His breaths were ragged now, his control faltering. The lines of his jaw tightened. His pace became erratic. She reached for him, touched his face, and whispered his name.
"Auran."
He groaned. It was raw, primal. Their eyes locked.
And then—together—they fell.
Ellanior's breath hitched as she moved against him, her body slick, every part of her alive with heat. Her head fell forward onto his shoulder, lips brushing his neck. His name—Aurian—came out like a confession.
He held her, not possessively, but with reverence. As if her bare skin in his hands had summoned something sacred. Something claimed.
The magic between them swelled like a second heartbeat—unseen, but pulsing. It coiled around their limbs, sank into their skin, and made the air feel thick with power and need. It wasn't just desire; it was recognition.
Every kiss was a key. Every breath, a spark.
And in her eyes—half-lidded and heavy with want—he saw more than hunger. He saw surrender. Not to a man. Not to a servant. But to him. To Aurian.
"You feel like a storm," she whispered, voice trembling against his collarbone. "Like thunder beneath my skin."
He exhaled, forehead pressed to hers, holding her gaze with molten intensity. "Then hold on," he said, his voice a rumble, equal parts warning and promise.
Their lips met again—not frantic this time, but full. Deep. Slow. Her fingers tightened in his hair, and his hands traced the lines of her spine, memorizing her like scripture.
A golden light bloomed beneath his skin, where her hands gripped his shoulders.
She felt it first—an almost electric warmth crawling from his skin into hers, seeping through the place where their chests touched. Her breath caught as the heat pooled in her stomach, down her limbs, and lower still.
"Aurian," she gasped again, but this time, it wasn't just lust. It was awe.
"I can feel you inside me," she whispered.
He smiled, but it wasn't smug. It was something deeper. Knowing. As if her words echoed a truth he already understood. "That's my magic," he said. "It's yours now, too."
And it was. The power spilled from him like ink in water—soaking her, binding her. Not chains. Not force. A thread. A call. A need.
She moved closer, pressed her body fully against his, and they stilled together. Just for a moment. Just enough for the magic to pulse between them, stronger now. Hotter.
Her nails grazed his back. His breath fanned across her lips.
"Don't let me fall," she whispered. He wrapped his arms around her like the answer had always been there.
"Never."
The bedroom was dimly lit, golden firelight licking at the walls, casting shadows that danced like silent witnesses. The bed was massive, dressed in obsidian silks and fur-lined throws. It looked untouched, regal—until he laid her upon it.
Auran laid her down atop the silken sheets—not roughly, but with a kind of reverent urgency, as if placing something sacred in its rightful place.
She reached for him, fingers curled into the damp ends of his hair. "Close the curtains," she murmured.
He did, the heavy velvet falling into place like a barrier between them and the rest of the world. In the soft darkness, he leaned over her, kissing her once more, slower this time, with the weight of something that felt like claiming.
But before the kiss could deepen—before they could be lost again—
Knock.
The knock came again—soft, uncertain.
Ellanior stilled beneath him. Her breath caught, and for a moment, neither moved.
Then her voice, low and composed, cut through the hush. "Wait."
Aurian pulled back just enough for her to slip from beneath him. She reached for her robe, not hurriedly, just with the graceful efficiency of someone who'd worn a mask long before tonight.
She cracked open the door.
"Ivan," she said, and her voice, though quiet, carried a surprising warmth. "What is it?"
The boy stood outside, barefoot, blinking up at her with an arm wrapped around his toy sword. "You didn't come to lunch. Or class."
There was no accusation in his tone—just confusion. Worry, perhaps, poorly hidden behind stubbornness.
"I wasn't feeling well," she replied, her tone even, practiced. "I needed rest."
"You never miss class," he said. "Are you really sick?"
Ellanior leaned against the doorframe. "I'm tired. That's all. Go back to the dining room. Tell Maren to bring me some tea."
Ivan hesitated, then nodded, already distracted by something invisible on the wall.
He wandered off without another word, humming softly to himself.
She closed the door gently behind her.
When she turned, Aurian had already moved from the bed, reaching for his tunic.
"I should—"
"No." The word stopped him, soft but immovable.
She crossed the room, let the robe fall from her shoulders.
"I don't want the moment to end because of him."
Aurian looked at her, torn between hesitation and hunger.
"He's just a boy," she said. "And I've been a prisoner in this house long before he was ever born."
Aurian hesitated one beat longer, then took a step toward her.
The firelight caught her bare skin as she reached for him again.
This time, when they kissed, it was slower, less desperate, more deliberate. Like a promise spoken in secret.
[Ivan minutes later….]
Ivan walked slowly down the hall, dragging the tip of his wooden sword along the wall until it scraped. He glanced back once, but the door to her room was already closed.
She didn't look sick.
Her cheeks were red, and her hair was messy, not like when she wore her crown braids for court, or the tight bun she used for lessons. And her voice… it was softer than usual. Not cold, not clipped. Almost warm. Almost nice.
But she'd barely looked at him.
He frowned, turning into the servants' corridor, where no one ever told him not to wander. She always came to class. She always made him recite his books. She was the one who reminded him how to sit and what not to say in front of the Baron.
Today she didn't ask anything. She didn't even open the door all the way.
Ivan kicked a loose stone.
Maybe she was tired. Or maybe—maybe she just didn't want to see him.
He didn't know why that stung, but it did.
He wasn't used to her being nice in the way that made him feel left out.
She hadn't smiled at him like that. Not ever.
He stared down at his sword, scuffed and worn. "I don't care," he muttered, and swung it at the wall.
[minutes later…]
Ellanior lay on the side of the bed, atop the silks, her thick legs spread out, showing her flexibility not as a tease, but as a declaration of strength, of ease, of a woman who had long since mastered the art of being desired without asking for permission.
Her hair, wild and auburn like a flame, fanned out across the bed. Each strand caught the candlelight, burning gold and copper against the dark silk, like the embers of some ancient fire that refused to die. It framed her face, softened her sharp cheekbones, and made her seem both ethereal and untouchable—like something summoned rather than born.
Aurian moved to her, bending down to his knees, as if savoring the feast that lay before him. He grabbed hold of each leg, kissing each side, as she moaned with exuberance.
The small auburn patch above her wet pink hole looked at him as if wanting and yearning for him to taste her.
And he was ready for it, as his lips brushed the side of her pussy, causing her to shiver as if a breeze blew by.
Her hands, once the tools of command, faltered. She reached for his hair, not to push him away, but to anchor herself. Her thighs, once parted in display, now trembled as they closed around his head. It was instinct—clinging. Drawing him in. But it felt like yielding.
Ellanior's fingers tightened in his hair. As he sucked and licked her private parts. As her mind was in disarray. His tongue slithered like an anaconda, in and out of her her causing her to do a series of moans.
Soft at first. Gasping. Like it escaped her lips before she could stop it. As Aurian picked up his pace. Deeper moan, dragged from her chest, raw and unguarded. Nothing like the composed, calculated voice she wielded during teaching sessions or private threats. This sound was Ellanior's undone. And gods, it was devastating.
As she came, he pulled his head away, stood up, and looked at a stream of water spraying the air as her body shook on the bed.
With a smooth grin, he moved with a quickness, sliding his big cock into her slowly, deeply, his hands gripping her hips like he'd dreamed of this moment and would not be rushed. Her body yielded around him—hot, wet, ready—and the sound she made was guttural, gutted. Her fingers clawed down his back, no longer trying to guide, but to feel. To hold. To keep.
And then he moved—long, controlled thrusts that made the headboard creak and her breath stutter. She tried to stay composed, tried to keep that aloof smirk on her lips, but it melted with every stroke, every press of his body into hers.
Her voice broke first. Then her rhythm. Then her walls.
"I need it—I need it, gods, please—"
It wasn't just lust. It was hunger. Starvation. As if something inside her had been caged for too long and now tore through her with shaking hands.
Ellanior's voice rose again, ragged: "*More. Harder—Ein—*I said harder, fuck—"
Ein grunted and gave her what she asked for, hips slamming into hers with bruising force. She cried out—sharp, unguarded—and her legs locked tighter around him, like her body couldn't bear a single inch of him being away.
Aurian's mouth was dry. His palms were sweating. And his cock—gods help him—was hard.
"Yes—there—gods, Aurian—" She was gasping now, panting, sweat shining on her skin in the candlelight. "Don't stop—don't fucking stop—I'm so close—please—please—"
And then it hit her.
Her scream tore through the room like a lightning strike, her body arching off the bed, her whole self quaking under the weight of it.
Aurian felt it in his chest, like thunder.
She came loud, raw, her voice shattering against the walls, and she didn't try to hide it. Didn't try to silence herself. She gave herself to it completely to him.
And Aurian?
He wasn't sure if he wanted to fall to his knees or tear the curtains down and pull her away.
Because the woman he knew was gone.
And something far more dangerous had taken her place.