Chapter 29: Reclaiming What's His
The scent of jasmine clung to the velvet hangings, a failed attempt to mask the older, deeper smell of the room—stone, old wine, and them. Six weeks of enforced patience had simmered in the air between them, a taut wire humming with unsaid words and restrained touches. The physician’s stern warnings had been a cage. Now, the door was open.
Lilly stood by the grand oak desk, running a finger along its polished edge. She wore only a thin silk nightgown, the pale fabric catching the low candlelight. She was fully healed. The vague, tired ache was gone. The knowledge was a live wire in her blood.
She heard the door to the chambers open and shut with a definitive click. She didn’t turn. She felt him enter the space, his presence altering the pressure in the room as surely as a storm front. The silence stretched, heavy and waiting.
His footsteps were silent on the deep rug, but she sensed his approach in the prickling of her skin, the sudden awareness of every breath she took. He stopped behind her, close enough that the heat of him bled through the silk at her back. His hand came up, not to touch her, but to lift the heavy fall of her blonde hair from her neck. His fingers brushed the sensitive skin there, just once.
“The physician gave his final approval today,” she said, her voice barely disturbing the quiet.
“I know.” His voice was a low vibration against her spine. “I spoke with him.”
He knew. Of course he did. He had monitored every step of her recovery with a focus that bordered on obsession.
His other hand settled on her hip, fingers splaying possessively. The simple touch was a brand. “Look at me.”
She turned slowly under his hands. His face was all hard lines and suppressed hunger in the candlelight. His green eyes were nearly black, the pupils wide. He searched her face, looking for any shadow of pain, of hesitation. He found only a clear, blue-eyed challenge. A faint, defiant lift of her chin.
Something in his composure snapped.
A growl, rough and raw, tore from his throat. His control, that rigid, impeccable thing, evaporated. He grabbed her, his hands closing on her upper arms, and spun her. Her back met the edge of the solid oak desk with a soft thud, the forgotten teacup rattling. Before she could gasp, his mouth was on hers.
It was not a kiss. It was a reclamation.
His lips were demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim the gasp from her mouth. It was heat and desperation and six weeks of pent-up want given vicious form. She met him with equal fervor, her hands flying to his hair, tangling in the fire-bright strands, pulling him closer. The taste of him—wine and autumn air and pure, male Eris—flooded her senses.
He broke the kiss, his breath ragged. “Six weeks,” he snarled against her lips, the words hot and savage. “Six weeks is too fucking long.”
His hands moved from her arms, skimming down her sides to the hem of her nightgown. With a single, sharp wrench, he gathered the delicate silk in his fists and pulled. The sound of it tearing was obscenely loud in the quiet room. Cool air washed over her skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his gaze. He looked his fill, his eyes burning a path over her naked breasts, her flat stomach, the shadow between her thighs.
“Tonight,” he vowed, his voice dropping to a graveled promise, “I’m reminding every inch of you who you belong to.”
Before she could respond, before she could even draw breath, his arm hooked around her waist and he lifted her clean off her feet. He carried her the few strides to the massive bed, piled high with velvet and fur, and deposited her in the center. She bounced once, the breath leaving her lungs in a soft whoosh.
He didn’t give her time to recover. He followed her down, his body covering hers, one knee slotting between her thighs to spread them. He was still mostly dressed, his trousers a rough barrier against her bare skin, the hard ridge of his erection a blatant, demanding pressure against her hip. He captured her mouth again, his kiss devouring, as his hands began to roam.
They charted her body like a man relearning a map. Over her ribs, the pad of his thumb brushing the underside of her breast until she arched into his touch. Down the flat plane of her stomach, fingers dipping into the hollow of her navel. He was everywhere at once, a torrent of sensation that left her gasping.
“Eris,” she panted, her head thrashing on the pillows.
“Tell me,” he commanded, biting a path down her throat. “Tell me you’re mine.”
She was drowning in him, in the scent and the feel and the relentless possession. “Yes,” she breathed.
“Say it.”
“I’m yours.” The words were a moan.
He rewarded her with a deep, grinding roll of his hips against her center, the fabric of his trousers a maddening friction. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders.
Suddenly, he moved. He flipped her with shocking ease, one strong hand on her hip, turning her onto her stomach. She buried her face in the furs, the world reduced to scent and touch and him. He knelt between her splayed legs, his hands spreading her cheeks apart.
The cool air on her most intimate skin made her flinch, but it was his low, triumphant sound that sent a jolt straight to her core.
“Look at you,” he breathed, his voice thick with lust. “Soaked for me already. Dripping.” A calloused finger slid through her folds, gathering the wetness there, circling her entrance without pressing in. “Is this all for me?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He gave a short, brutal thrust of that finger, burying it to the knuckle inside her.
She screamed into the fur, her body clenching around the sudden, delicious intrusion.
He fucked her with that finger, slow and deep, then added a second, stretching her. “You feel that?” he gritted out, his other hand anchoring her hip. “That’s me. That’s what you’ve been waiting for.” He scissored his fingers, curling them, finding the spot that made her back bow and a broken sob tear from her throat.
Just as she was teetering on the edge, he withdrew. She heard the rustle of clothing, the sound of his buckle, the slide of fabric. Then his hands were back on her hips, yanking her up until she was on her knees, her ass pressed back against him.
The broad, slick head of his cock nudged against her opening. He wasn’t gentle. He didn’t ask.
With one powerful, relentless drive of his hips, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.
The fullness was shocking, breathtaking, perfect. She screamed again, the sound muffled by the bedclothes. He was so deep, stretching her so completely, the six-week absence making her feel impossibly tight around him. He swore, a filthy, reverent stream of obscenity against the back of her neck.
He didn’t move for a long moment, both of them panting, suspended. She felt the tremble in his thighs where they braced against hers, the iron control he was fighting to maintain. She clenched around him, a deliberate, internal squeeze.
It broke him.
He pulled back almost all the way, then slammed home again. And again. He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust jarring through her, stealing her breath. The sounds were obscene—the wet slap of skin on skin, their ragged gasps, the creak of the bed. His grip on her hips was bruising, holding her in place for his relentless possession.
“You take it,” he growled, his voice strained with the effort. “You take every fucking inch. This cunt is mine. This is where you belong.”
His words, filthy and raw, spurred her higher. The friction was electric, building a coil of pure heat low in her belly. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, urging him on. “Harder,” she managed to gasp.
A snarl was his only answer. One hand slid from her hip, around her front, fingers finding her clit. He rubbed rough, tight circles as he fucked into her, his thrusts growing more frantic, less controlled.
The dual assault was too much. The coil snapped. Pleasure detonated through her, violent and radiant, wrenching a raw, continuous cry from her throat. Her inner muscles convulsed around him, milking his length.
It tipped him over the edge. With a final, broken groan, he shoved deep and held there, his body rigid as his own release tore through him. She felt the hot, pulsing rush of him filling her, and the intimacy of it, the sheer claiming of it, sent another, smaller shudder through her spent body.
He collapsed over her, his weight pressing her into the furs, his forehead damp against her spine. They lay there, tangled and heaving, the only sound their shared, struggling breath.
Slowly, the world swam back. The smell of sex and sweat replaced jasmine. The cool air raised goosebumps on her heated skin. His softened cock slipped from her, a reminder of what they’d just done.
He rolled off her, onto his back beside her, an arm thrown over his eyes. For a long time, they just breathed.
His hand found hers in the tangle of bedding. His fingers laced through hers, a simple, profound tether. The grip was firm, anchoring.
When he finally spoke, his voice was a worn-out rasp in the dark. “The Fire-Reaver contingent arrives tomorrow.”
She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. In the aftermath, his sharp features were softened, his exhaustion evident. The heir was back, the weight of the court already settling on him once more.
She squeezed his hand. “Then we’ll face them tomorrow.”
He turned his head, his green eyes finding hers in the dim light. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. The look he gave her was more absolute than any promise.
He pulled her into his side, her back against his chest, his arm a heavy, warm band around her waist. Here, in the velvet dark, there were no courts, no contingents, no swords hanging from threads. There was only his breath against her pop pop tha neck, and the slow, steady beat of his heart against her spine. It was enough. For tonight, it was everything.
For tonight, it was everything. His breath evened out into sleep, his arm a warm weight around her. But restlessness coiled in her limbs, a buzzing energy that refused to settle.
She shifted against him, feeling the solid plane of his chest under her cheek. The scent of sex and sweat was still thick in the air, primal and inviting. Her mouth found his skin, a soft press against the center of his chest.
She placed a kiss there, then another, a trail of slow, deliberate touches. Her lips brushed over the faint scatter of hair, the ridge of a scar, the steady beat of his heart. She moved upward, kissing the line of his collarbone, the strong column of his throat.
He stirred beneath her, a low hum vibrating in his chest. "Lilly?" His voice was sleep-roughened, confused.
"Shhh," she murmured against his neck, her tongue flicking out to taste the salt on his skin. "My turn."
She swung a leg over his hips, settling herself atop him in the dark. The sheets were tangled around their legs, but she pushed them aside. Her bare cunt met the renewed hardness of his cock, which stirred eagerly against her thigh.
She aligned herself, not taking him inside yet. Instead, she rocked forward, grinding the wet heat of her folds against his length. A soft, filthy sound escaped her lips as the friction sparked through her. "Fuck, Eris."
His hands came up to grip her hips, his fingers digging in. "You're insatiable," he growled, but there was no anger, only raw hunger. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, watching her.
"I need to feel you," she breathed, rolling her hips in a slow, grinding circle. The head of his cock bumped against her clit with each movement, sending jolts of pleasure up her spine. "All of you."
"Then take me," he said, his voice dropping to a command. He guided his cock to her entrance, the tip pressing insistently. "Now."
She didn’t hesitate. She sank down, taking the thick length of him inside her in one slow, devastating slide. The stretch was exquisite, a burning fullness that made her gasp. He filled her completely, a perfect, punishing fit.
He slipped in, and her head rolled back, a broken cry tearing from her throat. “Fuck, Daddy.” The name was a raw, unbidden thing, pulled from some deep, secret place by the sheer sensation of him.
The word hung in the dark air between them, shocking and electric. Eris went utterly still beneath her, his hands freezing on her hips. His gaze locked on her face, his green eyes wide, then darkening with something feral and new.
A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. “Say it again.”
She was lost in the feeling, in the way he stretched and filled her. She began to move, rising up and sliding back down, setting a rhythm that was all her own. “Daddy,” she panted, the title a filthy prayer as she rode him. “You feel… so fucking big.”
A groan ripped from him. His hands tightened, his hips lifting off the bed to meet her downward thrust. The pace escalated from a rhythm to a frenzy. The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in the quiet room, a brutal, honest music.
“Is this what you needed?” he gritted out, his voice strained as he drove up into her. “My cunt. All mine. Taking every inch like a good girl.”
“Yes,” she sobbed, her fingers digging into the hard planes of his chest for leverage. Her world narrowed to the slick, hot junction of their bodies, to the coarse words in her ear. Her climax built again, a terrifying wave she could feel gathering in her core, fed by his vulgar praise and the relentless, deep friction.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his own control visibly fraying, his thrusts becoming ragged. “Come on my cock. Now.”
It was the order that broke her. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and shattering. She screamed, her body convulsing around him, pulsing violently. The intensity of it ripped another cry from her. “Daddy!”
Her internal clenching tipped him over the edge. With a final, guttural roar, he slammed up into her, holding her down as he emptied himself deep inside. The hot rush triggered another, smaller ripple of sensation within her, leaving her trembling and weak.
She collapsed forward onto his chest, her skin slick with sweat, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gulps. His arms came around her, holding her through the tremors. The only sound was their labored breathing, slowly syncing.
He brushed the damp hair from her forehead. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a rough scrape of sound. “Where did that come from?”
She kept her face buried against his neck, the heat of a blush flaming her cheeks. She shrugged, the movement feeble against him. “I don’t know. It just… did.”
He was silent for a long moment, his hand stroking up and down her spine. “I liked it,” he said finally, the admission quiet but definitive.
A faint, exhausted smile touched her lips. She tilted her head back to look at him. His expression was sated, but his eyes were already sharpening, looking past her into the dark. The heir re-emerging from the sweat-slicked skin of the lover.
“The Fire-Reavers,” she said, voicing the thought she saw forming in his gaze.
“At dawn,” he confirmed, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “They will be all polished steel and cold offers. Beron’s favorite dogs.”
She thought of the suspended sword in the corridor, of Vandran’s terrified face. This would be different. This was politics, a more subtle, but no less deadly, battlefield. “What do they want?”
“To see if I’m weak,” he said simply. “To see if the… disruptions… have changed anything.” His eyes focused on her again, intent. “They will look at you. They will measure you.”
She held his gaze, the last of the vulnerable haze burning away. “Let them look.”
He kissed her, hard and quick. “Get some sleep.” He shifted, pulling her with him, arranging their limbs until she was tucked against his side. She listened to the steady beat of his heart, a drum counting down the hours until dawn.
Outside their sanctuary of velvet and skin, the Autumn Court held its breath. The game was about to begin again.
The game was about to begin again. She felt the thought solidify in the muscles of his arm beneath her cheek, a new tension replacing the languor of spent passion. His breathing had changed; it was no longer the deep rhythm of near-sleep, but the measured, quiet inhalations of a strategist running permutations in the dark.
A thin, wavering cry pierced the silence.
It was faint, coming from the chamber beyond their sitting room—the nursery. Lilly froze, listening. It came again, a fussy, discontented sound. Eris’s arm tightened around her automatically, a reflex. “Elara will see to him,” he murmured into her hair, his voice already distancing itself, pulling back toward the problems of dawn.
But the cry persisted, a sharp needle unraveling the fragile peace they’d woven. “She might be asleep,” Lilly whispered. She disentangled herself from his hold, the cool air hitting her sweat-damp skin. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her body pleasantly aching in deep, secret places.
She found her discarded robe on the floor, the silk cool and slithery as she pulled it on, not bothering to tie it. She padded barefoot across the thick rugs and through the adjoining sitting room, the marble beyond chilling her feet. She nudged the nursery door open.
The night nurse was indeed asleep in a chair by the cold fireplace, a blanket over her lap. In the crib, the boy was awake, his face scrunched, small fists waving. She leaned over and gathered him up, his weight solid and warm against her chest. The fussing stopped instantly, replaced by a soft, snuffling sound.
She carried him back into the main bedchamber. Eris had propped himself up on an elbow, watching the doorway. The candlelight caught the harsh planes of his face, but his eyes tracked her movement, then settled on the bundle in her arms.
Lilly stood at the foot of the bed, swaying gently. The baby’s head, nestled in the crook of her arm, was now covered in a surprising down of blonde curls, soft as dandelion fluff. His skin, no longer the newborn red, had deepened into a warm tan. And his eyes, open and alert, were a vast, pure green—Eris’s eyes, staring out of a face that was otherwise all her.
She looked at Eris. “Do you want to see him?”
He was utterly still. For a heartbeat, he was the Heir again, assessing an unexpected variable. Then something in his gaze fractured. He gave a single, slow nod.
She walked around the side of the bed and carefully settled herself beside him, leaning back against the headboard. She angled the baby so he could see. Eris looked down. His expression was unreadable, a locked chest. He reached out one hand, his fingers—which had just moments ago been buried inside her, claiming and desperate—hovered over the child’s head.
He didn’t touch. He just looked. The green eyes stared up at the green eyes.
“The curls are new,” he said finally, his voice low.
“They came in this week,” she said, her own voice soft. “He’s changing every day.”
The baby let out a small, gurgling sound, one fist curling and uncurling. Eris’s hand lowered, his knuckle brushing the petal-soft skin of the tiny cheek. The baby turned his head toward the touch, a blind, seeking movement.
Eris inhaled sharply, as if stung. He pulled his hand back, folding it into a fist on the fur coverlet. He looked from the child to Lilly, his gaze traveling over her robe, which had fallen open, revealing the gentle curve of her breast, the faint marks his mouth had left on her skin. The two images collided: the brutal, fucking possession and this quiet, terrifying vulnerability cradled in her arms.
“They will use him,” Eris said, the words flat and cold. “The Fire-Reavers. Beron. Anyone who seeks a lever. He is a weakness they can see.”
Lilly continued to sway, her fingers stroking the baby’s back. “No,” she said, her tone not argumentative, but factual. She met his hardened stare. “He is the reason you cannot afford to look weak. He is the point.” She adjusted the baby, bringing him closer to Eris. “He is your heir. Look at him.”
Eris’s jaw tightened. The defensiveness was instinctual, a fortress wall sliding into place. But his eyes betrayed him. They were glued to the child’s face, to that shocking, mirroring green. The child’s hand waved again, and this time Eris’s hand came up and the tiny fingers wrapped around his index finger with a surprising, fierce strength.
He didn’t move. He let the child hold him, his own large hand suspended in the grip of the infinitesimally small one. The candle guttered, casting long shadows.
“He’s strong,” Lilly murmured.