Chapter 3: The Dance of Three Temptations
The ballroom was a cage dressed in silk.
Gavin had always hated formal events—the endless bowing, the sycophantic smiles, the way everyone looked at him like he was something to be studied and evaluated. But tonight, he'd outdone himself. A ball. A dance. A chance for the ladies of his court to compete for his attention like peacocks preening for a mate.
He'd thought it would entertain him.
Instead, he was bored out of his mind.
The candles burned low, their flames guttering in the drafts that swept through the cavernous room. A hundred women in silks and satins swirled across the marble floor, their laughter too bright, their smiles too sharp. They were all watching him. They were always watching him.
Gavin sprawled on his throne, one ankle crossed over the other, a goblet of wine dangling from his fingers. He'd stopped drinking hours ago—the wine had gone warm and sour, and the buzz had faded into something dull and gray. His eyes drifted across the room, cataloging faces he'd already forgotten, names he'd never bothered to learn.
Lady Beatrice stood near the refreshment table, her burgundy gown cut low enough to be scandalous. She caught his eye and smiled, slow and predatory, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. Gavin looked away.
Lady Cassandra was dancing with one of his minor lords, her movements stiff and mechanical, her eyes hollow. She hadn't spoken to him since the morning after his announcement. He felt a twinge of something—not guilt, exactly, but something adjacent to it.
Lady Victoria held court in the corner, surrounded by a flock of simpering women who hung on her every word. She was smart, Gavin would give her that. Smart and patient and far more dangerous than any of the others. He'd have to deal with her eventually.
And Margaret.
Margaret stood alone by the tall windows, her silhouette limned in silver moonlight. She wasn't dancing. She wasn't talking to anyone. She just stood there, watching him with those dark, knowing eyes, and Gavin felt something twist in his chest.
He took another sip of warm wine.
"My king."
Marcus appeared at his elbow, as silent as always. His dark hair was swept back from his face, his expression carefully neutral. He was the only person in the room who didn't look at Gavin like he was either a god or a meal ticket.
"You're brooding," Marcus said.
"I'm thinking."
"Same thing. What's wrong?"
Gavin gestured vaguely at the room. "This. All of this. I thought it would be fun. I thought I'd enjoy watching them trip over themselves trying to impress me."
"And you don't?"
"I'm bored." He set the goblet down on the arm of the throne. "I'm bored, and I'm tired, and I'm starting to think the council was right for once."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "The council is never right."
"Even a broken clock."
"True." Marcus followed his gaze to the window. To Margaret. "She's been watching you all night."
"I know."
"She looks like she's dying."
Gavin didn't respond. He didn't have an answer. Margaret had been a mistake—he'd known it from the moment he'd first touched her, six months ago, when she'd looked up at him with those trusting eyes and he'd felt something crack inside his chest. He'd ended it quickly, or as quickly as he could, but the damage had been done. She still looked at him like he was something worth saving.
He wasn't.
"The ladies are waiting," Marcus said. "You promised them a dance."
"I promised them nothing."
"You implied it. That's the same thing to a room full of women who've spent the last week plotting how to get you alone."
Gavin sighed. He stood, and the room fell silent. A hundred pairs of eyes turned to him, hungry and hopeful and calculating. He hated it. He hated all of it.
"Ladies," he said, his voice carrying across the ballroom. "I've been remiss in my duties. I promised you dancing, and I've spent the evening sitting on my ass feeling sorry for myself." A few nervous titters. He didn't smile. "Let's fix that. Each of you will have a turn. Come when I call."
He descended from the throne, and the music shifted—something slower, something more intimate. The first woman he chose was Lady Beatrice, because he knew it would annoy her the least. She practically floated across the floor.
She was all heat and hunger.
Her body pressed against his from the first step—no pretense of modesty, no hesitation. Her hands slid up his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic, and she looked up at him with eyes that promised everything.
"You smell like wine," she murmured. "And boredom."
"I am bored."
"That's a shame." She rolled her hips against his, and Gavin felt the softness of her curves, the heat of her through the thin silk of her gown. "I could think of several ways to entertain you."
"Can you?"
"Mm." Her lips brushed his ear, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "I've been thinking about your cock since the moment I saw you. I've imagined what it would feel like inside me—how you'd stretch me open, how you'd fuck me until I couldn't walk." She nipped at his earlobe. "I've touched myself thinking about it. More than once."
Gavin's cock twitched despite himself. "Is that so?"
"Yes." Her hand dropped lower, fingers trailing across his stomach, dangerously close to the waistband of his breeches. "I want to taste you. I want to choke on your cock. I want you to pull my hair and call me filthy names while you fuck my throat."
He caught her wrist before she could go any further.
"You're bold," he said.
"I'm honest."
"No." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You're desperate. There's a difference."
Her cheeks flushed, and something ugly flickered in her gaze. But she didn't pull away. She just smiled and let him spin her once more before sending her back to the sidelines.
Margaret was next.
She approached him like a ghost, her movements tentative, her eyes fixed on the floor. When he took her hand, she flinched.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," he said.
"You know I'm not afraid."
"Then what?"
She didn't answer. She just stepped into his arms, and the familiarity of her body against his was like a knife between his ribs. Her hand came to rest on his chest, directly over his heart, and she kept it there, steady, as though she were trying to memorize the rhythm.
"I'm not going to dance with anyone else," she said quietly.
"You're here for a purpose."
"I know." Her eyes flickered up to meet his, and the pain in them was unbearable. "I know why I'm here. I know what you offered. I just—" She broke off, her voice cracking. "I thought I could do it. I thought I could be what you needed. But I can't."
Gavin's jaw tightened. "Margaret—"
"You don't have to explain." She smiled, and it was the saddest thing he'd ever seen. "I know what you are. I've always known. I just couldn't stop myself from hoping."
She pulled away and walked back to her window, and Gavin stood alone in the middle of the floor, feeling like he'd just swallowed broken glass.
Seraphina was the last.
She approached him with the same unhurried confidence she'd shown at breakfast—shoulders back, chin high, eyes steady. She didn't smile. She didn't flutter her lashes. She just took his hand and let him draw her into the dance like she was doing him a favor.
"You look miserable," she observed.
"I'm having a wonderful time."
"No, you're not." She stepped with him, her feet sliding across the marble with practiced ease. "You're exhausted. You've been exhausted for years. I can see it in the way you hold your shoulders."
"Are you a physician as well as a pain in the ass?"
"No. I'm just observant. I told you that."
They moved in silence for a moment, their bodies separated by a careful handspan of air. Gavin could smell her perfume—that same winter-clean scent—and felt something tighten low in his belly.
"You're not going to try to seduce me," he said.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't need to." She met his eyes, and there was no guile in them, no hidden agenda. "I've already accepted your terms. I've already signed my life away. There's nothing left for me to win."
Gavin pulled her closer, testing. Her body yielded against his, soft curves pressing against the hard planes of his chest, but her expression didn't change. He could feel her heartbeat through the silk of her gown—steady and unhurried.
"You're not as indifferent as you pretend," he said.
"Aren't I?"
"No." He slid his hand down to her lower back, fingers splaying across the swell of her hip. "I can feel you."
"You can feel my body. That's not the same thing as caring." She shifted, and her thigh brushed against the front of his breeches. Gavin sucked in a breath, and Seraphina smiled—a slow, knowing curve of her lips that sent blood rushing straight to his cock. "You're easy to read, Your Majesty. Easier than you think."
He should have been furious. He should have sent her away, dismissed her, put her in her place. Instead, he found himself grinning—a real grin, the first genuine thing he'd felt all night.
"You're a piece of work, Lady Voss."
"I've been called worse."
"I'm sure you have."
The music ended. The room came back into focus—a hundred women watching, waiting, taking note of every interaction. Gavin released Seraphina's waist, but she didn't move immediately. She held his gaze for one more moment, searching for something he didn't understand.
Then she stepped back, and the spell broke.
"Thank you for the dance," she said, and returned to the edge of the floor.
Gavin stood there for a beat too long. Then he remembered himself. He remembered the room, the audience, the expectations. He remembered that he was a king, and kings didn't lose themselves in women who saw too much.
He made a decision.
"Lady Beatrice," he called out. "You'll accompany me to my chambers."
The room erupted in whispers. Beatrice's face lit up with triumph, and she practically lunged across the floor toward him, her eyes gleaming with savage satisfaction.
Seraphina didn't flinch. She just raised an eyebrow, tilted her head slightly, and said, "A pleasant evening to you, Your Majesty."
Margaret's face went pale as death.
Gavin forced himself to look away.
---
His chambers were dark.
The fire had burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Gavin didn't bother to light more candles. He didn't care about the darkness. He didn't care about anything except the feel of Beatrice's body beneath his hands, the heat of her mouth, the way she moaned when he pushed her against the bedpost.
"You've been waiting for this," he said, his voice rough.
"Since the moment I saw you."
"Liar."
She laughed, breathless, and pulled at the laces of her gown. "Does it matter?"
"No." He grabbed the fabric and tore it open, exposing the soft curve of her breasts, the flat planes of her stomach. She gasped, but it was a sound of pleasure, not shock. "It doesn't matter at all."
He kissed her roughly, biting at her lower lip, his hands spanning her waist and dragging her closer. She tasted like wine and want and something bitter underneath—desperation, maybe, or ambition. He didn't care. He shoved her onto the bed, and she landed on her back with her skirts up around her hips, her smallclothes barely covering the slick heat between her legs.
"Touch yourself," he commanded. "I want to watch while you get ready for me."
Beatrice obeyed. Her fingers slipped beneath the fabric, and she touched herself with practiced strokes, her legs falling open, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Gavin watched her for a long moment before sinking to his knees at the edge of the bed.
He grabbed her hips, pulled her to the edge of the mattress, and buried his face between her legs.
She screamed.
Her thighs clamped around his ears, her hands fisting in his hair, but he didn't stop. He licked her from slit to clit, slow and deliberate, savoring the taste of her—salty and musky and distinctly human. He circled her clit with his tongue, pressed two fingers inside her, and curled them upward, finding the rough spot that made her back arch off the bed.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
"You like that?" He didn't wait for an answer. He sucked her clit between his lips and flicked his tongue against it, fast and punishing, until her entire body convulsed. She came with a shattered cry, her cunt clenching around his fingers, her juices coating his chin.
Gavin didn't give her time to recover.
He flipped her onto her stomach, dragged her hips up, and positioned himself behind her.
"Hold on to the pillows," he said.
He didn't wait for her to obey. He thrust inside her in one brutal stroke, and she screamed again—this time with pain, not pleasure. She was tight, but not tight enough. She'd done this before. Many times. He could feel it in the way her body accepted him, the way she arched her back and pushed back against him.
"Such a good little whore," he murmured, pulling her hair back. "You've been waiting for this all night, haven't you? Rubbing yourself against me on the dance floor, imagining my cock inside you. Tell me how much you want it."
"So much," she sobbed. "So much, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me harder."
He laughed, low and cruel, and gave her exactly what she asked for. He fucked her with brutal, punishing strokes, his hips slamming against her ass, his balls slapping against her clit. The sound of their bodies colliding was obscene—wet and loud and utterly without tenderness. He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh hard enough to leave bruises, and pulled her back onto his cock with every thrust.
"Take it," he growled. "Take all of it."
"Yes—yes—"
"You're nothing but a hole to me. A warm, wet hole for my cock. Say it."
"I'm—I'm nothing—"
"Say it."
"I'm nothing but a hole for your cock!"
"Good girl."
He felt her climax hit—a second time, harder than the first. Her cunt clamped down on him like a fist, and Gavin let himself go. He pounded into her three more times before spilling inside her with a guttural moan, his hips jerking, his vision going white.
For a moment, he stayed there—buried deep inside her, breathing hard, his hands still gripping her hips. Then he pulled out and stepped back.
Beatrice collapsed onto the bed, her body limp, her breath ragged. She turned her head to look at him, and her eyes were glazed with satisfaction.
"Was that what you needed?" she whispered.
Gavin didn't answer.
He walked to the window and stared out at the moonlit courtyard below, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. The sex had been good—better than good. Beatrice knew what she was doing, and she'd given him everything he wanted.
But even as he came down from the high, even as his breathing slowed and his heart stopped pounding, his mind drifted.
Silver-blonde hair. Pale green eyes. A smile that cut like glass.
"Your Majesty?" Beatrice's voice was uncertain now. "Is everything all right?"
"Fine." He didn't turn around. "Get dressed. You can leave."
The silence that followed was sharp with hurt. He heard her rise from the bed, heard the rustle of fabric as she gathered her torn gown. He didn't watch her go.
When the door closed behind her, Gavin sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
He didn't know what he was doing anymore. He didn't know what he wanted. The clarity he'd always relied on—the certainty that had made him a good king—was gone, replaced by something tangled and messy and impossible to name.
He thought of Seraphina's steady gaze, her sharp tongue, the way she'd said his name like it was a challenge. He thought of Margaret's soft, broken smile. He thought of the way the other women looked at him—with fear, with hope, with greed.
He thought about the fact that none of it mattered.
Because the only thing he truly wanted was the thing he couldn't have: someone who saw him as he really was and didn't flinch.
The kind of person he'd spent his whole life pushing away.
He reached for the bottle of wine on the table beside him—his father's vintage, the one he'd sworn he'd never touch—and poured himself a glass.
Then he drank until the world went dark.
The morning arrived like a blade through his skull.
Gavin woke to sunlight stabbing through the curtains and a mouth that tasted like copper and regret. His head pounded with every heartbeat, a dull, throbbing ache that radiated from his temples down to his jaw. He'd finished the entire bottle. Maybe more than one.
He didn't remember falling asleep in the chair.
He remembered Beatrice. The sounds she'd made. The way her body had yielded beneath his hands. But the memory felt hollow, like biting into fruit that had rotted from the inside.
He forced himself upright, his joints protesting, and rang for a servant. The boy who appeared looked terrified—they always did when he summoned them looking like this. Gavin ordered coffee, a bath, and breakfast brought to his chambers. He didn't want to face the dining hall. He didn't want to face any of them.
But he couldn't hide forever.
By midday, he'd bathed, dressed, and forced down enough food to quiet the growling in his stomach. The hangover still clung to him like a second skin, but at least he could think clearly now. Clear enough to know he needed to do something.
Margaret.
He found her in the gardens, sitting alone on a stone bench beneath a weeping willow. She looked smaller than usual—her shoulders curved inward, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the palace walls. She didn't hear him approach. She didn't notice him until he was standing directly in front of her, blocking the sun.
She flinched when she looked up. Then her face went carefully, painfully blank.
"Your Majesty."
"Don't do that." He sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "Don't call me that when we're alone."
"What should I call you?"
"Gavin."
She laughed, but it was a brittle sound, like glass cracking under pressure. "I don't think I'm allowed to do that anymore."
"Margaret—"
"Why are you here?" She turned to face him, and the rawness in her eyes made his chest tighten. "You made your choice last night. Beatrice. You made it very clear where I stand."
"It's not that simple."
"It seems pretty simple to me." Her voice was steady, but her hands were trembling in her lap. "You fucked her. You'll fuck others. I'll sit in my room and wait for you to remember I exist. That's what you offered. That's what I agreed to."
"You didn't agree to anything." Gavin ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I never asked you to come here. I never asked any of you to come here."
"Your council did."
"My council forced my hand. I told them I wanted no part of this—this parade of women looking for a crown. I told them I'd rather rule alone than pretend to care about someone I don't."
Margaret was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Why did you touch me? Six months ago. Why did you come to my room, and kiss me, and make me think—" She stopped, pressing her lips together.
"I was drunk."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have." He looked away, staring at the garden wall. "I was drunk, and I was lonely, and you were there. You were kind to me. Kinder than I deserved."
"So I was just... convenient."
"Yes." The word tasted like ash. "And I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for all of it."
She didn't cry. He'd expected tears—had braced himself for them—but Margaret just sat there, still and quiet, absorbing the blow. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
"My father sent me here. Did you know that?"
Gavin frowned. "What?"
"He told me the king was looking for a mate. He said if I didn't go, he'd marry me off to Lord Ashford instead. And I couldn't—" She shuddered. "Lord Ashford is forty years older than me. He's already buried two wives."
"Margaret—"
"My sister came too. Cassandra. You've met her." A bitter smile flickered across her lips. "She's younger than me. Smarter. Prettier. Father thought one of us might catch your eye. He didn't care which."
Gavin felt something cold settle in his stomach. He hadn't known. He hadn't bothered to ask. He'd assumed the women were here by choice, that they'd come seeking power and status and all the trappings of royalty. He hadn't considered that some of them might be running from something worse.
"I thought this would discourage them," he said slowly. "The terms I set. The public declaration. I thought if I made it clear what kind of husband I'd be, the ones who wanted a real marriage would leave."
"And the ones who had no other choice stayed."
"Yes."
Margaret nodded slowly, as if this made sense to her. As if it explained everything. "You weren't trying to hurt us. You were just trying to protect yourself."
"Something like that."
"That's very sad, Gavin." She said his name softly, like it was something fragile. "You're so afraid of being trapped that you've trapped everyone else instead."
He didn't have a response to that.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the shadows shift beneath the willow. Gavin was acutely aware of her presence beside him—the warmth of her body, the familiar scent of her perfume. He'd missed this. Not the sex, though that had been good. The quiet. The comfort. The way she looked at him like he was a person, not a throne.
"The picnic," he said abruptly.
"What?"
"I was going to ask you to come on a picnic. With me. Today." He turned to face her. "I had the servants prepare a basket. I was going to find you after breakfast."
Margaret's brow furrowed. "Why?"
"Because I owe you something." He reached for her hand, and she let him take it. "Not an explanation. Not an apology. Something better."
She should have refused. She should have stood up and walked away and never looked back. Gavin knew that. He knew he didn't deserve her kindness, her patience, her willingness to give him another chance. But when she nodded—slowly, hesitantly—he felt something loosen in his chest.
"Okay," she said. "Okay."
---
The picnic was in the eastern meadow, far from the palace walls.
Gavin had chosen the spot himself—a small clearing surrounded by wildflowers, with a view of the mountains in the distance. The servants had laid out a blanket, wine, cheese, fresh bread, and fruit. It was simple. Unpretentious. Nothing like the elaborate meals served in the dining hall.
Margaret sat across from him, her legs tucked beneath her, her hair loose around her shoulders. She looked more relaxed than he'd seen her in weeks, though there was still a wariness in her eyes.
"This is beautiful," she said, looking around. "I didn't know this place existed."
"Not many people do. I used to come here as a boy, when I wanted to escape my tutors."
"Did you escape often?"
"Constantly." He poured wine into two glasses and handed her one. "My father used to say I was the most disobedient child he'd ever met. I think he meant it as an insult, but I always took it as a compliment."
Margaret smiled—a real smile, the first he'd seen from her in days. "I can believe that."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the sun warm on their faces, the breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers and grass. Gavin found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't in months. There was no performance here. No audience. Just Margaret, and the quiet, and the memory of what they'd once been to each other.
"I'm sorry," he said eventually.
"You already said that."
"I know. But I mean it differently now." He set down his wine glass and turned to face her fully. "I didn't know about your father. I didn't know you were being forced into this. If I had—"
"You would have done the same thing." Her voice was gentle, not accusatory. "You would have pushed me away anyway, because that's what you do. You push everyone away."
Gavin didn't deny it.
"Can I ask you something?" Margaret set her own glass aside and met his eyes. "Last night, with Beatrice. Did you enjoy it?"
He hesitated. "Yes."
"Did it make you happy?"
"No."
She nodded, as if she'd expected that answer. "You're not a bad man, Gavin. You're just... lost. You've been lost for a long time."
"Maybe."
"I know." She reached out and touched his face, her fingers soft against his cheek. "I've known since the first time you kissed me. I could see it in your eyes—the hunger, the emptiness, the way you looked at me like I was a life raft and you were drowning."
"I was."
"And now?"
He caught her hand and pressed his lips to her palm. "Now I'm not sure what I am."
She leaned in. He didn't stop her.
The kiss was soft—softer than anything he deserved. Margaret tasted like wine and sunshine, and when her lips parted under his, it felt like coming home. He pulled her closer, one hand sliding into her hair, the other wrapping around her waist. She made a small sound against his mouth, something between a sigh and a whimper.
"I want you," he murmured. "But only if you want this too."
"I want it." Her voice was steady, certain. "I've always wanted it."
He laid her down on the blanket. The wildflowers swayed around them, their petals brushing against her hair like confetti. Gavin took his time—undoing the buttons of her dress one by one, pressing kisses to each inch of skin he revealed. Her collarbone. Her breastbone. The soft curve of her belly.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"So are you."
"I'm not—"
"You are." She cupped his face in her hands. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I hate you for it."
He laughed, and it was genuine. Then he kissed his way down her body, past the hem of her shift, until his mouth found the heat between her legs. She gasped when his tongue touched her—a sharp, startled sound that dissolved into something low and needy.
"Gavin—"
"Shh." He licked her slowly, deliberately, savoring the taste of her. "Let me take care of you."
He ate her like he had all the time in the world. No rush. No performance. He explored her with his tongue, learning the rhythm of her pleasure, the places that made her moan, the spots that made her gasp. When he slid two fingers inside her, she arched off the blanket, her hands fisting in his hair.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need."
He replaced his fingers with his cock, pushing into her with slow, careful pressure. She was tight and wet and perfect around him, and when he was buried to the hilt, he paused, letting her adjust.
"Okay?" he asked.
"Yes." She wrapped her legs around his waist. "More than okay."
He moved slowly. Not because he was being gentle—though he was—but because he wanted to feel every inch of her. Every clench, every flutter, every shiver of pleasure that ran through her body. She held onto him like he was something precious, her nails raking down his back, her breath hot against his neck.
"I love you," she whispered.
He didn't say it back. He couldn't. But he pressed his forehead to hers and fucked her deeper, harder, until she shattered beneath him with a cry that echoed across the meadow.
Afterward, they lay tangled together on the blanket, their bodies slick with sweat, the sun warming their skin. Margaret traced patterns on his chest with her fingertips.
"You're leaving," she said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Tonight?"
"Tomorrow."
She nodded, and there was a peace in her face that hadn't been there before. "Thank you. For this. For giving me—"
"Don't." He caught her hand. "Don't thank me. I don't deserve it."
"You deserve something." She kissed his knuckles. "Even if it's just a goodbye."
---
The palace was quiet when he returned.
Gavin had expected to slip up to his chambers unnoticed, to spend the evening alone with his thoughts and a bottle of wine. But Seraphina was waiting for him in the corridor outside his rooms, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable.
"You're back," she said.
"I am."
"How was your picnic?"
The question was casual, but there was a blade hidden in her tone. Gavin felt his hackles rise.
"What's it to you?"
Seraphina rolled her eyes—a slow, deliberate movement that made his blood boil. "You're unbelievable. You spend the night with Beatrice, then take Margaret on a romantic picnic the next day, and you expect me not to have an opinion?"
"I expect you not to care."
"I don't care. That's the problem." She stepped closer, and her pale green eyes were sharp as knives. "I don't care about you. I care about her. Margaret is a good person. She deserves better than being your goodbye fuck."
Gavin grabbed her arm and dragged her into his chambers, slamming the door behind them.
"You want to know what my issue is?" He backed her against the wall, his body trapping hers. "Here's my issue. You waltz in here, you eat my food, you dance with me like you're doing me a favor, and then you stand in the hallway and judge me? You don't get to do that."
"I'm not judging you." She didn't flinch. She never flinched. "I'm telling you the truth. Margaret is in love with you. She has been for months. And you just used her for one last roll in the grass before you sent her home."
"I didn't use her. I gave her a goodbye."
"A goodbye?"
"She needed closure." He was shouting now, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "She needed to hear it from me—that it was over, that there was no future, that she should move on. So I gave her that. I gave her a day. One perfect day. And then I let her go."
Seraphina stared at him, something shifting in her expression. "You think that makes it better?"
"I think it makes it honest."
"Honest." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You keep throwing that word around like it means something. But honesty without kindness is just cruelty."
"I'm not cruel."
"You're not kind, either."
They were inches apart now. He could feel her breath on his face, see the rise and fall of her chest beneath her gown. She smelled like winter air and something sharper—something that made his blood run hot.
"You infuriate me," he said.
"Good."
"You're impossible."
"I know."
"I want to—" He stopped himself, his jaw clenching.
"You want to what?"
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was hard and hungry and desperate, his hands tangling in her hair, his body pressing her into the wall. Seraphina kissed him back with equal ferocity, her teeth nipping at his lip, her nails raking down his back. She tasted like defiance and something sweet beneath, and Gavin wanted to consume her.
"I hate you," he murmured against her mouth.
"You don't."
"I should."
"But you don't."
He lifted her—she was lighter than he expected, despite the curves that had been driving him mad—and carried her to the bed. He laid her down, and for a moment, he just looked at her. Silver-blonde hair spread across his pillows. Pale green eyes watching him with something that wasn't quite trust but wasn't quite fear either.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"I know."
"Modest, too."
"I'm honest." She reached up and pulled him down. "That's different."
He kissed her again, slower this time, letting the heat build. His hands found the laces of her gown, and he undid them with practiced ease, peeling the fabric away from her body.
She was wearing nothing underneath.
Gavin's breath caught in his throat. Her breasts were full and round, her nipples pebbled from the cool air. Her waist curved inward, and below it, the soft swell of her hips and the dark triangle of hair between her legs.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
He didn't argue. He just lowered his mouth to her breast, taking her nipple between his lips, flicking his tongue against the sensitive peak until she gasped.
"Gavin—"
"Shut up."
He moved lower, kissing his way down her stomach, past her navel, to the heat between her thighs. She was already wet—he could smell it, could feel the dampness against his cheek as he settled between her legs.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
"I want you to stop talking."
He laughed, and then he put his mouth on her.
The sound she made—a sharp, broken cry—was the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He licked her slowly, testing her response, learning the rhythm of her pleasure. When he slid two fingers inside her, she arched off the bed, her hands fisting in the sheets.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, Gavin—"
"That's right." He curled his fingers upward, finding the spot that made her tremble. "Say my name."
"Gavin—"
"Again."
"Gavin—"
He sucked her clit between his lips and flicked his tongue against it, fast and relentless, until she came apart with a scream that echoed off the walls.
But he didn't stop.
He kept going, his fingers still buried inside her, his tongue still working her clit, drawing out her orgasm until she was shaking, gasping, begging.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, I can't—"
"You can."
"I need—"
"I know what you need."
He positioned himself between her legs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance. She was slick and ready, her body open to him, and when he pushed inside her, she moaned—a long, low sound that vibrated through his entire body.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You feel—"
"Shut up and move."
He moved.
Slow at first, letting her feel every inch of him. He wanted this to last. He wanted to memorize the way she felt around him—tight, wet, perfect. Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned against her neck.
"More," she demanded.
"Say please."
"Go to hell."
He laughed, and he gave her more.
He fucked her deeply, slowly, with a kind of deliberate intensity he hadn't known he was capable of. Each thrust was measured, purposeful, designed to draw out her pleasure and his own. She matched his rhythm, her hips rising to meet his, her nails raking down his back.
"Gavin," she moaned.
"Again."
"Gavin."
"Again."
"Gavin—"
He felt her tighten around him, felt her climax building, and he drove into her harder, faster, chasing his own release. When she came—when she screamed his name and clenched around his cock—he followed her over the edge, spilling inside her with a guttural groan.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Gavin lay on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his breath ragged against her neck. He could feel her heartbeat, still racing, still syncing with his own.
"That was—" she started.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't ruin it."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she laughed—a real laugh, warm and unexpected.
"Fine," she said. "I won't."
He rolled off her, and they lay side by side, staring at the ceiling. The silence between them was different now—not hostile, not tense. Just... quiet.
"I hate you," he said again.
"No, you don't."
"I want to."
"But you don't."
He turned his head to look at her. She was smiling—a small, secret smile that made something in his chest ache.
"You're going to be a problem," he said.
"I know." She reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his. "But you'll figure it out."
He wasn't sure he believed her.
But for the first time in years, he was willing to try.