Chapter 143: Claiming Vow
Leroy could feel Lorraine’s smile against his skin as she teased him.
She hadn’t forgotten every lesson he’d ever drilled into her on how to hold, how much force, and how to draw out him until his control frayed, and she employed it all now with wicked precision.
His jaw locked, muscles tight, as his eyes pinned the man still standing there. His hand clamped on her waist hard enough to make her yelp, though she didn’t stop.
Her hair floated in a golden halo over the water, hiding the truth of what her hands were doing beneath the surface. Her breath, hot and quick, ghosted across his chest, and he burned with the need to groan and yet that wretched presence restrained him.
"What?" he snarled instead, the word cracking the air like a whip. For a heartbeat, she froze, startled, but his palm rubbed her back, telling her without words that his wrath wasn’t for her.
The man began signing. The sight snapped what little restraint Leroy had left, veins corded along his neck as her lips pressed to his chest, her hand tightening around him with sinful determination.
Her scent mingled with the scent of the bathwater, titillating him more as her hand worked him. He last every last bit of his patience.
"Is this about the Dowager?" Leroy bit out. "Is she waiting for her?"
The man faltered, then nodded.
"Well then," Leroy barked, fury and arousal twisting in his chest. He cut the air with a dismissive hand. "Off you go."
The shadow bowed and slipped from the chamber. Even before the door clicked shut, Leroy acted.
The world inverted as he seized her, flipping her back into the water with a splash that echoed like thunder off the stone. She gasped, half-shocked, half-laughing, but the sound was swallowed when he surged over her, caging her beneath his weight.
The pool rose around them in frantic waves, every movement stirring the water higher, rougher. He pinned her, one hand locking her wrists above her head, the other gripping her thigh and dragging it over his hip. In that slick, treacherous medium, she could not steady herself; she could only cling.
And he enjoyed it.
He drove into her, hot and claiming, the water breaking apart around the force of his thrust.
Her cry rang out, muffled by the rush of water crashing against stone. His mouth found her ear, his breath searing against her wet skin. The water blurred the edges of their bodies, yet the places where they clung, where his chest crushed hers and his grip branded her thigh, felt desperate, unyielding, as though his touch alone kept her from being swept away.
Every stroke was heavier, slower, yet deeper, as if the current itself demanded he root himself inside her. She clawed at his shoulders, sliding in the water until he crushed her closer, grinding her against him to keep her still.
The pool became a storm, each thrust sent waves surging, breaking, slapping against the stone with their hunger. Nothing was soft. Nothing was forgiving. His growl reverberated against her throat, drowned in the furious tide, and she arched beneath him, salt and heat and water tangling until there was nothing left but him, burning, consuming, refusing to drown.
The water surged higher with every violent thrust, their bodies thrashing against its resistance until the pool itself seemed to break under the rhythm he forced into it. His chest pressed hers into the slick stone, his growl vibrating through her as if he meant to devour her whole.
Her nails scraped his back, slipped, then found the thick braid of his hair falling wet over his shoulder. She seized it, tugging hard enough to wrench his head back, forcing his eyes on hers. That single pull tipped him over the edge.
His body shuddered as he drove deeper, grinding himself into her until she could feel nothing but the fierce claim of him filling her, hot and unrelenting, spilling inside her with each violent pulse. She gasped, water slapping against her ears, her legs tightening desperately around him as if to keep every drop of him locked inside.
His mouth crashed down on hers, fierce and drowning, swallowing the cry that tore from her throat. Their kiss was wet, rough, unsteady—salt and heat, teeth and breath, as though he would brand her lips as much as her body.
He groaned into her mouth, the sound half feral, half broken, his braid still caught in her fist, anchoring him as the final waves of release shuddered through him. The pool still trembled with the echoes of their frenzy, ripples lapping against the stone like a secret unwilling to settle. His weight pressed her into the warmth of the water until her breath steadied, until her nails slipped free of his skin. Slowly, reluctantly, he eased out of her, holding her close as if the water itself might steal her away.
When he lifted her from the pool, her body clung to his as naturally as breath, droplets streaming down her flushed skin. He set her upon a waiting bench draped in linen, his hands no longer rough, but deliberate, reverent.
He gathered the strands of her dripping hair and began to dry it with slow, steady movements. Each pass of the cloth was tender, almost reverent, the rawness of moments ago tempered now into something softer. His fingers lingered at her scalp, massaging gently, coaxing the chill of water away.
She let her eyes flutter closed, lips still swollen from his kiss, her head tipping unconsciously into his touch. He smirked faintly at her surrender, though his motions remained careful, as though this quiet tending was its own form of possession.
The firelight danced across them both, catching on damp strands, turning them into threads of gold. Outside, the world carried on. But here, it was only him, her, and the hush between heartbeats as he dried her hair like it was a vow.
Slowly, Leroy’s smile faded as she leaned against him. Her hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to her lower abdomen, and his chest tightened. Something was happening to her. He thought of those moments when her eyes had glowed, when her voice had not been her own. He had tried to bury those memories, to pretend it was nothing. But no matter how he tried, the weight of them lingered, whispering warnings he could not unhear.
Even now, he could not fathom what the Dowager truly wanted or how far her shadow reached. Every possibility reeked of danger.
His arms encircled her more tightly, rubbing slow circles into her back, as if comfort could ward off prophecy. Yet beneath the warmth of her skin, a cold unrest took root in him, burrowing deeper with every breath. Fear. Urgency. A gnawing certainty that everything was tilting toward change, toward something vast and merciless.
He pulled her closer until no space remained, until her breath mingled with his. As long as she was with him... He would lose anything else. Everything else. The crown, the war, even his name, he would let it all burn.
Anything, but her.