Chapter 5: The Unfinished Act
The night after the banquet, Aurelia creeps to Gareth's wing of the palace.
The corridors were tombs of shadow, the only sound the whisper of her bare feet on cold stone and the frantic drum of her own heart. She wore only a thin silk nightgown, the chill air raising gooseflesh on her arms, but a fire burned low in her belly that had nothing to do with the dying hearths. It was the fire he had lit with a single look, a touch she had initiated and now could not forget. It was an act of defiance, a claim staked not with words, but with presence.
She reached his door, a heavier slab of oak than the others. She knocked, three soft raps.
Silence stretched, long enough for doubt to coil in her chest. Then the lock clicked. The door opened just wide enough to reveal him, backlit by a single oil lamp. He was shirtless, his broad shoulders and torso a landscape of hard muscle and pale scars. His eyes, that startling amber, were dark with sleep or something deeper.
She stepped inside without a word, closing the door behind her and turning the lock.
The sound of the bolt sliding home was the loudest thing in the room.
Gareth's amber eyes darkened. He crossed the room in two strides and cages her against the door, his body a wall of heat. The wood was solid and unyielding at her back, but he was alive, vibrating with a tension that mirrored her own. The scent of him—soap, male skin, and the faint, metallic hint of the armor he’d worn all day—filled her senses.
'You shouldn't be here,' he breathes, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet. But his lips are already on hers, hungry and desperate.
It was not a kiss of courtly love. It was a conquest of a different kind, a claiming. His mouth was hot, demanding, his tongue sweeping past her lips to taste her. She met him with equal fervor, her hands sliding up the dense, corded muscle of his arms to clutch at his shoulders. The ‘shouldn’t’ was irrelevant. The ‘why’ had dissolved. There was only this, the feverish reality of his skin under her palms, the hard press of his arousal against her belly through the silk.
He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged. He looked at her, his gaze burning. Then he bent, hooked an arm under her knees, and lifted her as if she weighed nothing. She wraps her legs around his waist as he carries her to the bed, her face buried in the crook of his neck, breathing him in.
He laid her down on the silk sheets, the cool fabric a shock against her heated skin. He didn’t fumble with the delicate ties of her gown. He yanked the hem up to her waist in one swift, ruthless motion, exposing her fully to the lamplight and his gaze. The air was cool on her wetness. She was already slick, aching.
'I need to taste you,' he mutters, his voice thick with want.
He settled between her thighs, his hands pushing her legs wider. She was utterly open to him. He didn’t tease. He dragged his tongue through her slick folds in one long, slow, filthy stroke, groaning at her taste. The vibration went straight to her core.
She whimpered, her head falling back into the pillows.
He focused on her clit, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth, flicking the tip with his tongue in rapid, insistent circles. The sensation was blinding, a direct line of pure, electric pleasure.
'Fuck, Gareth—' she gasps, her hands fisting in his dark, cropped hair, not to guide him but to anchor herself as the world began to spin.
He drove two fingers into her, deep, curling them to stroke that hidden, perfect place inside as he devoured her. The dual assault was devastating. Her hips bucked against his face, seeking more, harder, deeper. He hummed in approval, the sound sending delicious vibrations through her core, and redoubled his efforts, his tongue and fingers working in a relentless, practiced rhythm.
She was climbing, a coil tightening beyond endurance. He felt it. He looked up, his mouth glistening with her. 'Come on my tongue,' he orders, his voice rough with command, and then sealed his mouth over her again.
She shattered with a muffled scream, her body bowing off the bed. Pleasure detonated, wave after wave, her juices flooding his mouth as he drank her down, lapping at her through the convulsions, coaxing out every last pulse.
Spent, she collapsed, boneless. He crawled up her body, his weight a delicious pressure. His hard length, thick and hot, pressed against her inner thigh. He kissed her, letting her taste herself on his lips, a raw, intimate exchange. He reached between them, fiddling with the ties of his breeches. She was still throbbing, hyper-sensitive, ready for him.
But before he can enter her, a sharp knock rattled the door.
'Gareth.'
Aldric's cold voice sliced through the haze, through the intimate fog of sweat and sex.
'Open the door.'
Aurelia's eyes went wide with pure terror. The reality of her situation—a Novaris princess, naked in the bed of the Durnish heir—crashed down. Discovery meant ruin, war, disgrace.
Gareth pressed a finger to her lips, his own body rigid. Then he called out, his voice remarkably steady, 'One moment, Father.'
He moved with the lethal speed of a soldier under attack. He shoved her off the bed, pointing to the large, ornate wardrobe against the far wall. She dove inside, pulling the door shut just as the lock clicked open from the outside.
Darkness. The close, cedar-scented dark of the wardrobe, pierced by slivers of light from the imperfectly fitted doors. She huddled among his hanging tunics and cloaks, her heart hammering against her ribs so violently she was sure it could be heard in the room.
King Aldric stepped in.
Through the narrow gap, she saw him: a grizzled silhouette in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the room like a hawk surveying a field. It lingered on the rumpled bed, the displaced sheets, the single indented pillow. Her nightgown was a pale pool on the floor by the footboard.
"You should be resting," Aldric said flatly, his voice devoid of any parental concern. It was a general assessing a soldier. "We have much to do tomorrow."
Gareth stood beside the bed, his back to the wardrobe. He was still shirtless, but his posture was all rigid control. "Of course," he said, his tone neutral.
Aldric lingered. His eyes, pale and merciless, scanned the room once more. They paused on the wardrobe door. Aurelia stopped breathing. The space was too small, too hot. She was certain the frantic sound of her pulse was echoing in the confined space.
A beat. Two.
Then Aldric turned. "See that you do." He left, pulling the door shut behind him. The lock clicked again.
Silence, thick and heavy.
Aurelia didn’t move. She couldn’t. She heard Gareth’s footsteps cross the room. The wardrobe door opened, flooding her hiding place with lamplight. He stood there, his expression unreadable, the amber of his eyes blazing in the shadow of his face.
She stepped out, her body still trembling from the adrenaline and the unfinished pleasure. The cool air hit her sweat-slicked skin.
He didn’t speak. He simply pulled her back into his arms, his embrace fierce, almost crushing. He buried his face in her hair, his breath warm against her scalp.
"He's gone," Gareth whispered, the words a vow against her skin. His hands slid down her back, over the curve of her backside, pulling her firmly against the relentless hard line of his erection. The danger had passed, but the tension had not dissipated; it had coiled tighter, sharper. "But we're not done."