Warning! Spicy Chapter!!!
⚠️ Content Warning: Mature Themes Ahead ⚠️
This chapter contains explicit sexual content, emotionally intense interactions, and scenes of dominance and power exchange. It is intended for mature audiences 18+ only.
Please read responsibly. If you are sensitive to adult content or themes of manipulation, power imbalance, or non-romantic intimacy, feel free to skip this chapter or proceed with caution.
Your well-being matters.
—CG Blaire 🖤
Alaric and Evelyne's POV
The gardens were quiet behind them once Seraphina was gone. As soon as her footsteps faded past the archway, Evelyne leaned toward Alaric.
"Meet me," she said, her voice low. "Same place. I don't want to wait."
Alaric didn't respond with words. He just gave her a short, firm nod.
They separated like they had done dozens of times before. Evelyne moved through the servant's corridor behind the gallery. Alaric took the path near the training yard. No one paid attention. No one asked questions. They'd perfected this ritual. Shadows knew their names.
Later, two carriages left different palace gates. Neither showed any house sigil or color. Both were plain, designed not to draw attention.
Inside his carriage, Alaric sat quietly, tapping his fingers against the leather seat. He wasn't nervous. He was focused. Ready.
He wasn't thinking about Seraphina or the rest of the court. Not even Caelan. All of them were distractions. Players who thought they understood the board.
He didn't play the game. He ran it.
And Evelyne was the only one who could keep up.
Every plan they'd set in motion over the last two years had started in a room like this. Quiet. Controlled. No records. No interruptions.
He didn't need praise or recognition. He needed results. Evelyne got that. They worked together because they both understood the currency of power wasn't loyalty or blood.
It was leverage.
The carriage pulled up in front of a small house tucked behind a closed workshop. The townhouse behind the tailor's shop was cold and dark, untouched by titles or servants or ceremony. A place for secrets. A place where masks were left at the door.
Evelyne entered first, shrugging off her cloak. The gold silk of her gown caught the candlelight, but her face was tense. She was furious, and trying not to let it show.
"He was watching her again," she said, not looking at him. "Vorenthal."
Alaric closed the door behind him. "Let him."
"He follows her in court. He listens when she speaks." She turned sharply. "You know what that means."
"I know," he said, voice clipped.
He walked toward her, removing his gloves with calm, slow movements.
"He's always wanted what was mine," he muttered. "Even before the crown was within reach. My name. My place. And now, her."
Evelyne turned to face him. "And you'll let him have her too?"
"She's not his to take." His tone hardened. "She's mine. By bond. By legacy."
Evelyne stepped in close. "Then remind everyone who still controls this game."
"She's not the problem," Alaric said. "He is. Caelan has never stayed in his place."
"Then put him back in it," Evelyne said.
Silence settled over them.
"I will," Alaric said. "And I'll do it without a sword. I'll make sure she watches. I'll make her choose me."
"She won't," Evelyne said, her voice cold.
"She will," he answered, brushing her hair from her shoulder. "When he's nothing and I'm all that's left."
Evelyne smiled, sharp and cruel. "Good."
She kissed him. It wasn't romantic. It was a signal.
They moved together like they'd done this before. Like they knew exactly what they wanted.
She undressed first, fast and confident, letting her gown fall to the floor. Candlelight skimmed her bare skin. She didn't wait for Alaric's touch-she took what she wanted.
She stepped up to him and pulled his cloak off. Her hands moved quickly, unfastening buttons, parting layers, until his chest was bare. She touched him like she owned him-familiar and possessive.
Her mouth found his chest, then moved lower. She kissed him with heat, but no affection-just intent. She knelt, dragging her lips down his torso, slow and sure. Her mouth opened around him, and he groaned. Loud. Lost.
He grabbed the edge of the table to keep himself upright.
She didn't stop. She took him in, moved with purpose, making him shake. She controlled every sound he made, every reaction, until he couldn't hide from her anymore.
When he finished, she stood, satisfied and calm, licking her lips with a smirk.
Then she pushed him back into the wall and kissed him hard. Teeth and heat and urgency. She straddled him, clawed at his back, pressed herself against him until he lifted her and pinned her to the door.
She wrapped her legs around him, whispered in his ear, "Do it."
He thrust into her and she gasped-sharp, guttural. She moved with him, fast and aggressive, meeting every movement with force of her own. She raked her nails down his back, bit his shoulder, asked for more.
He gave it.
The room filled with the sounds of their bodies colliding. She was loud, demanding, brutal. He held on, following her lead.
She climaxed with a cry, then kept going until he fell with her, spent and silent.
But she wasn't finished.
They paused just long enough for their bodies to cool, but Evelyne wasn't done. She rolled over, eyes gleaming, and mounted him again-mounted him, rode him hard until he begged her with his hands. Again and again, until he had nothing left to give and still she demanded more.
She owned the entire encounter. Not once did she relinquish control.
Even when Alaric tried to assert himself, grabbing her hips, pushing her back, she pushed harder. She rolled him onto his back and slid down his body with a confidence that mocked hesitation. Her thighs caged him in, and she sank onto him again, slower this time, watching his face the entire way.
She used her body like a weapon, setting the pace, grinding her hips in tight circles that made him groan and claw at the floor beneath him. Every movement was calculated to keep him overwhelmed. She whispered instructions in his ear-filthy, clear, and dominant-until he followed them without thinking.
When he tried to flip them, she grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head, riding him so hard he could barely breathe. She didn't stop until he was shaking, spent, and wordless beneath her.
Then, after a short pause, she kissed down his stomach again, smiling as she went lower. Her tongue found him soft and sensitive, and she brought him back with slow, merciless attention. He gasped-too raw, too exposed-but she didn't stop. She made him hard again just to ride him one more time.
By the third time, Alaric couldn't speak. Could barely move. His body was wrung out, breath coming in short bursts. But Evelyne wasn't finished with him yet.
She leaned in close, her breath warm on his neck. "On your knees," she said quietly, firmly.
He obeyed, dizzy, legs unsteady beneath him. She stood over him, pulling his face to her thighs. He knew what she wanted, what she expected, and he gave it to her. Mouth and tongue working slowly at first, then faster as she demanded more.
Her fingers curled into his hair, controlling every movement. She gasped above him, hips pressing to his face, and when she came, she shook all over, her body rigid with release.
Still, she didn't let him rest. She pulled him up, dragged him to the chair, and pushed him into it. Then she straddled him again, taking him inside her like she had every right to. And she did.
Alaric gripped the arms of the chair, teeth clenched, eyes shut tight. She moved over him with a punishing rhythm, her hands braced on his shoulders, her body slapping down against his with each drive.
He came again, harder this time, barely aware of himself.
This time, Evelyne did collapse, her forehead against his, sweat gluing her hair to her temples. But even then, she kissed his cheek, not gently, but possessively, before rising.
Alaric sat in the chair, still and spent, every muscle aching. For a moment, he didn't move. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, trying to steady his breath. Slowly, he pushed himself up, each motion deliberate, and sank to the floor beside her. The boards were cold against his skin, a grounding contrast to the feverish heat that still clung to him.
Neither of them spoke. There was nothing left to say.
He lay back beside her. Evelyne's chest rose and fell in heavy, even rhythm. Their bodies were coated in sweat, marked with bruises and bites. They didn't touch. Didn't seek each other out. What passed between them didn't need comfort or tenderness.
They had taken what they came for: power, control, proof.
It wasn't love. It wasn't meant to be.
After a long moment, Evelyne stood. She reached for her dress and pulled it on without rush, smoothing every wrinkle with precision. When she turned to him, her expression was unreadable.
"Remember. No one can ever know," she said.
Alaric nodded.
She adjusted her hair in the mirror while he remained on the floor, recovering slowly. Neither looked directly at the other. It wasn't discomfort. It was understanding.
Outside, the air had turned cold. The sky above was bare, no stars, no moonlight. They didn't speak. They didn't ride together. They simply walked away in separate directions, disappearing into the city like nothing had happened.
By the time the moon had fully risen, they were gone from the townhouse.
At the Vessant estate gates, the guards offered quiet nods. His return didn't draw attention. It was late, but not unusual. No one asked questions. No one looked too closely. It was easy to slip back into routine, easy to act like nothing had happened.
Back at the estate, he returned to his role. He went to Seraphina. Evelyne to hers. They smiled. Pretended.
But her scent clung to him. It lingered in the collar of his tunic and in the air around him as he walked the marble halls. He felt it on his skin, an invisible brand that refused to fade.
That night, Alaric stood before the mirror in his chamber. The candlelight highlighted every angle of his face, but he didn't recognize the man staring back.
He told himself it was necessary. That being with Evelyne was part of securing the future. That the empire needed them working together.
But that wasn't all of it.
It had started with Seraphina. He had genuinely liked her, her sharp mind, the way she held herself in a room. When he learned what she really was, how powerful her bloodline made her, he saw more than just a person. He saw a path to the crown. Through her, he could be king. That became the goal.
Then Evelyne made her move. She didn't seduce him with promises or sentiment. She just took what she wanted, and he let her. He hadn't chased her, she came to him. And once it started, he didn't want it to stop.
Evelyne didn't ask questions or demand affection. She understood what he needed and gave it to him without hesitation. She was bold, unapologetic, and knew exactly how to take control. Where Seraphina offered grace and quiet strength, Evelyne offered something else, something physical, immediate, addictive.
Now she was part of the plan. Why she wanted him on the throne, he still didn't know. But he wasn't going to question it. She helped, and he accepted that help.
Still, even after everything, it was Seraphina who lingered in the back of his mind.
He thought about the way she looked at him lately, guarded, distant, as if she were holding something back. He could feel her slipping away from him. And he couldn't let that happen.
Not because of guilt. He didn't feel guilty.
He needed Seraphina. For the crown. For the legitimacy her bloodline gave him. If she turned cold now, if she pulled away completely, the plan would get harder. He couldn't afford that.
He would need to find a way to draw her in again. To make her trust him. To make her feel like she still mattered to him. He'd done it before, he could do it again.
That was the thought he carried as he finished dressing and moved toward the bed. Not regret. Just calculation.
He would fix it.
Then he turned in for the night.