The door opened and shut in one swift, silent motion.
Emily's heart leapt into her throat. She spun, a hand flying to her chest.
"Henry—you frightened me."
He was already across the threshold, a shadow moving with purpose. "A day without feeling you is a day in hell," he said, his voice low, stripped of all its royal frost. "Tomorrow I ride for Whitby. I will not go without the taste of you on my tongue." He closed the distance. "My body crawls for your touch, Emily. You are the only grace I know. The gate to my peace."
His hands, cool from the stone corridors, framed her face. Without a word, she rose onto her toes and kissed him—a furious, hungry press of lips that held days of stolen glances and silent promises.
He met her fervor, then overtook it. A low growl sounded in his throat as he walked her backward until the unyielding wall met her shoulders. In one fluid motion, he lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her skirts pooling around them.
"Hen—Henry," she managed between searing kisses, but his mouth swallowed the rest, leaving only a muffled sound of surrender.
He carried her to the narrow bed, lowering her onto the rough wool blanket before following her down, his weight a welcome anchor. He braced himself above her, his gaze tracing her face in the dim light as if memorizing it for the barren days ahead.
"Henry," she breathed, softer now, her fingers finding the linen of his shirt, clutching him closer.
"Tell me you are mine."
"I have always been yours."
Her fingers worked at the laces of his tunic, then the buttons beneath, parting fabric until her palms met the warm, solid plane of his chest. He groaned, his hands tightening at her waist, pulling her flush against him.
His own hand slid beneath the hem of her skirt, gathering the coarse wool and linen, pushing it upward. He did not hesitate. His other hand went to his belt, the leather giving way with a sharp, purposeful rasp. He shoved his trousers down, and she felt the hard, heated weight of him against her inner thigh.
Gently, he guided her legs apart, settling between them. One hand cradled the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her dark hair. Holding her gaze, he began to ease into her—a slow, deliberate invasion that made her entire body tense.
She jolted, a sharp gasp escaping her lips.
"Henry…"
He stilled, his brow damp, his eyes dark and searching hers. Then, with a low, guttural sound torn from the depths of his chest, he began to move. His rhythm built from a deep, rolling pace to something fiercer, more urgent, each thrust a driven, pounding claim.
"Ah! Hen—ry!" His name fragmented into a cry as sensation—sharp, overwhelming, exquisite—unraveled her.
He breathed against her neck, his voice rough and unsteady. "I know you want me. Deeper."
He thrust again, a slow, deliberate claiming that drew a ragged cry from her lips.
"You are… unmatched like this," Emily sighed, a dizzy, triumphant smile touching her mouth as her head fell back.
His rhythm faltered, his forehead dropping to hers. Their breath mingled, hot and frantic. "But if you wish me to be yours," she whispered, her fingers tracing the tense line of his jaw, "truly yours, day and night… then make it so. Do not just take me in the dark."
He stilled above her. Then, with a final, shuddering release, he collapsed beside her, pulling her into the curve of his body.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing settling. He turned his head, his eyes clear and solemn in the gloom.
"I am in the process, my love. The court… the kingdom… they clamor for an heir above all else." He drew her closer, his voice a hushed, fervent vow. "Give me my son. Then I will have the power to make you mine before God and every soul in England. Forever."
"A son," she breathed into the space between them, her voice a velvet thread. "I will give you that." Her fingers traced a possessive path down his arm. "But in return, you must make me yours. Truly. And you must remove that little wife from the board." She tilted her head back, her eyes glinting with ruthless clarity. "There is only room for two in a marriage, my king. Not three."
Her words hung in the silence—not a plea, but a condition.
"It will be done, my love." He bent his head, his lips brushing her forehead in a kiss that was both promise and benediction. "You will have your crown. I will have my heir. The rest is merely politics."
***
The morning arrived not with a gentle glow, but with a blade of hard, clear light slicing across her face. Gisela turned into her pillow with a soft murmur of protest.
"Morning already," she whispered to the empty room. "So short."
She lay still for a moment, then opened her eyes. The chamber was silent, blessedly free of the queen mother's maids. A fragile peace settled over her. She sat up, stretched, and slipped her feet into soft slippers. Standing, she smoothed the skirts of her baby pink nightgown, her unbound hair a cascade of copper down her back.
A morning to myself.
She moved quietly, touching the cold stone of the windowsill, straightening a fold in the heavy drapes. As she turned from the window, her gaze swept the room… and stopped.
It was on the wall.
Not left on the table, not tucked away in the book. It had been hung.
The drawing.
It was centered on the expanse of stone between the fireplace and the bed, pinned not with tape, but with a small, sharp dagger driven into the mortar. The morning light fell directly upon it.
Her breath vanished.
She approached as if drawn against her will, her slippers silent on the rushes. She stopped a few feet away, unable to look away.
It was beautiful. A brutal, exquisite kind of beauty. Her lips parted in a soundless gasp. The lines were confident and stark, capturing not just the form, but the very atmosphere of her shame—the proud, defensive angle of her chin, the rigid line of her collarbones, the way her own hair seemed to both clothe and betray her. He had rendered the vulnerability of her stance with a shocking, intimate precision. The eyes he had given her were not downcast, but looked straight out from the parchment, blazing with a defiance that felt more true than any mirror.
Her fingertips rose, not to touch the parchment, but to hover near the dagger's hilt, the cold steel that anchored her exposed image to the heart of her prison.
"He hung it," she breathed, the realization colder than the stone. He had not simply drawn her. He had curated her humiliation, framed it, and installed it as a permanent fixture in her chamber. A monument to his power and her powerlessness.
"He captured everything," she whispered, the words tasting of ash. And now, he had ensured she would never be able to forget it. The drawing was no longer a private record. It was a spectator. It would watch her dress, watch her sleep, watch her every moment alone. It was his gaze, made permanent, and nailed to her wall.