Arvin caught the implication in Heman's words, a spark of shared understanding lighting his eyes. He chuckled softly, the sound warm and conspiratorial, as he gestured toward the pair of high-backed chairs near the desk. They settled into the seats, the leather creaking under their weight, the study's candle flames flickering in the draft from the door.
'What news from the Imperial Palace?' Arvin asked, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his tone shifting to the familiar cadence of counsel.
Heman mirrored his posture, a faint smile playing on his lips. 'As little chaos as one can expect, sire—and a fair bit of fun to balance it. We were waiting for you earlier in the council chamber, but you didn't appear.' His gaze lifted to meet Arvin's, probing just enough to hint at curiosity without overstepping.
Arvin's response was a small, knowing smile, his expression unapologetic yet affectionate, like an older brother indulging a jest.
Heman waved a hand dismissively, his grin widening. 'Of course, who would question the Emperor? The matter proceeded without you. We held the meeting, deliberated on the border tariffs, and they dispersed soon after.'
Arvin nodded, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. 'The Duke was there?'
Heman's smile turned sly. 'And the Duchess, too.'
Arvin raised a brow, intrigue sharpening his features.
'They were inquiring after Mirha,' Heman continued, his voice lowering as if sharing palace gossip. 'But they were informed she was here, under your protection. No further fuss was made.'
Arvin rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the stubble rasping under his palm. 'Alright,' he murmured, the word carrying the weight of resolved concern.
Meanwhile, in the grand dining room, the long oak table gleamed under the light of crystal chandeliers, laden with platters of roasted quail, fresh breads, and bowls of spiced vegetables steaming in the cool air. Mirha sat in silence at one end, her fork tracing idle patterns in her porridge, the events of the study still coloring her cheeks with a faint blush. The soreness between her thighs had dulled to a persistent ache, but the warmth of the meal helped ease her into the moment.
Mayora, seated across from her, fidgeted with her napkin before breaking the quiet. 'My lady, I'm truly sorry for the display earlier. It was inde—'
Mirha looked up, waving off the apology with a gentle shake of her head. 'It was no big deal. Men, right?'
Mayora's eyes widened in surprise, then she giggled, the sound light and relieved, like bubbles rising in a stream. 'Yes, exactly.'
Mirha's lips curved into a small smile, the tension easing from her shoulders as she returned to her meal, savoring the tender meat and the subtle herbs that danced on her tongue.
Shortly after, the doors swung open, and Arvin entered with Heman at his side. Arvin's gaze sought Mirha immediately, softening as he approached. He slid into the seat beside her, leaning in to press a tender kiss to the crown of her hair, inhaling the faint floral scent that clung to her. Then he settled fully, his presence a steady anchor.
Mayora, catching Heman's eye across the table, leaned toward him and muttered in Madish—a lilting, private tongue of their homeland—'Have some shame.'
Mirha, who had full knowledge of the language overheard and nearly choked on her sip of wine, her hand flying to her mouth as a cough escaped.
Arvin, attuned to her every shift, turned instantly. He reached out, tucking a stray lock of her dark hair behind her ear with gentle fingers, then rubbed soothing circles on her back. 'Are you alright?' he asked, his voice low and concerned, eyes searching hers.
She nodded, clearing her throat with a soft laugh, her hand pressing over his in gratitude. Then, glancing at Mayora with a playful glint, she felt Arvin lift her other hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles softly, his touch lingering like a promise.
The dinner plates had been cleared away, the remnants of the feast lingering in the air as a mix of roasted herbs and spiced wine. Conversation had flowed easily among the four, laced with the easy camaraderie of trusted allies, but as the evening wound down, Heman leaned toward Mayora, his voice a low rumble meant for her ears alone—though not quite private enough in the intimate glow of the dining hall.
'I'll be in your chambers tonight,' he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing the next day's hunt.
Mayora's eyes snapped to his, a fierce glare cutting through the candlelight. Her husband's face remained impassive, utterly devoid of remorse for voicing such a bold intention right there, under the Emperor's watchful gaze. She pressed her lips into a thin line, her cheeks flushing with a blend of irritation and reluctant heat.
Mirha, seated beside Arvin, felt the words hang heavy in the room. She cleared her throat softly, the sound breaking the charged silence. 'I... I'm tired,' she murmured, her voice steady despite the subtle warmth creeping up her neck.
Arvin turned to her at once, his dark eyes softening with understanding. He rose smoothly from his chair, extending his hand to her. She placed her fingers in his palm, the touch warm and reassuring, and he led her from the table, his strides measured to match her own. Heman and Mayora exchanged a final look—hers still smoldering—before the doors closed behind the Emperor and his consort.
They made their way through the winding corridors of the palace, the stone floors cool underfoot, torches casting long shadows that danced along the tapestried walls. Arvin glanced at Mirha as they walked, noting how her steps carried a lightness now, the earlier stiffness from the morning's exertions eased by rest and the healing balm of time. The sway of her hips, graceful and unburdened, stirred something deep in him—a fierce urge to pull her close, to claim her again with the same raw intensity that had marked their first union.
But he held back. It had only been that morning when he'd taken her virginity, breaching her innocence with a passion that bordered on ferocity. The thought of causing her pain twisted in his gut; he wouldn't risk it, not when her body was still adjusting, still tender from his possession. He swallowed hard, the desire coiling tight in his chest, and pushed open the door to their chambers.
The room enveloped them in quiet luxury—heavy velvet drapes framing tall windows, a massive four-poster bed dominating the space, its linens crisp and inviting. Arvin shrugged off his outer robe, letting it fall to a nearby chair, then eased onto the bed, propping himself against the pillows. Outside, the sky had darkened fully, and as if on cue, rain began to lash against the glass in heavy sheets, the storm's roar filling the air with a wild, rhythmic cadence.
Mirha paused to slip out of her gown, the fabric whispering to the floor, before joining him. She slid under the covers, her body curving naturally toward his. Arvin wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her flush against his chest, her head nestling into the crook of his shoulder. Her breath warmed his skin, steady and soft, as his fingers traced idle patterns along her spine.
They lay like that, entwined in the downpour's symphony, the world beyond the windows fading to a distant hum. No words passed between them, just the simple press of bodies seeking solace, the heat of shared breath, and the unspoken promise of tenderness in the storm's embrace.
The heavy door to their chambers thudded shut behind Heman, sealing out the corridor's echoes and the distant patter of rain that had begun to intensify. Mayora stood by the window, her silhouette framed against the storm-lashed glass, but she turned at the sound, her gaze locking onto his. At thirty-three, with three children already born of their union, she carried the lithe grace of a woman half her age—her skin smooth, her curves firm, betraying no hint of the years or the labors that had shaped her body.
Heman's eyes burned with unrestrained lust as he crossed the room in long, purposeful strides. Weeks had passed since he'd last buried himself inside her, the demands of palace duties and border skirmishes keeping him away far too long. Hunger gnawed at him now, a primal ache that twisted low in his gut, demanding release. He stopped mere inches from her, his broad frame towering, the air between them thickening with anticipation.
Mayora rose from her seat, her movements fluid and teasing, and reached for the clasps of his jacket. Her fingers worked deftly, peeling the heavy fabric from his shoulders, revealing the taut muscles beneath his shirt. As the jacket slipped away, Heman caught her hand, lifting it to his lips. He pressed a hot, lingering kiss to her knuckles, his breath rough against her skin, before his grip shifted. Strong fingers clamped around her waist, yanking her forward until her body slammed against his chest, her breasts crushing into the hard planes of his torso.
A knowing smile curved her lips, her eyes sparkling with the familiarity of his need. 'Are you hungry?' she murmured, her voice a sultry challenge, laced with the promise of surrender.
Heman didn't answer with words. He crushed his mouth to hers instead, devouring her lips in a bruising kiss that tasted of wine and desperation. His tongue plunged deep, claiming every inch, as his hands roamed downward, bunching her skirts up around her thighs. With a growl rumbling from his throat, he spun her around, bending her over the edge of the bed. The rain outside hammered relentlessly now, a thunderous veil that swallowed the first gasp she let out as he freed his cock—thick and throbbing—from his trousers.
He didn't wait, didn't tease. Heman thrust into her pussy in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt. Mayora cried out, her walls clenching around his length, slick and ready despite the weeks apart. He fucked her hard, hips snapping forward with punishing force, each plunge driving deeper, stretching her wide. Her fingers twisted into the bedsheets, knuckles whitening, as he set a relentless rhythm, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room.
'Yes—Hemi!' she screamed, her voice breaking as pleasure ripped through her. He gripped her hips, pulling her back onto him with every thrust, angling to hit that spot inside her that made her tremble. The storm raged on, drowning her moans, the rain's roar masking the wet sounds of his cock pounding into her soaked folds.
He flipped her onto her back next, spreading her legs wide and hooking them over his shoulders. Diving back in, he fucked her senseless, his pace unyielding, watching her face contort in ecstasy. Mayora's nails raked down his back, drawing red lines across his skin, but he only grinned, feral and dominant. He leaned down, his hand wrapping around her throat in a firm choke, squeezing just enough to make her gasp, her pussy fluttering wildly around him as oxygen teased her edges.
' be a good girl,' he rasped, thrusting harder, his free hand pinching her nipple until she arched off the bed. She did, her cries peaking as orgasm crashed over her, her body convulsing, juices flooding around his pistoning cock. But Heman didn't stop. He pulled out only to reposition her on all fours again, slamming back in from behind—back shots that jolted her forward with each impact, his balls slapping against her clit.
He choked her again, fingers digging into her neck as he rutted into her like a beast, the bed creaking under their frenzy. Mayora came twice more, her screams hoarse, body shaking, but he kept going, flipping her, bending her, taking her against the wall with her legs wrapped around his waist. Sweat slicked their skin, the air thick with the musk of sex, and still the rain poured, covering every filthy sound.
Hours blurred into a haze of relentless fucking—Heman's stamina unbreaking, his hunger insatiable. He filled her pussy with his cum again and again, hot spurts coating her insides, leaking down her thighs as he pulled out only to plunge back in. By the time exhaustion finally claimed them, Mayora lay sprawled beneath him, marked with bites on her shoulders, handprints on her ass, her throat tender from his grip. Heman collapsed beside her, pulling her into his arms, their breaths syncing with the slowing storm. The night stretched on, sated but not spent, the promise of more lingering in the quiet.