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Amara's POV
His lips traced a slow path down my neck, and with every breath, I felt the weight of what this night meant.
Not just a wedding night. Not just a union of title and throne. This was something more—something raw, powerful, and terrifyingly intimate.
Chris wasn't just the ruler of the empire tonight.
He was mine.
And I was his.
He had lifted me into his arms with that effortless strength, the way only he could, and laid me on the bed like I was sacred. I had faced wars. I had commanded armies. But in his arms, I melted. Not from weakness, but from the strength of his gaze alone.
His touch wasn't rushed. Every movement of his hands was deliberate—firm, reverent, possessive. His fingers brushed across my skin, lighting fires in places words could never reach. He knew me. He studied me. And tonight, he read every inch of my body like scripture.
We kissed again—longer this time. Hungrier. He pulled me closer, and I let go of every wall I had built around myself. For once, I wasn't the General. Not the Second Lady of the Empire.
I was just Amara.
And he made me feel like being just Amara was enough to move the stars.
Our bodies moved together, slowly at first, like a silent agreement. There was no rush. No one to impress. Just two broken souls, finding healing in each other's breath.
My fingers curled into his back, my legs around his waist. I whispered his name more times than I could count, not from pain, not from pleading—but from that sweet ache of surrender.
"I'm yours," I whispered against his ear, voice shaking.
"You've always been mine," he replied, brushing hair from my face.
And in that moment, I believed him. Not because he was Emperor. But because no man had ever touched my soul the way he just did.
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