Chapter 21: Velvet Vows
The cold from the armory seemed to have seeped into her marrow. For two days, Teresa moved through court functions like a ghost in gilt, her smile flawless, her wit precise, all while the red-ink scrawl of her name burned behind her eyes. Nate’s name beside hers was a different kind of chill. It created a silent pact between them, one communicated in glances across crowded halls, in the brief, deliberate brush of his hand against hers as he passed her a glass of wine.
The knowledge was a live thing, coiled tight in her gut. She needed it gone, or at least drowned. She needed noise and heat and the mindless friction of flesh to scour the fear away.
She found the oblivion she sought in the west library’s deepest alcove, a velvet-draped hollow that smelled of parchment and beeswax. The soft murmur of the twins reached her first—Lucien’s low chuckle, Maeve’s breathless giggle. Teresa pushed aside the heavy curtain.
They were a tangle of limbs on a plum-colored chaise, a vision of indolent sin. Maeve was on her back, her willowy form arched, a sheen of sweat on her throat. Lucien was between her thighs, his athletic body moving with a slow, deep rhythm. His cock, sleek and fully buried, glistened in the candlelight each time he drew back. Maeve’s fingers were tight in his blonde hair.
“You’re early,” Lucien murmured, not stopping, his gorgeous brown eyes finding Teresa over his sister’s shoulder. A smirk played on his lips. “Or we’re late.”
“Don’t stop on my account,” Teresa said, her voice flat. She began undoing the fastenings of her dress, her movements sharp, utilitarian. The fine silk pooled at her feet. The cool library air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps. The sight of them, the wet sound of Lucien moving inside his sister, the ripe smell of sex—it was a torch to the kindling of her own tension.
Maeve turned her head, her honey-brown eyes glazed with pleasure. “Join us, Teresa. He feels… enormous today.”
Teresa didn’t need a second invitation. She climbed onto the chaise, her knees sinking into the soft velvet beside Maeve’s hip. Lucien’s rhythm faltered for a moment as he watched her, his smirk deepening into something hungry. Teresa reached down, her fingers wrapping around his shaft where it was joined to Maeve. She gave him a firm, guiding pull.
“Out,” she commanded.
With a wet, slick sound, he withdrew. His cock stood rigid, gleaming with Maeve’s arousal. Teresa didn’t hesitate. She straddled Lucien’s hips, her own cunt aching and empty, and guided him into herself with a single, sinking motion. He filled her completely, a blunt, stretching pressure that made her gasp, her head falling back.
“Christ, you’re tight,” Lucien grunted, his hands flying to her hips, fingers digging into the flesh.
“Shut up and fuck me,” Teresa breathed, and began to move, riding him with a frantic, driving pace. This was what she needed—the mind-numbing fullness, the physical proof of dominance, the crude mechanics of it. Each plunge onto his length was an attempt to crush the echo of that red ink.
Below her, Maeve shifted. She wriggled up, her mouth seeking Teresa’s breast. She took a nipple deep, sucking hard, her tongue swirling. Then her hand slid down Teresa’s stomach, through the damp blonde curls, her fingers finding the swollen bundle of nerves above where Lucien plunged in and out.
“That’s it,” Maeve whispered against her skin, her breath hot. “Use him. Take what you need.”
Teresa’s movements became jagged, desperate. The twin sensations—Lucien’s thick cock pistoning up into her, Maeve’s clever fingers circling and pressing her clit—coiled a spring tight in her core. The library, the conspiracy, the fear, all dissolved into a roaring white static. She was just a body, a vessel being filled and stroked towards a brutal release.
Lucien watched her, his own control fraying. “Fuck, Teresa, I can feel you clenching. Gonna make me come.”
“Do it,” she snarled, slamming down on him one final time. Her orgasm ripped through her, a silent, violent convulsion that locked her muscles and stole the air from her lungs. Her cunt pulsed around him in tight, rhythmic waves.
That was all it took. Lucien shouted, a raw, un-royal sound, and his hips bucked off the chaise as he emptied himself inside her. His release was hot and insistent, flooding her as her own spasms slowly subsided. She collapsed forward, her sweat-slicked skin sticking to his chest.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the soft pop of the candle. The oblivion had been perfect, and total.
It was Maeve who shattered it, her voice soft and curious in the aftermath. “Your hands are trembling.”
Teresa looked down. She was. She clenched them into fists.
Lucien, still buried inside her, traced a finger down her spine. “That was more than afternoon entertainment. That was an exorcism.” He shifted, slipping out of her. A trickle of his spend followed, a warm smear on her inner thigh. “The word in the lower city is ugly. They’re saying the eastern consul didn’t just draw targets. He’s hired blades. Professional ones. The kind that make deaths look like accidents.”
The cold rushed back in, sharper than before. The sticky warmth between her legs suddenly felt like a vulnerability. Teresa pushed herself up, off of him, off the chaise. She reached for her discarded dress, her movements once again precise, controlled.
“What kind of accidents?” she asked, her voice dangerously calm.
“Falls from towers,” Lucien said, sitting up and reaching for his own clothes. “A sudden, fatal fever. A carriage bolt loosening at just the wrong moment.” He met her gaze. “Nate’s been asking questions in the barracks. He’s stirring the hornet’s nest, Teresa. If they weren’t sure before, they’ll know he’s a threat now.”
She pulled the silk over her head, the fabric a poor armor. The game had indeed become mortal. Hedonism was a temporary reprieve. Now, they had to move. She had to find Nate before the “accident” did.