The morning light filtered in like breath through silk—a pale, measured ingress, warm only where it lingered. It caressed the edge of Veyra's desk, spilling in soft, luminous patches across the cool stone floor, catching a faint, captivating gleam off the smooth clasp at Liora's throat as she lay still beside Veyra.
She'd been awake for a while. Awake and perfectly still, Veyra's arm a comforting weight across her waist, her breath a quiet, steady rhythm at Liora's back. There was no fear in it, no brittle tension. Only the deep embrace of weight, the soft invitation of warmth. Liora didn't pull away; she felt no impulse to break the spell.
Her gaze, unhurried, tracked the light as it crawled across the floor, tracing the delicate edge of the blanket, the subtle curve of Veyra's shoulder. Veyra's face, softened by sleep, was turned toward her, a stray lock of hair falling across her brow. Her mouth, usually so firm and resolute, was parted slightly, breath curling steady and slow, a silent whisper.
Liora looked at her as one might gaze upon something exquisitely rare—something so precious it felt ephemeral. Her eyes drifted, savoring each detail: the sharp, elegant line of her jaw, the faint, intriguing scar near her temple, the delicate hollow of her collarbone where—
The mark still lingered. Dusky and tenderly healing, half-faded, a subtle testament.
She hadn't intended to leave it. Or perhaps, in the wild pulse of that moment, she had. Her throat tightened, a sudden constriction. That instant had surged like a consuming wave—a rush of heat, an insistent pressure, an overwhelming need to act—and her mouth had found skin, had bitten before thought could intervene. Not to claim in a possessive sense. Not truly.
But a profound, undeniable part of her had yearned for it to stay.
Veyra stirred. A slow, languid breath, a gentle shift of the blanket. Her brows knit first, a fleeting shadow, then her lashes fluttered. Pale, silver eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, then locked onto Liora's.
She didn't speak immediately, simply held Liora's gaze, a quiet intensity in her own.
Liora didn't look away.
A faint, tender crease softened at the corner of Veyra's mouth. Then, her voice still heavy with the languor of sleep, "You're staring."
Liora only hummed, a low, contented sound. "And why shouldn't I?"
Their eyes remained locked, a silent conversation unfolding. Veyra's hand, still resting lightly against Liora's side, moved—a fractional shift. Her thumb brushed beneath the fabric of the tunic where it had ridden up, tracing a warm, resilient path across Liora's skin. Slow. Tentative. Testing.
Liora drew in a sharp breath, but made no move to stop her.
Veyra shifted closer, her knees brushing Liora's beneath the covers, her mouth now hovering near Liora's hair, then her ear. Not kissing. Not yet. Just close enough for a warm, delicious current to begin low in Liora's belly.
Then the hand at her waist slid higher. Over the delicate dip of her ribs, the cool edge of the collar's clasp.
Liora's pulse fluttered, a wild bird trapped. Her body answered before her thoughts could form—hips tilting faintly, breath catching in a silent plea.
Still no words.
Veyra's mouth hovered at Liora's jaw now. Her breath, a warm whisper, waiting.
Ask me to stop, was the silent question in her stillness.
Veyra remained unmoving, her weight poised just enough to leave Liora suspended, mouth slightly parted beneath hers, breath quickening with each agonizing second of stillness.
Always careful. Always holding back.
Liora's lashes lifted slowly, revealing Veyra's eyes already watching her—storm-gray, now deepened with raw need, yet still… waiting. As if seeking a permission she'd already implicitly granted.
Liora's patience frayed, a delicate thread snapping.
"Why do you always hesitate?" she whispered, her voice low, husky from sleep and a burgeoning desire.
Veyra's lips parted as if to answer, but no words came. Liora didn't give her the chance.
She surged up—a sudden, desperate lunge, pushing, shifting, taking Veyra's mouth in a kiss that was anything but soft. Her fingers tangled in the collar of Veyra's tunic and pulled, dragging her closer, until their hips pressed together, a sweet friction, and Veyra's breath caught audibly in her throat.
There.
That sound. That feeling.
Liora's legs wrapped around her without conscious thought. Her hands moved fast—up the back of Veyra's shirt, across bare skin, reveling in firm, taut muscle. She could feel Veyra trembling, the deep tension held back for too long finally beginning to give way.
"You won't break me," Liora breathed between kisses, her lips brushing Veyra's jaw, her neck. She found the mark she'd left and kissed it, slow and deliberate. "You don't have to be so damn careful."
Veyra made a noise then—half groan, half guttural growl—but still didn't shift the delicate balance back.
So Liora did.
She rolled them, swift and decisive, taking the top position. Veyra allowed it, her eyes wide now with surprise as Liora straddled her, her tunic falling loose off one shoulder, exposing lustrous skin.
Liora leaned down, her hair falling like a silken curtain between them, and said, her voice low and utterly deliberate: "If you won't take what you want, I will."
Then she kissed her again—deep and full, her weight shifting just enough to draw a sharp gasp from Veyra's mouth into hers. This wasn't the heat of survival. This wasn't driven by raw need alone. It was a choice. A claim made not with teeth or scent, but with hands and breath and an inviolable trust.
Veyra's hands found her thighs, gripping hard, her restraint cracking, just subtly. She arched up into Liora's touch, a primal response.
And still—Liora remained in control.
A flush was rising in her own cheeks, but her gaze never broke. She held Veyra there, beneath her, not in dominance, but with something infinitely more intimate. She needed to see her like this. Wanted to be the one who finally made her come undone.
Her lips trailed down Veyra's neck, slow and deliberate, her voice a low murmur against warm skin.
"Let me."
Veyra's breath shuddered beneath her, a delicious tremor.
Liora felt it—how the profound tension loosened inch by inch the longer she stayed atop her, not as a challenge, not even as a tease, but as something steady, foundational. Her hands slid down Veyra's arms, fingers exploring the ridges of old scars and well-trained muscle, committing each intricate shape to memory. She allowed herself to take the time she hadn't dared the night before.
Veyra didn't speak. Didn't move. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, her jaw tight, a picture of exquisite restraint. Waiting.
Still holding back.
Liora leaned down, slower this time, each movement a deliberate caress. Her lips brushed Veyra's, once, a fleeting whisper, then traced a path to her cheek, the sharp angle of her jaw, the soft, sensitive spot just below her ear. Veyra's pulse thudded against her lips when she found it, a frantic beat.
Then lower—down the elegant slope of her neck.
When she reached the fading faint bite mark near her collarbone, Liora stopped. She hovered for a breath, lips slightly parted, drawing in the essence of her.
And then she kissed it. Nipped at it.
An open-mouthed, lingering, and possessive kiss.
She let her breath drag slow across the skin, felt the way Veyra shuddered beneath her again, a ripple of sensation. Her hands, once resting light on Liora's hips, flexed—thumbs digging in harder now, as if to tether herself, to prevent her own unraveling.
Still, Veyra said nothing.
Still, she didn't initiate a move.
Liora's voice was low, a whisper against Veyra's skin. "Do you want me to stop?"
She didn't.
Instead, Veyra's head tipped back, exposing more of her throat, a vulnerable offering.
That was answer enough.
Liora shifted, her knees bracketing Veyra's hips, and sat upright. Her breath was shaky now, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm in her chest. Her hands trembled as she reached for the laces of her tunic, but not from fear. From the monumental weight of this—of being seen, utterly, completely. Of being wanted, with a fierce, unwavering intensity.
Veyra's eyes followed her every movement, dark and unreadable, her hands now resting at Liora's thighs, unmoving but profoundly present. Like she was trying not to shatter something exquisitely fragile.
"You can touch me," Liora whispered, still undoing the knot at her collarbone. Her gaze flicked down, where Veyra's fingers gripped the fabric of the blanket like desperate reins. "You don't have to ask..."
Veyra didn't speak.
But her hands slid upward slowly, reverently, as if permission was still something sacred, a delicate blossom. She touched Liora's hips first, smoothing her thumbs in slow, mesmerizing circles just above the waist of her tunic. Then higher, under the hem, over warm, receptive skin. Her breath caught as she traced the gentle dip of Liora's waist, the soft, inviting curve of her stomach.
Liora finished with the tie of her tunic and let the fabric fall open, revealing the delicate swell of her breasts. Her chest rose and fell quickly, a flush rising to her neck, a vibrant testament to her arousal.
Still, she didn't look away.
Veyra did. Her eyes trailed down with the kind of profound attention that made Liora feel as though she were lit from the inside, a luminous beacon. Her hands came to rest lightly at her ribs, and when her thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts, Liora gasped—soft, sharp, immediate, a pure note of pleasure.
She leaned down again, slowly, deliberately, until their lips finally met.
This kiss was deeper. Hungrier. Liora tilted her head, opened her mouth under Veyra's, and felt her hands tighten in response, a fierce grip that thrilled her. They moved together, skin against warm skin now, heat blooming fiercely wherever they touched. Liora let herself be pulled closer, lowered into the strong, welcoming cradle of Veyra's arms as her back arched and their hips aligned with a perfect, magnetic fit.
Then Veyra rolled—slowly, deliberately, a masterful reversal of their positions without breaking the kiss. Her body pressed down, firm and warm and utterly in control now.
Liora's breath stuttered, a breathless plea.
She expected the rhythm from before—the careful alignment, the exquisite building of tension, the familiar, comforting press.
But Veyra's mouth left hers.
And went lower.
Down the line of her throat, then across her collarbone, her shoulder, the soft, yielding place just beneath. Kisses slow, dragging, not asking but telling—you're wanted. You're mine, if you choose it.
Liora let her fingers slide into Veyra's hair, anchoring herself, chest heaving as Veyra's mouth moved lower still.
Along the soft swell of her breast.
Then lower, kissing a deliberate line down the center of her body. Her hands pushed the tunic further aside, reverent now only in the intensity of her attention. She paused just above Liora's hipbones, and looked up, her gaze searing.
Liora met her gaze, breath shallow, her body humming. Her hands were still threaded in Veyra's hair, but her grip had loosened—more invitation than anchor now. Her thighs trembled faintly beneath Veyra's palms, the air between them thick with unspoken trust, a palpable tension.
Veyra dipped her head again, pressing a kiss low on Liora's abdomen. Then another, just beside it, a slow, deliberate exploration. Her mouth moved slowly, deliberately, as if learning Liora's body by taste instead of sight. Each press of her lips dragged heat deeper into Liora's core, and by the time Veyra's mouth found the inner curve of her thigh, Liora's breath had caught entirely, a sweet, agonizing suspension.
She tensed—barely—but Veyra didn't push. She lingered there, letting her lips part just enough to breathe warm against soft skin, a tantalizing promise. Then her hand slid up gently, parting Liora's legs with a patience that made her ache, a longing that was almost unbearable.
When Veyra kissed her—truly kissed her—it was with a softness, a reverence, that made Liora tremble, her entire being vibrating with sensation.
Her mouth found the sensitive peak of her bud, brushing it in a single, exquisite pass of her tongue, slow and unhurried. Liora gasped—a quiet, high sound, surprised by how sharp the pleasure was after such a tender, drawn-out build.
Veyra hummed low, a deep, satisfied sound that vibrated straight through her core, and kissed her again.
And again.
Each motion was measured, precise—her tongue flicking lightly, then circling, then pressing flat, a rhythm of exquisite torture and delight. She adjusted with every soft sound Liora made, every tightening of her grip, every breath she caught and didn't release. It was maddening, how much she paid attention—how her hands held Liora open, steady—firm, but never, ever forced.
Liora let her head fall back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in a silent plea she didn't have the words for, lost in the escalating rapture.
Heat spiraled outward from her core, curling through her limbs and up her spine, a relentless, consuming fire. She arched into it, hips twitching once before Veyra's hands steadied her again, grounding her with gentle, knowing pressure.
"Veyra—" she whispered, barely a voice at all, a fractured plea.
A pause. The tip of her tongue stroked slow again, then firmer, then gently fastened into a relentless, driving rhythm. No teasing now—just pure intention. Just profound closeness. Just Veyra.
Liora cried out, sharp and sweet, a sound torn from her very soul, her fingers tightening in dark strands of Veyra's hair as her body rushed toward the edge she hadn't seen coming, a precipice of pure sensation.
It crested on a moan—quiet, wrecked, utterly, beautifully hers.
And Veyra didn't stop until Liora had ridden every breathtaking span of it down, trembling, flushed, utterly undone beneath her.
Only then did she lift her head, her eyes dark and soft at once, her lips flushed and swollen, chin wet with slick bearing testament to their shared passion.
She kissed the inside of Liora's thigh again, gentler now, a soft, lingering touch. Then she rose up slowly, bracing herself over Liora, one hand stroking along her side, a comforting presence. Liora blinked, still catching her breath, her body warm and boneless in the sheets, utterly sated.
Veyra leaned in and kissed her again—not with hunger, but with a profound closeness. Intimacy.
Liora's hands slid weakly up her arms, curling behind her neck, drawing her closer still.
Veyra lowered herself, settling beside Liora, the shift in weight bringing them flush along their entire forms. Her arm, still around Liora's waist, tightened, drawing her even nearer until Liora could feel the steady beat of Veyra's heart against her back. The quiet intimacy of it was profound, a stark contrast to the fervent desire that had just consumed them.
Liora turned her head slightly, her gaze finding Veyra's. Those storm-gray eyes, once dark with passion, were now soft, almost vulnerable. A silent question lingered there, a tenderness that pulled at something deep within Liora. She reached up, her fingers tracing the sharp line of Veyra's jaw, feeling the slight stubble that had grown overnight.
"Stay," Liora murmured, the word a gentle exhale, almost lost in the stillness of the room. It wasn't a demand, but an invitation, a soft plea for the moment to stretch indefinitely.
Veyra's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, a silent acknowledgment. She pressed a soft kiss to Liora's temple, her breath warm against her skin. "Where else would I go?" she whispered, her voice low and raspy, a quiet rumble that resonated through Liora.
The morning light continued its slow march, now painting the room in brighter hues, but neither of them stirred. The world outside the chamber felt distant, irrelevant. Here, in the soft warmth of the bed, wrapped in Veyra's embrace, Liora felt a sense of belonging deeper than she had ever known. It was in the lingering scent of their mingled bodies, the quiet rhythm of their breaths, the undeniable trust that now flowed between them, a silent current strengthening with every beat of their hearts.
Liora closed her eyes, letting herself sink into the feeling, into Veyra's presence. She didn't need words, not now. The language between them had shifted, deepened, speaking volumes in the press of a hand, the brush of a breath, the unyielding warmth of a body offered without hesitation.
This was more than desire; it was an anchoring, a promise whispered without sound.
Yet, even in the tranquil embrace of the morning, a tremor of the outside world began to intrude. They knew they would have to rise soon, to face the envoys, to meet the cold, calculating eyes of the council.
They would continue their defiant revolution, revealing the discoveries from the chapel the night before.
What kind of reception awaited them remained uncertain—or perhaps, deep down, they already knew. But for now, they clung to this shared moment, a fragile sanctuary before the inevitable storm.