Valen's mouth claimed hers like a secret he never wanted the world to hear.
It wasn't desperate. It was deliberate. Worshipful. The kind of kiss that dragged a promise from the bones—not just the lips. A kiss that said mine without ever speaking it aloud.
Valen's hands stayed on her waist, as if afraid too much pressure would shatter her, or worse—make her vanish like a dream.
But Seraphine didn't vanish. She kissed him back, deeper this time, her fingers sliding into his hair, her body answering his with a need that had long stopped being logical.
The throne groaned beneath them as she shifted onto his lap, her armor already loosened by the heat between them.
His lips moved to her jaw, then her neck—soft, slow, hungry.She tilted her head, offering him more.
Valen groaned—low, guttural, broken.
"Do you know,"he murmured, between kisses that scorched her throat, "how long I've wanted to ruin you here?"
Valen's lips moved over hers like a vow—slow, deep, devouring. Seraphine could taste possession on his tongue, but beneath it, an ache. A desperate plea. One that asked not just for her body—but for every part she tried to hide.
His hand cradled her jaw, fingers threading through her dark hair as if it were spun from dreams he'd never thought he'd touch again. The throne beneath them, gold and velvet, faded into shadows. Only the weight of his chest against hers, the hot drag of his breath, and the fire curling low in her belly remained.
Her hand rose to his cheek, thumb brushing the curve of his lip.
And then—he bit it.
A sharp breath left her.
His fang caught the inside of his mouth just enough to draw blood—his blood—dark and rich, the very essence of what he was. A droplet welled up on his bottom lip, and Seraphine stilled.
"Valen…"she whispered, confused, breathless.
But he didn't speak. He tilted her chin higher, let the drop fall—slow, like a lover's touch—onto her parted lips.
It bloomed there like a crimson petal.
Her eyes widened, a tremble passing through her before he sealed her mouth with his once more, kissing her deeper than before.
Their mouths met in a fury of devotion and sin.
That drop of blood—his vow, his mark, his madness—burned between them, binding them in a way words never could.
When they parted, her chest heaved. "That was—"
"Mine,"he growled, voice rasped and trembling. "You wear me now. Even where no one sees."
Seraphine's pulse fluttered wildly. "Isn't it treacherous," she whispered, her voice trembling as his fingers dragged down the side of her neck, "to do this on the throne?"
Valen smiled—dark, carnal, undone.
"This throne was built for war," he said, sinking to his knees before her again, his head resting against her abdomen like a knight to his queen. "But for you, it shall be a place of worship. Let them call it treachery. I call it the moment my crown bent to your will."
The heat between them returned like a tide, slow and consuming, the kind that promised they'd drown together.
And this time—neither of them pulled away.
Her breath caught as Valen knelt between her parted legs, eyes gleaming like molten garnet in the candlelight. There was centuries of hunger in his gaze—no, more than that—obsession. She sat on his throne, the velvet beneath her thighs warm, but not nearly as scorching as the heat pooling inside her.
His fingers slipped under the hem of her silk slip, pushing the fabric up with excruciating patience, knuckles grazing her skin like a whisper.
"You don't know what you do to me,Serenyth,"he murmured, voice thick with restraint. "How long I've dreamed of this… tasting you like sin beneath my crown."
Her lips parted, a breathy moan escaping as he dragged his mouth down her inner thigh, fangs barely brushing her skin. He didn't bite. Not yet.
He was savoring.
Dragging his nose along the soft curve, he inhaled like he was trying to memorize her scent. "So warm…" he whispered. "So divine. Even hell would fall silent for this."
Seraphine's head fell back against the throne, fingers tightening on the golden arms as he nudged her legs wider, settling in like a man built to worship.
And then—his mouth found her.
A hot, slow stroke of his tongue—gentle, exploratory.
She gasped, hips jolting forward, but Valen's arms hooked around her thighs, keeping her pinned to the throne like a goddess on an altar.
He didn't rush. Oh no, he lingered.
He tasted her like she was something sacred—each movement of his tongue deliberate, languid, like he had all the time in the world. As if every stroke was a wordless promise.
She writhed, her moans echoing off the high-vaulted ceiling. Her hand found his hair, gripping tight, grounding herself against the dizzying pleasure building within her.
"Valen…" she whimpered, her voice barely a breath.
He looked up, lips slick, eyes half-lidded and heavy with hunger. "Say it again,"he rasped.
She shuddered, thighs trembling against his shoulders. "Valen…"
"Again."
"Valen, please—"
He groaned, diving back in with feverish hunger, tongue lapping at her in circles that drove her mind to the edge of oblivion. He sucked gently, then harder, and the sound she made could've shattered his soul.
She was close. He knew it. He could feel it in the way she shook, the way she begged without words.
He slid a single finger inside her, slow, curling just right—and she shattered.
The cry she let out was raw and breathless, and Valen held her through every wave of it, never stopping, not even when she trembled from the aftershocks.
Only when she slumped back into the throne, boneless and flushed, did he rise, his lips glistening with proof of her surrender.
He leaned in, brushing his mouth against hers.
"You taste like victory," he whispered, voice wrecked and deep. "Like something I'd burn the world for. Again and again."