The firelight cast dancing shadows across the bedchamber, painting golden patterns on skin still flushed from passion.
Dorian lay on his back, staring at the canopy above while his heart gradually slowed from its frantic pace.
Beside him, Willow curled into his side, her head resting on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his skin.
He should feel satisfied. Triumphant, even. He had bedded his mate and ensured the continuation of his bloodline with a blessed heir. The kingdom's future would be secured if everything went according to plan.
Instead, he felt like he was drowning.
The weight of what they had just shared pressed down on him, heavier than any crown. It hadn't been the cold, calculated coupling he'd intended.
It had been transcendent. Earth-shattering. The kind of joining that poets wrote about and wars were fought over.
