Chapter 6: Adrien's fingers dig into Amara's hips as he cleans her with rough, jerking motions, his breath coming in ragged gasps - until suddenly his mouth crashes against hers in a bruising kiss, his tongue claiming hers with a desperation that tastes like salt and rage.
The chair cracked against the floor as Adrien surged forward, crossing the space in three violent strides. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, his hands shaking as he grabbed the hem of his own silk sleeve and pressed it against her inner thigh, scrubbing at the wetness there with a frantic, furious pressure. "Get it off," he snarled, the words ripped from a place of pure agony, his eyes burning with a torment that had nothing to do with the stain on the fabric. His movements slowed, his breath catching as his gaze fixed on the smear of blood on the linen, his fingers trembling now against her skin. "That should have been mine," he whispered, the confession a raw, broken thing in the silent room.
"But it's not," she said, her voice low and upset, cracking the fragile silence. She caught his wrist, stopping its frantic motion, and forced his trembling hand to press flat against the warmth between her thighs, over the mess he was trying to erase. "His is here, on your sleeve," she whispered, guiding his fingers through the slickness still leaking from her. "But the blood is yours." His breath hitched, a shattered sound, as his dark eyes searched hers, the truth of her words a physical blow. "Then prove it," he murmured, his voice thick, and he leaned in, his lips crashing against hers with a desperate, hungry fury.
The kiss was a messy, furious collision of teeth and shared breath, tasting of salt and the iron tang of her bitten lip. He groaned into her mouth, a sound of pure, unhinged need, his hands tangling in her hair to hold her still as he devoured her. She met his fury with her own, her nails scoring down the back of his doublet, pulling him closer until the hard ridge of his belt buckle dug into her stomach. When they broke apart, gasping, his eyes were wild.
When they broke apart, gasping, his eyes were wild. “Why must you be broken?” he breathed against her mouth, the question a raw plea torn from a place of deepest shame. She didn’t answer with words, but took his hand again, guiding his fingers back inside her, making him feel the hot, swollen evidence of another man’s violation. He shuddered, a sob catching in his throat as his fingers slid through the slick mess, and then he was fumbling with the fastenings of his own trousers, his movements frantic and clumsy. He is soft limp.
He stared down at his own soft, limp cock with a look of pure horror, his breath coming in ragged hitches. "Fuck," he whispered, the word collapsing into a sob. Amara’s hand, still slick with the proof of Kellan’s visit, wrapped around him, her touch clinical and firm. "Is this the broken thing you speak of?" she asked, her voice low and devoid of pity as she began to stroke him with a slow, relentless rhythm. He threw his head back, a choked cry escaping his lips as her thumb smeared another man's spend over his sensitive skin, the obscene friction a brutal, waking dream.
Her grip tightened, a ruthless, knowing stroke. “This isn’t broken,” she said, her voice a blade in the quiet, feeling the first faint, treacherous stir of life beneath her palm. “It’s poisoned.” His eyes snapped open, wide with a dawning, terrible hope. “The court physician’s tonics,” she commanded, her breath hot against his ear. “Stop taking them for a few days.”
“Stop taking them for a few days,” she said, her words hanging in the air like a forbidden promise. A few days passed, each dawn marked by the same grim ritual. Kellan would enter, his expression blank, and fuck her with the same brutal efficiency, spilling his seed inside her with a few perfunctory grunts before leaving without a word. It was his duty, a mechanical deposit, and Amara endured each visit by staring at the tapestry above the bed, her mind far away in a calculated future. Meanwhile, Adrien, his hands shaking, began hiding the physician’s daily tonic in a vase of wilted flowers, and on the fourth morning, as Kellan’s footsteps faded down the hall, Adrien felt a sudden, unfamiliar heat tighten in his gut.