The delegation from the Sapphire Archipelago arrived at dawn, their ships cutting through the harbor mist like silver blades.
At their head stood the twin princesses of House Coralyn: Princess Amara and Princess Liana, twenty-four years old, identical down to the last sun-kissed freckle. Golden skin, sea-green eyes, hair the color of driftwood bleached by salt and sun. Their ceremonial sarongs—little more than jeweled belts and translucent silk wrapped artfully around hips and breasts—left acres of toned midriff and long, dancer's legs on display for the entire court.
In his first life, Kairos had married Amara for politics. She had been dutiful, beautiful, and tragically barren after three years. Liana had been sent to a temple on a distant isle, never to be seen again. He had bedded neither with anything approaching true desire—only obligation.
This time, he intended to have both. Slowly. Thoroughly. Until the very idea of separation made them weep.
The welcome feast was a masterclass in restraint.
Kairos sat at the high table between the sisters, feeding them honeyed figs from his fingers while they laughed and leaned into him, the silk of their sarongs slipping lower with every breath of warm evening air. Amara's hand rested innocently on his thigh beneath the table. Liana's bare foot traced slow circles up his calf.
By the time the moon rose, the court was drunk on palm wine and the twins were flushed, pupils blown wide, thighs pressing together beneath the table.
Kairos stood.
"Sisters of the Sapphire Sea," he said, voice carrying through the hall, "the hour grows late. Allow me to escort you to your chambers… personally."
No one dared object.
The royal guest wing was quiet, torches guttering low. The moment the doors to the princesses' suite closed behind them, the pretense shattered.
Amara kissed him first—hungry, desperate, tasting of honey and salt. Liana pressed against his back, hands sliding beneath his tunic, nails dragging lightly down his spine.
"We argued the entire voyage," Amara whispered against his mouth. "Who would have you first."
Liana nipped his earlobe. "We decided to share."
They undressed him together—slow, reverent, four hands mapping every scarless inch of the body they believed was only eighteen. When his cock sprang free, heavy and aching, both princesses inhaled sharply.
"Gods of tide and storm," Liana breathed, wrapping delicate fingers around him. "The sea itself is jealous."
They led him to the vast canopied bed overlooking the moonlit harbor, silk sheets cool against heated skin.
He took his time.
First Amara—laid back against mountains of pillows while he kissed every inch of sun-warmed skin, lingering on the salt-taste of her throat, the soft underswell of breasts that had never been touched by any man but him in this life. He sucked one coral-pink nipple until she arched and sobbed, then moved to her twin, giving Liana the same slow worship until both were writhing, thighs slick, begging in the lilting island tongue.
Only then did he settle between Amara's legs, rubbing the head of his cock through her soaked folds while Liana knelt beside them, fingers tangled in her sister's hair.
"Look at her," he commanded softly. "Watch me take your twin."
He pushed in—slow, relentless, eyes locked with Liana's as Amara's back bowed off the bed, a broken cry spilling from her lips. She was impossibly tight, walls fluttering around him like waves on a reef.
Liana whimpered, hand slipping between her own thighs to rub frantic circles as she watched her sister get filled for the first time.
Kairos set a languid pace—deep, grinding thrusts that dragged over every sensitive spot inside Amara until she was babbling, nails scoring his shoulders. When she came, it was with her sister's name on her lips, pussy clenching so hard he nearly followed.
He pulled out at the last second, turned to Liana, and entered her in one smooth stroke while Amara watched, dazed and trembling.
They took turns like that for hours—slow, deep fucking that left both princesses sobbing with overstimulation, trading places again and again until neither knew whose pleasure was whose.
At the crest of the night, he had them both on their knees before him—heads bowed, mouths open, tongues intertwined around his cock as he stroked himself to completion. Thick ropes painted their faces, their breasts, dripping down sun-kissed skin like pearls.
They licked each other clean, slow and filthy, while he watched from the bed.
Later, tangled in silk and limbs, Amara traced lazy patterns on his chest.
"The alliance is yours," she murmured.
Liana nuzzled his throat. "Our fleets. Our coral steel. Our wombs, when you're ready."
Kairos kissed them both—soft, possessive.
"I'll take the first two now," he said against Liana's lips. "The third… when you beg for it."
Twin smiles, wicked and identical.
"We're island women," Amara whispered. "We were born begging for you."
Outside, the tide rolled in.
Inside, the prince who had died once added two more queens to the empire he was building—one slow, exquisite night at a time.
In the original timeline, the marriage to Princess Amara of the Sapphire Archipelago had been announced with all the pomp Eldoria could muster.
Kairos was twenty-five, already scarred from three campaigns against the Voidborn, shoulders broad with the weight of command. Amara was twenty-one, radiant in ceremonial coral silk, sea-green eyes bright with the polite excitement of a political bride. Their wedding night was meant to seal the alliance: a thousand ships, coral-forged steel, and the promise of heirs with salt in their veins.
The reality was colder than the northern seas.
Amara had been raised on duty the way other girls were raised on lullabies. She came to the marriage bed trembling—not with desire, but with the fear of disappointing a kingdom. Kairos, exhausted from weeks of negotiations and still grieving the men he'd buried, had tried to be gentle.
Too gentle.
He had kissed her softly, stroked her hair, told her they could wait. She had insisted—no, Your Highness must have an heir, the council expects it tonight—and opened her legs like a soldier saluting.
He had entered her carefully, mindful of her virginity, moving with the same measured restraint he used on a battlefield when he did not want to break something fragile. She had bitten her lip until it bled, eyes fixed on the canopy, counting the embroidered waves until it was over.
He finished quickly, apologetically, spilling inside her with a quiet groan and an immediate surge of guilt. She had patted his back like a sister comforting a brother and whispered, "Thank you, my lord."
They never spoke of it again.
For three years they tried—polite, scheduled couplings every fortnight when the moon was right. Always in the dark. Always missionary. Always with the weight of two nations watching.
Amara learned to smile through the disappointment. She hosted banquets, charmed ambassadors, and quietly bled every month while the court whispered about the barren island princess.
Kairos buried himself in war councils. When he did touch her, it was with the same distant courtesy he showed foreign dignitaries—efficient, respectful, utterly devoid of hunger.
He told himself it was kindness.
In truth, he was afraid.
Afraid that if he let himself want her—truly want her—he would devour the gentle, dutiful girl she had been molded into. Afraid the beast the battlefield had forged in him would frighten her.
So he starved.
And she withered.
When the final betrayal came—when the council poisoned his wine and dragged him to the block—Amara had stood on the royal balcony in mourning white, face pale and composed. Only Kairos, in his last moments, saw the single tear that slid down her cheek before the axe fell.
He had died believing she never loved him.
He had been wrong.
In the regression's first quiet night, after the twins had fallen asleep curled around each other and him, Amara had stirred and whispered into the dark:
"In the first life… I waited every night for you to take me the way a man takes a woman he burns for. I would have let you ruin me, Kairos. I would have begged for it. But you never asked."
Liana, half-asleep, had pressed a kiss to his throat. "We both would have."
Kairos had held them tighter, the weight of fifty lost years pressing against his ribs.
This time, he would not be gentle out of fear.
This time, he would give them the fire they had starved for—and take the love he had been too noble to claim.
The past was ash.
The future would burn brighter for it.