for herself and anyone else who wanted some. Her mood was a little foul after having been prodded and nicked, so she huffed, stepping past Mrs. Mable to grab a piece of tart and shove it into her mouth as she stared at the woman in defiance.

When the dressmaker and her helpers left the room, Phoebe closed the door and leaned into it, shaking her head. "That woman is awful. There's gossip that she's been vying to have her daughter meet the king before you two are wed."

Y/n slid her standard dress back on, and Phoebe pushed herself from the door to help fasten the back. "What do you mean? To present her to him? For marriage?"

"I believe so."

She knew that the middle and upper classes of Thornekeep were spoiled and mean. So, it shouldn't have surprised her that Mrs. Mable didn't take seriously her eventual new title, and that she hoped her daughter could steal the designation for herself. Y/n was slowly learning about the politics of the kingdom and she was going to have to brace herself for what was soon to come.

"Now let's finish that tart."

. .

Harry was seething. The council had found the Lord Mayor guilty, but he was only charged a measly fine for his transgression. A fine! Imagine forcefully taking the king's wife-to-be from her quarters, openly disrespecting the crown, and humiliating her in front of the kingdom… and the punishment was nothing more than a fine?

He couldn't believe it when the news was sent to him. He'd planned on an in-person visit to retrieve the brooch from the Lord Mayor, but when he learned he'd gotten away with nary a slap to the wrist, he immediately sought out his Proctor to go back before the council to appeal the decision. His only recourse was to prove she'd been hurt in some way.

He stormed into the room where Y/n was in the middle of her etiquette class, and the governess stood from her chair quickly and lowered her head. "Your Majesty."

He breezed by the woman and pulled Y/n's chair out, dropping down to his knees in front of her without so much as a glance toward the governess. Y/n gasped when he pulled her skirts up and he put his hand over the dark blue and brown spot on her knee. He'd seen the bruise the morning before when he tried to get her to join him in his tub.

"This. Did this happen when they pushed you around and removed you from the castle?"

Y/n blinked slowly at him as he looked up at her. He looked desperate, wild. She had nearly forgotten the bruise herself and she certainly hadn't realized he'd even seen the thing.

"Yes. I was pushed down to my knees and hands from the steps. It was bruised much worse at first, but it's better now. Can hardly feel it really."

"And who pushed you? His name, Y/n. Was it the Lord Mayor?"

"I… I'm not sure. It was two men… The Lord Mayor never touched me except to take the brooch."

She watched as he clenched his jaw and looked down at the bruise, his thumb running along the top of her knee. "He was there, though. Did you hear him order the men to take you?"

Y/n thought back to that awful morning, and she nodded. "Yes. He said that your duties fall on him when you're away and that it was his command. And Niall! The guard, who's just there outside the door. He was there and he heard it and saw it all. That's who he said it to."

"So he ordered men to do this to you. And we have a witness." He pushed himself to stand up and stepped away quickly, back toward the door, before he turned to speak again. "I will get your brooch back for you today."

When the door was closed, the governess looked shocked as she watched Y/n slide the fabric back down her legs.

"What? Is this what it takes for you to notice my presence? The king himself must barge into your classroom and cause a disturbance for you to realize I'm sitting here?"

The woman wiped her hands down her dress and turned toward the table to speak. It seemed she only spoke to Y/n with her back turned to her. "I notice. I've already taught you plenty—"

Y/n stood up. "You should speak to me with more respect from now on. I will be the queen soon. If not, I'm sure the king will have words with you next. I will not return for any remaining classes. I understand now that I have much better manners than even you do."

She dismissed herself and stepped out of the room with that awful woman. Niall was waiting at the door, and he greeted her with a polite, sharp nod. "At least you and Phoebe are kind to me," she said, smiling at him as she began to walk toward the grand staircase that would lead them up to the king's chambers. "And you're kind to Phoebe as well. Thank you for that."

Niall didn't speak often. His duties didn't allow for it. But a few times he let his guard slip — so to speak — and he'd say a few words. "I've no reason to disrespect you or your lady-in-waiting."

Y/n smiled to herself as she continued up the steps. The stairs were wide, and they seemed to go on forever. The landings, on the way up, split the levels into threes, and the stairs curved around and continued up until they found the floor with the king's chambers and the Rose Room, where her chambers were. "If you disrespected Phoebe, I'm sure she'd be heartbroken. She rather likes you."

Before Y/n could pull the door open with it's heavy iron knob Niall spoke. "She does? Did she say something?"

She looked around the hallway and then up at Niall. "Of course she did. But that's nothing I can discuss with you. Secret is safe with me. No need to worry."

. .

Y/n had a large bruise on her left knee and a castle guard as witness. Harry doubted anyone else would offer to attest. He'd bring Niall with him the following day to meet again with the Proctor for proof of the Lord Mayor's mishandling of his queen-to-be. But first, he needed to find the Lord Mayor to deal with him at once and retrieve the brooch.

He didn't bother announcing his arrival or sending the house steward to call to the Lord Mayor that he was there. And it was good to be king because it meant that people had to listen to what he asked of them, even if they didn't much like him. So when he lowered his hand and stepped inside, the house steward bowed his head and let Harry in without a peep.

He wasn't hard to find. Harry spotted him quickly in his first-floor study, reading, and the Lord Mayor stood in haste. "Your Majesty. To what do I owe the honor of your sudden and unexpected presence?"

The king stepped toward the large bookshelf and ran a finger over the hard bindings. Harry's saunter and cold grin were vexing. The Lord Mayor had never met anyone so plaguy in his life. The king was full of himself and was purposefully bucking tradition. He had a much more suitable and beautiful option than Y/n, which the king would have loved.

"You have something that belongs to Y/n. The woman to whom I will be wed at the end of next week."

"I have nothing in my home that belongs to that girl."

Harry bit down on his molars as his dark gaze seared at the Lord Mayor before he bounded toward him, heavy steps over the wooden floors, until the king's hand was wrapped around the man's throat and his back pressed against the wall.

"I will not be disrespected by you once more, Virgil," he spat the name between his teeth. "First, you insult me behind my back and make a show of carting off my wife-to-be and her family like animals. And now you lie to my face? If you do not produce the brooch, that will be considered theft, which you will regret when I drag you before the council."

The man's eyes were wide as he tried to pry the king's strong grip from his windpipe. He wheezed as the back of his throat constricted when he attempted to speak.

"I can't hear you. Speak louder, worm."

Harry was enjoying watching Virgil squirm and gasp. He could squeeze tighter and hold on for a few minutes longer, be done with the man for good. But then, having to explain to Parliament what had happened would be awfully annoying, so he opted for just scaring him instead.

"You were much easier to subdue than I imagined. But then again, you have aged like spoiled curd. Flimsy muscles trying to pry my hand away. Give it another go. Let's see what you've got, old man."

The Lord Mayor did not have it in him to pry Harry's hand from his throat. And it was true, he was getting older and his body was not as virile as it had once been. He was no match for the young king. He tried twisting, but instead of working himself free, Harry released him and stepped back as the man fell to the floor and violently coughed.

Harry laughed as he stepped around the Lord Mayor to his desk and sat down in the chair, closing the book Virgil had been reading. "Where's the brooch? Or should I fetch your wife and tell her what you've done?"

The Lord Mayor, with his palm at his throat, coughed. "King Styles…" He inhaled sharply, his voice pinched as he tried to speak after the king had restricted his air. "I was protecting you. Protecting Thornekeep!"

Harry glared at the pathetic man, still on the floor, trying to push himself to his knees. "You defied me and the kingdom. You showed contempt toward Y/n and her family." He pushed himself from the chair and stood over Virgil, looking down at him. "And on your command, you had two men push her down to her knees, inflicting pain and making her bruise. That is assault, which will not go unpunished."

The Lord Mayor finally leveraged himself to stand, placing a hand on the bookshelf and pulling himself upward. "My Lord, please. The girl is a street beggar. Her word is not to be trusted. My advice is to consider another—"

Harry stepped in closer, his boots bumping into the old man's as he pushed him by his chest, his back against the bookshelf. "Your advice is not needed nor warranted. I am King. I will choose what I please, and I will have what I want."

The man stood with his hands upward as he bent back and away from the king, still standing toe-to-toe with him. "I didn't hurt the girl or her family. I simply returned them from where they came."

"I will have you tried for treason. Assault! What you did to her is inexcusable. You flagrantly disobeyed my command. If the council doesn't find you guilty, I do. And if they don't impose a more severe penalty, I will. I'll take this into my own hands if need be."

"There's a beautiful young woman. Much lovlier than Y/n. Pearl is her name… Smart, golden hair, a virgin. Her family comes from—"

Harry laughed loudly, cutting Virgil off. "I will marry Y/n. I want no one else for my queen. You have overstepped your duties with me, and after I'm done with you, you will not be welcome in or near the castle. You will be stripped of your title, and you and your wife will be considered a disgrace to the kingdom. I will see to it."

"Please… My Lord…" He kept his hands upward in surrender. "This is excessive. Do you really think that having my title stripped will be well received by the proletariat who elected me? It would be bedlam! The people would not stand for such controversy!"

"Has it not gotten into your skull, yet, that I am not concerned by outrage or controversy. Let them be angry. Anger is better than complacency."

"Complacency is prosperous. Anger is costly."

"And I have the means to pay whatever the cost if need be."

"You are going to bankrupt the kingdom with your frivolous actions. Your father would be turning in his grave if he knew what you were up to."

Harry spat, "Good. I hope my father rots. Let the spoiled aristocracy learn to work for their meals like everyone else. Have you seen the rookeries? Do you know the reality of what sits on the outskirts? Thornekeep is prosperous, but only for you. Only for those who don't need it."

"Oh, pish!" Virgil laughed incredulously. "You act like some kind of martyr, yet you've seen the rookeries of Thornekeep but once! Stop this madness! You will drive our kingdom into the ground with your foolishness! You've no idea the damage it will cause—"

Harry slammed his fist into the wood of the bookcase directly next to the Lord Mayor's head. "I have been to the slums in many a kingdom. You forget, maggot, that I spent most of my adulthood outside of Thornekeep as commander-in-chief of our kingdom's armies. I led my men to victory in dangerous battles across the land. I fought alongside the downtrodden. I've lived it. I've seen it all up close. I do not care who hates me. Let my father's rest be disturbed. I care not!"

"Heavens! What is going on?" Virgil's wife appeared in the doorway, the look of surprise on her face quite amusing to Harry.

Harry patted the Lord Mayor's shoulder and stepped back. "We were just having a good ol' chat about my future wife. Though Virgil here does seem to fancy a golden-haired girl called Pearl, I explained to him that I'm a man with morals and already spoken for. I'm sure any other man would be grateful for a chance with her. Even married ones like yourself."

The woman blinked in surprise at her husband. "Little Pearl? You mean Mr. and Mrs. Mable's daughter?"

Harry nodded, clasping his hands behind his back as he moved toward the doorway and smiled casually at her. "Yes. I believe that was who he was referring to. He's quite fond of the girl. I don't know how he's become privy to her virginal status, but your husband seems quite excited about that detail. Bit too young for me…"

He leaned in closer to the Lord Mayor's wife and spoke quietly. "I prefer 'em thicker through the calf and more mature personally, but your husband has his own tastes, I presume. Just keep an eye on him around little Pearl, will you?"

"Your majesty!?" The woman looked at the king, her mouth agape.

Harry grinned back at the man. "My wife's brooch, the one you stole? Have it sent to her within the hour, or I will be back again before nightfall."

. .

Y/n felt feverish and her insides were twisting and turning and squeezing tight, like her guts were being clamped together and wrung into a ball. Her sisters' bickering about the little game they were playing nearly tipped her over the edge of anger. She wanted to scream at them for silence. And most interestingly, she hadn't been able to finish the dinner that was served to her either. She had no appetite.

"Y/n. Are you feeling alright? You look unwell." Her mother put the back of her hand up to her forehead and gasped. "My child! You're burning hot! Phoebe! Where is Phoebe? Where is the guard?"

Y/n sighed and leaned forward as she closed her eyes, placing her elbows on the table. She wasn't worried about her manners at that moment. She felt like she was about to vomit. She heard her mother shuffle from the dining room to find Phoebe, who'd just wandered off only moments before.

If she hadn't been in so much sudden pain, she would have found it amusing that both Phoebe and Niall were nowhere in sight. Pushing herself from her chair to stand, her father rushed to her side. "Careful there. Here we go."

He leveraged her to standing, draping her arm over his shoulder, and began to help her back to the King's quarters. Before they had reached the stairs, Phoebe was there on her other side, arm drawn across her back to help. "I'm so sorry, madam! I didn't know you were poorly. I would have—"

"It's okay, Pheobe. Don't stress. I just need to lie down…"

She hadn't seen the king all afternoon and figured it was better that he wasn't seeing her in that state. He'd probably change his mind about her altogether if he saw her like that. If she wasn't healthy, what good was she to him? She inhaled sharply through clenched teeth when a spasm wracked her organs.

"Should we fetch a doctor?" Her father said.

"I just need to lie down. Please."

Y/n was brought to the king's bed and propped against the pillows when she noticed her mother, sisters, and Niall standing in the doorway watching. She didn't want an audience. She wanted to rest and needed the pain to go away.

Phoebe pulled at the blankets as she tried to make the bed more comfortable, and Y/n groaned. "Please… I just need rest. I'm not dying." Although she felt like she was.

"Yes. Of course. We'll leave you be. But we will be fetching a doctor whether you like it or not."

Y/n closed her eyes and rolled to her side as her father and Phoebe finally left the room. She groaned quietly and hugged herself around her stomach. She wondered if she'd eaten something bad. Or perhaps God was finally punishing her for her lustful thoughts and behavior.

Making herself into a ball, she clenched her teeth and felt something wet on her leg. She paused and slowly she reached down, bringing her hand under her chemise to feel, and when she lifted her hand in front of her face, she hadn't expected to see blood.

Blood coming from… there?

She pushed herself up to sit and pulled at her skirt. More blood. "Am I with my monthly sickness?" she whispered.

It had been some months since she'd bled at all, so to suddenly see blood… Well, it explained the pain she was feeling, though it'd never ached like that before. Hissing in pain, she bent forward and closed her eyes. At least now she knew she wasn't going to die.

. .

Y/n startled when the door to her chambers was suddenly pushed open, and in stepped a vexed-looking Harry. "Are you okay? I was told you've fallen ill."

"I'm not ill. Not in the sense that I'm sick with something I've caught. It's my…" She glanced away and sighed before looking him back in the eye. "Lunation."

"Lunation," he said the word slowly as he stood there, blinking at her. If she'd ever seen a confused man before, he was it. She nearly laughed at the expression on his face. To see the king look at her like that… Well, it wasn't something she felt she'd be seeing often. Had no one told him? She'd assumed everyone in the castle was talking about it by now.

"I'm having my menses."

"Oh! Yes. I see..." He stepped in closer next to her bed. "But why must you be here? I thought I'd find you in my room."

Y/n pressed her hands into the top of the bedding she sat upon. "Special mattress. They put this over the bigger one underneath. To catch my blood. I didn't think you'd want me next to you while I'm… well…"

Harry pushed his hand over the thin, smaller mattress and nodded. "Is it comfortable. Feels stiff."

"Nicer than anything I used to sleep on. I'm perplexed that this is meant for me to bleed on, and then it gets burned after. I'd have loved to have had this mattress at one time."

"Is it always like this for you? Your menses?"

Y/n leaned back and placed her hands over her stomach. "No. I haven't bled in some time. It was never on schedule anyway. The doctor said I must have been malnourished, and now that I'm eating well, my body is… revitalising was the word he used. He did come with tea and some medicine, and I feel much better now, though. He said I'll be fine."

She heard him push out a breath, like he'd been holding it in. "I've got something for you…"

He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out the lovely brooch that had been taken from her. She smiled and sat up. "I'm so glad it's not been lost for good. It's so beautiful."

Harry reached for her hand and placed the golden breastpin into her palm. "Virgil will not be coming around here again. His invitation to the wedding has been revoked. My Proctor is working on having his title stripped."

"Thank you for getting it back for me. I realize my presence here is an incumbrance. To you and to everyone who cares about the crown. I can see I'm not well-liked in this castle."

Harry furrowed his brow and trailed his eyes over her figure. "Who else has been rude with you?"

"Besides you?" She tucked her lips into her mouth and watched his expression fall.

"My rudeness was meant to be a test of your resolve. Have I not amended myself to you?"

"Little by little, I suppose. I can't expect you to dote on me like a man burning with desire when you have none for me."

"I may not express my desires plainly, but I would not have you here if I didn't want you here. Perhaps it's not evident to you, my motivations, but you have been a surprise to me. A pleasant one. One that I intend on keeping for good."

Y/n had only been teasing at first, but his tiny confession was consoling to her. She knew there was a small flame burning between them, but his visage was not an easy one to see through.

"You chose me to anger the kingdom and to produce an heir. Are you saying now that there's more to it than just that?"

He clenched his jaw and slid his irises down to her bare feet. "It is true that was my initial purpose with you. But as I said, you've been a surprise to me."

She looked down at her feet as he ran the pad of his finger over her ankle and then upward to her shin, stopping at the bottom hem of her chemise. She swallowed as she looked back up to his face at his lips. The lips she'd kissed just the morning before. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about how it felt. It left such a warm, lingering sensation on her skin that she was sure she'd never be without it again.

Harry sat down at the edge of the mattress, his hand still on her shin, before he drew his fingers back down to her ankle. He'd been so worried about her at first. His assistant, Fred, told him she'd nearly fainted at dinner and had to be brought to bed, and something about a doctor. He probably should have waited to hear the rest, but his legs were carrying him quickly up to his room to get to her before he could even think about what he was doing.