Chapter 17: The King's Submission
The passageway to the King’s chambers felt like the entrance to a dragon’s lair. Amara’s knuckles hovered inches from the dark, polished wood door. Brenna’s voice echoed in her mind, raw and dripping with primal knowledge. Make them fucking beg. The phantom taste of Theron’s punishing kiss still lingered, a brand of fear and unwanted heat. But beneath it, simmering like molten ore, was the ember Brenna had ignited. Power. Control. Her terms.
She didn’t knock. She pushed the door open.
The chamber was vast, dimly lit by a roaring fire in a cavernous hearth and scattered beeswax candles. Rich tapestries depicting hunting scenes and ancient battles absorbed the light. The air was thick with the cloying scent of sandalwood and something darker, muskier – uniquely Theron. He stood by the fire, back to her, a goblet of dark wine in hand, silhouetted against the flames. He wore only loose black breeches, his broad shoulders and the powerful lines of his back bare, silver strands glinting in his dark hair. The sight sent a jolt through her, part terror, part undeniable pull.
"Lost, Princess?" His voice was a low rumble, barely audible over the crackling fire. He didn’t turn. "Or have you come to plead your innocence regarding Varyn?"
She closed the door behind her. The bolt slid home with a soft, final click. The sound seemed to resonate in the sudden tension. Theron finally turned. His storm-grey eyes swept over her, taking in the thin silk nightgown Brenna had chosen – emerald green, clinging, leaving little to imagination. His gaze lingered, cold, assessing. Then it snapped to her face. He saw it. The shift. Not fear, not submission. Something fierce. Dangerous. His eyes narrowed fractionally.
Amara walked towards him. Not the hesitant steps of a chastised subject, but the deliberate stride she’d seen Brenna use. Her bare feet were silent on the thick fur rug. The firelight played on her skin, on the outline of her body beneath the silk. She stopped just out of arm’s reach. The scent of him – leather, woodsmoke, wine, and that potent male musk – hit her harder, making her pulse thrum.
"I haven’t come to plead," she said, her voice steady, lower than usual. "I’ve come to collect."
Theron’s eyebrow arched. A flicker of surprise, quickly masked by icy disdain. "Collect? What debt, pray tell, do you imagine I owe you?"
"The frostbite," she breathed, stepping closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his bare chest. Close enough to see the pulse jump in his throat. "You promised it." She lifted her hand, trembling only slightly, and pressed her palm flat against the hard plane of his chest. Warm skin, coarse hair. His muscles tensed instantly beneath her touch. "Show me how deep it bites."
His hand shot up, grabbing her wrist with crushing force. "You dare—"
She didn’t flinch. She met his furious gaze head-on, her emerald eyes blazing. "I dare," she whispered. "Or are you all bluster, Your Grace? All threats in the garden, but no follow-through?" She twisted her wrist, not to break free, but to slide her hand higher, her fingers tangling in the silver-streaked hair at his nape. The action was intimate, possessive. Brenna’s lesson echoed: Touch him like you own him.
Theron froze. Utterly still. The fury in his eyes didn’t vanish, but it warred with a shock so profound it momentarily paralyzed him. No one touched the King like this. No one challenged him like this. His grip on her wrist loosened, not releasing, but slackening in sheer disbelief.
Amara seized the moment. With a surge of strength fueled by terror and desperate audacity, she pushed. Hard. Against his chest. He stumbled back, unbalanced by surprise, his goblet clattering to the rug, wine spreading like blood. He hit the edge of the massive four-poster bed and sat down heavily. Before he could react, Amara was on him.
She swung one leg over his lap, straddling him, her silk gown riding high on her thighs. Her knees dug into the plush mattress on either side of his hips. She pressed her body flush against his, feeling the hard ridge of his erection straining against his breeches, pressed against the heat of her own core. She heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the tremor that ran through his powerful frame. It wasn’t fear. It was pure, startled arousal.
Her hands flew to the laces of his breeches. Her fingers, clumsy with adrenaline but powered by Brenna’s explicit instructions, fumbled, then found purchase. She yanked them open. "Fucking hell, woman—" Theron growled, his hands coming up to grab her hips.
"Shut up," Amara hissed, her voice raw, commanding. She shoved his hands away with surprising force. "This isn’t about you tonight." She shoved the fabric down his hips, freeing him. His cock sprang up, thick, heavy, fully erect, the flushed head glistening. Exactly like the instrument she needed.
No hesitation. No gentle exploration. She positioned herself over him, guiding him with one hand. Her eyes locked onto his – wide with disbelief, darkening rapidly with lust. She sank down.
Oh, gods. The stretch was immediate, intense. Burning. She wasn’t ready, not truly. But the pain was a sharp, clean counterpoint to the raw power surging through her. She took him deep, gasping as he filled her, stretching her tight heat impossibly wide. Theron’s head snapped back, a choked groan tearing from his throat. His hands clamped back onto her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but he didn’t thrust up. He was frozen again, stunned by her audacity, by the sheer, shocking tightness enveloping him.
Amara leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders. His skin was hot, slick with a fine sheen of sweat. She lifted herself up, almost letting him slip free, feeling the exquisite drag within her, then slammed back down. Hard.
"FUCK!" Theron roared, his hips jerking involuntarily. His hands tightened, trying to control the rhythm, but Amara was already moving. She set a brutal, demanding pace. Up. Down. Taking him deep, grinding her clit against the base of his shaft with each descent. Brenna’s words were her mantra: Own it. Make him feel it. Use it.
She found the angle quickly – the spot that sent sparks shooting through her nerves with every downward plunge. A low moan escaped her, deep and guttural, utterly unlike her usual voice. Theron’s eyes flew open, fixated on her face, on her parted lips, on the flush spreading down her neck. His breath came in harsh pants, matching the frantic slap of skin against skin.
"Like that, do you?" Amara gasped, riding him harder, faster. The soreness from their previous encounters was fading, replaced by a coiling, terrifying pressure building deep inside her. "Does your frostbite burn, King?" She leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, tasting salt. "Or does my fire finally melt you?" She bit his earlobe, not gently.
Theron snarled, a feral sound. He bucked up hard, driving himself deeper than before, making her cry out. "Insolent little princess," he growled, but his voice was thick, ragged. His hands slid from her hips, up her back, under the thin silk of her nightgown. Calloused palms scraped over her skin, one hand fisting in her dark hair, pulling her head back so he could capture her mouth in a searing, punishing kiss. It wasn’t the cold fury of the garden; it was desperate, consuming, a clash of teeth and tongues, tasting of wine and raw need.
Amara met it with equal ferocity. She kissed him back, biting his lip, her hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. The coil inside her tightened unbearably. Her moans became sharp cries, echoing in the cavernous room, mingling with Theron’s harsh groans. She could feel him swelling inside her, feel the tension coiling in his powerful thighs. Brenna’s final lesson: Make them beg to give it to you.
"Come on," Amara panted against his mouth, breaking the kiss. She ground down hard, rotating her hips. "Show me. Give it to me. Now."
Theron’s control shattered. A roar ripped from his chest. He surged up, wrapping one powerful arm around her back, crushing her against him, burying his face in the curve of her neck as his hips pistoned upwards with frantic, desperate thrusts. She felt him pulse, hot and deep, flooding her in thick, urgent waves. His release triggered her own. The coil snapped. Pleasure, sharp and blinding, ripped through her, tearing a ragged scream from her throat. Her body clamped down on him, milking him, shuddering violently as wave after wave of sensation crashed over her.
They collapsed together onto the sweat-slicked sheets, tangled limbs, gasping for air. Theron lay beneath her, his chest heaving, his eyes closed, dark hair plastered to his damp forehead. Amara rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against her cheek. The scent of sex, sweat, and sandalwood filled the air, thick and heavy.
Silence stretched, broken only by their ragged breathing. Amara felt emptied. Exhausted. Triumphant. She’d done it. Taken him. Used him. On her terms.
Theron’s hand moved. Not roughly. Slowly. His fingers traced a path through the damp hair clinging to her temple. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, stripped of its usual command, laced with something utterly unfamiliar. Bewilderment. Awe.
"What…" he rasped, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. "What are you?"
Amara lifted her head from Theron’s shoulder. Sweat cooled on her skin where it had pressed against his. His thumb brushed her cheekbone again, a gesture unsettlingly tender amidst the wreckage of tangled limbs and damp sheets. The firelight caught the silver in his hair, the deep lines etched beside his eyes suddenly stark without their usual mantle of command. His storm-grey gaze held hers, stripped bare of fury, filled only with profound, unsettling confusion. "What are you?" he rasped again, the words scraping raw in the thick silence.
She pushed herself up, straddling his hips still, feeling him soften within her. The soreness was a dull, insistent throb, a counterpoint to the fading tremors of her own climax. Her emerald eyes, fierce and unblinking, locked onto his bewildered stare. The scent of their coupling – salt, musk, sandalwood – hung heavy. "I am not," she stated, her voice low, clear, devoid of tremor, "your burden." Each word landed like a stone dropped into still water.
Theron flinched, a minute tightening around his eyes. The raw vulnerability vanished, replaced by a flicker of familiar ice. "Burden?" The word was a low growl, testing its weight. His hands, which had been resting loosely on her thighs, tensed slightly. "You speak of heirs? Of duty?"
Amara shifted, deliberately grinding against him, feeling the slick mess between them, a visceral reminder of the power she’d just seized. His breath hitched. "I speak of me," she hissed, leaning down until her lips were a breath from his. Her dark hair fell like a curtain around them. "Not your problem. Not your political pawn. Not liability." She saw the muscle jump in his jaw. "You saw me as weak. A damsel in need of constant attention or protection." Her hand slid down his sweat-slicked chest, nails scraping lightly over his nipple, making him suck in a sharp breath. "You saw a problem to be solved, or discarded."
His hand shot up, grabbing her wrist, but the grip lacked its crushing force from the garden. It was reflexive, defensive. "And what," he demanded, his voice rough, eyes narrowed, "do you imagine I see now? After this… display?" His gaze raked over her, lingering on the flush still high on her chest, the swollen curve of her lips he’d bitten.
"A reckoning," Amara breathed. She twisted her wrist free, not violently, but with deliberate, unhurried strength. She placed her palm flat over his pounding heart. "You see fire, Theron. Fire you tried to extinguish with frost." Her fingers pressed down, feeling the frantic beat beneath her touch. "Fire that just burned you." She held his gaze, unyielding. "I am not your burden. I am the storm you didn't see coming."
Silence stretched, thick and charged. Theron stared up at her, the firelight dancing in his eyes. The confusion hadn't vanished, but it warred now with something else. A dawning, grudging assessment. A flicker of something perilously close to respect, edged with a dark, undeniable hunger rekindling beneath her touch. His hand lifted slowly, hesitantly, and traced the line of her jaw, rough fingertips grazing her skin. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The shift was palpable, vibrating in the air between them. The King was silent, utterly still beneath her, his gaze locked onto hers with an intensity that promised this was far from over.
Theron’s hand slid from her spine, fingers tracing the knobs of her vertebrae through silk damp with sweat. The intensity in his gaze fractured, replaced by a raw vulnerability, raw as an open wound. "Varyn," he rasped, the name like gravel in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed a hard. "In the garden… seeing you with him... Sunlight on your hair." His grip on her waist tightened, grounding himself. "It was jealousy. Ugly, unbecoming a king." He inhaled sharply, the admission tearing free. "Seeing you laugh…" He looked away, jaw clenched, staring at the tapestry where a stag bled woven gold. "I saw what Caius throws away. What I could never have." He turned back, grey eyes stormy desperate. "You are not the liability Amara." He said her name like an oath. “The weight crushing me… the kingdom… It’s my interest, my growing interest in you. That is unstable ground. The unforgivable risk."
Silence pulsed between them, thick with the scent of sex and sandalwood. Amara didn't speak. She pressed down onto him fully seated on him again, the movement deliberate but slow. Her core clenched around the softening length inside, her expression unreadable. "Unforgivable?" Her voice low, dangerous. "Because you’ve fucked me?" Her nails scraped down his chest, down the flat muscles of his abdomen stopping just below his navel. "Or because you want more than that?"
Theron growled low in his chest beneath her palm. "Don’t." His hands flew to her hips pulling her down hard against him. The friction sparked embers. "Because it makes me weak," he snarled, bucks pushing up instinctively into her tight wet heat. “For a few moments, forget duty. Forget Caius. Forget that you are married to my son and that I am a king."
Amara leaned forward, bracing herself with her hands on his chest. "Then forget," she commanded. "I’ll show you how you want to feel." She rocked against him, a deep groan escaping his lips. Amara moved with him, rising and sliding down, grinding her swollen clit against the thick base, his cock still inside her. "Fuck,” sensation ripped a groan from him. His hips snapped, driving deeper. She threw her head back crying in raw pleasure. "Like that?" she gasped, her hand tangling a fistful of his hair pulling head back exposing throat. "Is this the way you want it?"
"Yes!" he roared, arching into the pull. Her hips pistoned "Yes! Fuck me! Use it! Use me!" Theron countered, thrusting hard upward meeting her engulfing cry. "Admit it. This fire riding you… burns hottest when you think you own it." He slammed into her cervix. Pain-pleasure lighting up her spine. "But I own you," Amara screamed, nails raking down his chest drawing thin beads of blood. She rode with abandon, slick sounds their joining filthy chorus the high ceiling. Theron’s control slipping. His thrusts lost rhythm, becoming urgent, seeking friction friction release "Say it," she panted, leaning close, breasts brushing chest sweat-slick skin skin. "Say you want me more than than your fucking crown."
Theron gripped her hips, his cock thrusting deep inside her. His eyes wild, desperate. "I want you," he choked out. "Gods yes." His hands grabbed her buttocks pulling her cheeks apart driving deeper still. "Your cunt…Your mind. Your maddening fire… All of it. Mine. Mine”
"Mine," Amara laughed a sharp, wild sound. She slammed down, grinding hard, rotating her hips to maintain dominance over the rhythm. "Prove it. Come inside me. Now." Her command cracked through the air. Theron’s roar tore through his chest, his hips bucked erratically. His cock swelled and pulsed deep, thick ropes inside her. Heat flooded her core as his release triggered hers instantly. Wave after wave crashed over her, her body clamping down and milking him dry through vicious tremors until she collapsed against his chest, shuddering.
They lay tangled, slick with sweat, breaths ragged gasps tearing the thick air. The fire popped, casting long, dancing shadows across the tapestries where huntsmen chased stags eternally.
Theron’s arm lay heavy across her damp back, fingers tracing idle, unexpected patterns on her spine. The frantic energy dissipated, leaving behind a strange, heavy quiet punctuated only by crackling logs and their slowing breaths. The scent of sex, sweat, and sandalwood hung dense. Amara felt boneless, emptied, the fierce control she’d wielded dissolving into a deep, liquid exhaustion. Theron’s heart thudded steadily beneath her ear, a counterpoint to the fading echo of her own frantic pulse.
He shifted slightly, his softening cock slipping free from her swollen heat, a warm trickle following. She made a small, involuntary sound, part discomfort, part residual shock. His hand stilled on her back. Neither spoke. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions and the weight of what had just happened – the raw claiming, the unexpected vulnerability, the terrifying admission of wanting.
Fatigue pulled Amara down like an anchor. Her eyelids felt weighted, the room swimming slightly. Theron’s breathing evened out beside her, the tension leaching from his powerful frame. The warmth of his body, the solidity of him, became a lure she was too spent to resist. She nestled closer, her cheek finding the hollow of his shoulder, the coarse hair tickling her skin. Darkness swallowed the edges of her vision, dragging her under into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Cool air ghosted across Amara’s bare shoulder, pulling her reluctantly from sleep. The fire had burned low, casting the vast chamber in deep orange embers and long, sinister shadows. Theron lay beside her, awake. His eyes, grey and unreadable in the gloom, were fixed on the canopy above. His arm was still around her, his thumb absently stroking the curve of her hip where it rested. The intimacy felt jarring, dangerous.
She shifted, the movement pulling at tender muscles between her thighs, a vivid reminder. The sticky residue on her inner thighs was cool now. Theron’s gaze slid down to meet hers. No words. Just the heavy silence and the weight of his hand on her skin.
The practicalities, the consequences her mother had once so diligently drilled into her, slammed back with brutal clarity. Her monthly courses were due soon. The bitter, preventative brew she would inevitably need Brenna to procure for her. Hadn’t even thought of it. The risk was immediate, terrifying. She should have already started taking it. Theron’s seed deep inside her felt like a physical invasion all over again, loaded with impossible futures.
Her voice, when it came, was a sleep-roughened whisper, cutting through the quiet like broken glass. "The tea." She swallowed, the taste of dread sharp on her tongue. "Moonpetal tea. To… prevent." She couldn't say the word pregnancy. Not to him. Not yet. "I haven’t… since before." Before the first time. Before the library. Before this.
Theron didn't move, but his thumb stopped its stroking. His gaze remained locked on hers, intense in the near-darkness. He knew. The court physicians, the whispers about the Princess’s barrenness… he knew it was a shield she wore against Caius’s ineptitude and the court’s scrutiny. A convenient lie for all.
"Prevent," he echoed, the word flat. His silence stretched, thick as tar. Then, slowly, his hand slid from her hip, moving upwards to cup the curve of her breast, possessive, warm. His thumb brushed deliberately over her nipple, making it tighten instantly. "Do you want to take the tea?" The question hung, loaded, obscene in the quiet.
Amara’s breath hitched. His touch, even now, ignited sparks. The question wasn't about medicine. It was about desire. About consequence. About shattering every rule. She looked into his eyes, seeing the reflection of the dying fire, seeing the stark hunger that hadn't vanished with sleep. "Do you want me to?" she countered, her own voice gaining a dangerous edge.
Theron’s hand stilled on her breast. He looked away for a moment, towards the shadows where the woven stags bled, then back to her. His jaw tightened. A battle fought behind storm-grey eyes. When he spoke, the words were low, gravelly, an admission ripped from somewhere deep and forbidden. "No." His grip tightened almost painfully on her breast. "Fuck no, I don't want you to drink that poison." He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. "I want you swollen with my child if it happens. Fuck the consequences. Fuck Caius. Fuck them all."
The raw possessiveness in his voice, the sheer blasphemy of his words, sent a jolt through Amara that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with terrifying power. This was ruin. This was madness. This was the ultimate rebellion against the gilded cage. A slow, dangerous smile touched her lips, visible even in the dim light. She turned her head, her lips brushing the rough stubble along his jaw. Her hand slid down his chest, over the flat plane of his stomach, fingers trailing lower, lower, finding the thick root of him already stirring back to life against her thigh.
"Good," she breathed, her fingers wrapping around his hardening cock, feeling the heat, the potent pulse. She squeezed deliberately, drawing a sharp hiss from him. "Because I want it too." Her lips found his ear, teeth scraping the lobe. "Fill me again, Theron," she commanded, her voice a sibilant whisper thick with promise and peril. "Put your fucking seed in me." Her other hand pushed roughly at his shoulder, rolling him onto his back. She swung her leg over his hips, positioning herself over his rigid length, the head nudging her slick, swollen entrance. "Now."