Chapter 32: Throne of Ruin
The scent of them—Amberley’s lavender, Sayr’s crisp perfume, the musk of their shared release—clung to Teresa’s skin like a second gown as she slipped into the silent throne room. The vast space was deserted, the morning light not yet clearing the high windowsills, leaving the hall drowned in deep blue shadow and strips of bloody light from the stained-glass dragons above. Her boots were silent on the cold marble.
The throne awaited. A massive, gilded thing of carved oak and velvet the color of a deep bruise. It was power. It was a cage. Tonight, after the scheming and the sweat of Amberley’s sheets, it called to the raw, unraveled part of her.
She didn’t sit as a princess would. She climbed the dais, her fingers trailing over the polished armrests, and mounted it. She swung one leg over the seat, then the other, settling astride the high throne as if it were a saddle. The velvet beneath her was still faintly warm, an unsettling detail she chose to ignore. Her skirts pooled around her, the dampness between her thighs a secret, thrilling stain against the regal fabric.
From the deep shadows beside the tapestries, a figure detached itself.
“A bold pose for a future queen,” Prince Callum’s voice echoed, softly amused. He stepped into a sliver of dragon-light, his green eyes bright in the gloom. “Though given the company you kept last night, I suppose boldness is your mood.”
Teresa didn’t flinch. She’d sensed his presence, the subtle shift in the air. “Spying, Callum? That’s beneath even your casual brand of treachery.”
“Not spying. Waiting.” He moved closer, his footsteps sure. “The east wing guards are yours now, I hear. Your uncle is pacing a hole in his fine carpets. The court is buzzing like a kicked hive.” He reached the base of the dais and looked up at her. “You’re holding a lit fuse, Teresa. I wanted to see the fire up close.”
“See it, then,” she said, her voice flat. She spread her knees a little wider, an unmistakable challenge. The ache from earlier was a dull, pleasant throb. She saw his eyes drop to the shadowed place where her body met the throne.
He didn’t hesitate. He took the steps two at a time and dropped to his knees before her on the dais. His hands, strong and sure, pushed her skirts up around her waist, baring her to the cool, solemn air of the throne room. She was exposed, glistening, the evidence of her morning with Amberley and Sayr plainly visible.
Callum let out a slow breath, a reverent curse. “Christ, you’re a mess.”
Then he buried his face between her thighs.
His mouth was hot and demanding, lacking Amberley’s teasing grace. He licked into her with a rough, possessive hunger, his tongue spearing deep, lapping up the combined taste of the three women. Teresa’s head fell back against the hard wood of the throne. A ragged gasp bounced off the vaulted ceiling. Her fingers clawed at the velvet arms.
“That’s it,” he muttered against her, his breath scalding her wet flesh. “Fucking taste them on you. Taste your own power.”
From the entrance arch, a pair of figures paused, silhouetted by the growing dawn. Lucien and Maeve Perkins, twins in elegance and mischief, their arms linked. They didn’t announce themselves. They simply watched, their eyes widening with delight.
Lucien’s hand was already at the laces of his breeches. Maeve, her rose-colored glasses apparently off for the occasion, turned into her brother’s side, her own fingers deftly working the fastenings of his trousers. She fished his cock out, already half-hard, and began to stroke him with a casual, practiced rhythm.
“Don’t stop on our account,” Lucien called, his voice a melodic tease that floated across the marble. “We’re just appreciating the… pageantry.”
Teresa opened her eyes, her vision swimming. She saw them. Saw Nate, her stoic captain, now standing rigid just inside the main doors, his back to the room, guarding the entrance. The line of his shoulders was taut as a bowstring.
Callum sucked her clit into his mouth, applying a ruthless, focused pressure. Pleasure, sharp and electric, shot up her spine. She cried out, the sound ringing un-queenly in the sacred space.
“Yes, you bastard, just like that,” she snarled, her hips rocking forward to grind against his mouth.
Encouraged, Callum slid two fingers inside her, crooking them to find that sweet, spongy spot. He fucked her with them in a hard, steady rhythm as his tongue worked her clit. The dual sensation, crude and overwhelming, tore a string of filthy praises from her lips. “Oh fuck, yes, make me come on your fingers, make me come on this fucking throne.”
Maeve had sunk to her knees before Lucien, taking his full length into her mouth with a blissful sigh. Lucien watched Teresa and Callum, his hands buried in his sister’s blonde hair, guiding her pace.
“Seems the crown isn’t the only thing getting mounted this morning,” Lucien gasped, his composure slipping as Maeve took him deep.
The crude joke, the sheer audacity of it all, pushed Teresa higher. The throne was hard beneath her, the kingdom asleep beyond the walls, and here she was, being devoured by a prince while nobles debauched themselves before her. It was a perfect, terrible rebellion.
Her climax built, a tsunami in her gut. “Callum, I’m going to—”
He redoubled his efforts, his fingers pumping, his mouth sucking. She shattered. A raw, screaming orgasm ripped through her, contorting her body against the gilded wood. Her inner walls clamped down on his fingers, waves of intense pleasure radiating out until she was trembling, spent.
Callum gentled his mouth, licking her through the gentle aftershocks before pulling back. He looked up at her, his lips and chin slick. He smiled, a dark, satisfied thing.
Before she could recover, he was unfastening his own breeches. His cock sprang out, thick and fully erect. He didn’t ask. He grabbed her hips, pulling her to the very edge of the throne seat. Still pulsing from her climax, still open and wet, Teresa felt the broad head of him press against her.
He thrust up into her in one deep, claiming stroke.
She gasped, the fullness a shock. He fucked her with a brutal, driving pace, the throne creaking with each powerful drive of his hips. The sound of their bodies slapping together echoed off the stone—a vulgar, exhilarating counterpoint to the hall’s solemn silence.
“Look at you,” Callum grunted, his eyes locked on hers. “Taking your kingdom like this. Is this how you’ll rule? On your back, or on your knees?”
“Fuck you,” she spat, but she met his thrusts, lifting her hips, taking him deeper.
“That’s the idea, Princess.”
Across the room, Lucien was groaning, his release hitting Maeve’s throat. She swallowed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she stood, her eyes never leaving the throne.
Teresa felt her own second climax coiling, fed by the obscenity, the risk, the sheer physical power of Callum’s possession. She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles.
“Come for me,” she commanded, her voice husky and raw. “Mark your future queen, Prince Callum. Let the throne bear witness.”
With a guttural shout, he obeyed. He slammed into her one final time, shuddering as he pulsed deep inside her. The hot rush of his release triggered her own, a second, deeper wave that left her seeing stars, her cries mingling with his.
For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing. Callum rested his forehead against her shoulder, still buried inside her.
Slowly, the world filtered back. The chill of the air. The distant call of a waking courtyard. Nate, still facing the door, his posture so rigid it looked painful.
Callum pulled out, the loss making her shiver. He fastened his breeches, his movements slow. Teresa smoothed her skirts down, the wetness between her legs now a complex mixture. She felt raw, used, and utterly, terrifyingly alive.
Lucien and Maeve, now composed, offered synchronized, mocking bows. “A performance for the ages,” Maeve chirped.
“Indeed,” Teresa said, her voice regaining its steel. She shifted off the throne, standing on legs that only trembled slightly. She looked at Callum, then at the twins, finally at Nate’s unwavering back. “The council convenes at noon. The eastern commanders will be there. You will all be there. You will be pristine, sober, and loyal. You will have seen nothing, heard nothing, and fantasized about nothing beyond the prosperity of the realm.”
She stepped down from the dais, the authority back in her bearing, the ghost of Callum’s release trickling down her thigh. “What happened here is a secret this room will keep. Or I will have the tongues of everyone in it. Are we understood?”
It was not a question. One by one, they nodded—Callum with a wry smile, the twins with amused deference.
Teresa walked towards the grand doors, pausing beside Nate. She did not look at him. “Captain. With me. We have a war council to prepare.”
Nate fell into step behind her, a silent shadow. She could feel his gaze on the back of her neck, could almost hear the conflict raging behind his disciplined silence. She had used them all—their desires, their loyalties, their vices—to stitch herself back together into something capable of facing the day.
As she left the throne room, the first full ray of sun finally cleared the window, illuminating the empty throne. It sat, witness to everything, a pool of shadow and gleaming, bloody light.