Chapter 138: The Throne’s Resentment?!
Lorraine’s heart slammed against her ribs, aching with a happiness so sharp it almost hurt. His words... his beautiful, beautiful words had undone her doubts more than anything else could.
Before he could say more, before fear or reason could steal the moment, Lorraine seized it. She lifted herself, her lips brushing his with sudden boldness.
It wasn’t hesitation, it was fire. It was her realizing that he had touched her, knowing it was her. She remembered the way he had hesitated at first, how his nose had lingered along her face, his hand buried in her hair, his palm mapping the scars on her back before he let his guard down... before he kissed her, before he took her.
He was confirming. He kissed her only after he confirmed it was her. He had always known. That only meant that he chose her. He chose to consummate their marriage, not out of lust, but out of love. Deliberately. If there was someone else in her place that day, he wouldn’t have accepted them. He accepted her. His wife.
Her kiss was fierce, desperate, as though she were punishing him for seeing through her, for loving her when she thought herself unlovable. Yet beneath that fierceness, her lips trembled, born of the fragile, unbearable hope she had denied too long.
Leroy froze for a breath, stunned, then a groan rumbled from deep in his chest. He loved it when she initiated the kiss. His arms locked around her, dragging her close, until she was flush against him, every inch of her claimed by his embrace.
The kiss deepened, battle and surrender at once, the throne beneath them forgotten. The air itself seemed to shiver around them, charged with something older than desire, as though the world had waited for this moment as much as they had.
When she finally tore her lips from his, breathless, her mouth hovered close to his, her eyes wild and wet.
"I’m yours alone... just as you’re mine," he whispered, steady and certain.
Her vision blurred with tears she could not shed.
Hers. He was hers. He said he was hers. Hers alone.
No words came, so she kissed him again, harder, deeper, her mouth demanding, claiming. She shifted, straddling him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her breath hot on his lips. One hand tangled in his hair, feeling the thickness of his braid, while the other slipped down, bold and trembling, finding the proof of his desire.
*Hiss*
His hiss broke the moment.
Leroy was lost in her, in the press of her lips, the way her hands claimed him as if he belonged to no one else. Desire roared through him, but it wasn’t the rough, greedy kind; it was the fire of being wanted, of being chosen. She owned him, just like he owned her, and he reveled in it. She had every right.
And then...
A sharp bite of pain jolted through him from the chair beneath. The same sting as before, quick and searing, like invisible sparks snapping against his skin.
Lorraine hardly noticed, too consumed, kneeling over him, her body burning against his, ready to surrender to the fire that bound them both.
He frowned, confusion flickering through the haze of their passion. But before he could speak...
*Knock*
The knock shattered the charged silence.
Lorraine turned sharply, irritation flashing in her eyes. One of her men in black stood at the doorway, half-swallowed by torchlight.
"The bath is ready," he signed.
She blinked, thrown. "You asked for a bath?" she asked, glancing down at Leroy.
He only nodded, burying his face between her breasts as if to hide from interruption.
It struck her as strange. Strange that she hadn’t noticed the reek of sewage and blood clinging to her until now.
Stranger still was that these men, her silent shadows who never obeyed anyone but her, had heeded his word. They haunted the tunnels like wraiths, loyal but unfathomable, claiming to serve her with their lives. They never interfered, never questioned, never even spoke. And yet if she gave them an order, they carried it out with surgical precision.
A hive, she often thought, with herself as their queen. But now...
They obeyed Leroy.
The realization unsettled her. Was it because they knew he was her husband? Or had they always served him, and she was merely incidental? Was Leroy their leader—or worse, were they his, and she had been mistaken all along?
She had no chance to linger on the thought, because her husband’s hand was busy kneading her breasts through the fabric of her gown. He had loosened her corset somehow and was busy with her mounds.
Her glare told him plainly: someone is right there.
But he didn’t care.
And gods help her... neither did she. A low sigh escaped her lips as her fingers tangled in his hair. Her mouth pressed against his forehead, as his skilled fingers teased her, his warm breath falling on her neck as he nibbled on it, until she arched with a muffled gasp.
"Ah!"
The sudden cry wasn’t hers but his.
Leroy jolted upright, nearly toppling her, then caught her against his chest. His gaze snapped to the throne, his expression dark, as though the carved seat itself had insulted him.
The sting again. Sharp, unwelcome—like a wasp with a personal vendetta. He jerked, nearly cursing aloud.
What in all hells was its problem? A throne wasn’t supposed to bite. Yet here he was, flinching like a fool every time it nipped at him.
He clenched his jaw, determined not to give it the satisfaction. Lorraine must never know that in the back of his mind, he was starting to think the damn chair resented him for daring to touch its queen.
"Nothing," he muttered when she frowned at him. His tone came out so clipped it sounded suspicious, and he covered it quickly by glaring at the throne again. The nerve of it—sitting there smugly, all carved wood and velvet cushions, pretending innocence.
If Lorraine noticed his silent war with a piece of furniture, he was doomed.
He reached for her hand. "Come. Let’s go."
"Where?" she asked.
He gave no answer, only tightened his grip and led her back the way they had come. Lorraine let herself be pulled along, though unease stirred at the back of her mind.
Until...
"Wait."
Her fingers flew to her mask, tugging it into place. She wasn’t ready for her father to see her face. Not yet. Not like this.
Leroy halted, studying her in silence. It didn’t take him long to piece it together that she hadn’t revealed herself to her father. Not even now.
She pouted, then reached into his robes and pulled free his mask. Leroy arched a brow, amused, but said nothing as she fit it over his face with deft hands.
She whispered in her heart like a secret vow: Elyse cannot see your face. Only I can.
His lips curved into a faint smile. And so, masked and silent, they stepped together into the chamber where her father and sister waited.