Chapter 1: The Library and the Prince's Touch
The banquet was a symphony of obnoxious clinking and false laughter, a cage gilded with politics and stale perfume. Aelin, still playing the role of Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan’s greatest shame, felt the walls of the throne room pressing in. She could feel the weight of a particular stare like a physical touch between her shoulder blades. Chaol. Captain of the Guard. Her… whatever he was. He’d watched her the whole night, his gaze a mix of stormy disapproval and hungry possession. She’d worn the dress precisely for that reason—a brutal slash of sensual crimson silk that clung to every curve before plunging in a deep, daring V down the front, and another, mirroring it down the back. It was less a garment and more a declaration. In it, she looked pornographically good, and she knew it. The knowledge was a quiet fire in her veins, a welcome distraction from the tedious scheming.
She slipped away during a toast, the red silk whispering against her thighs like a secret. The cool marble of the hallway was a relief. Her heels were silent on the runner as she navigated the labyrinthine halls of the Glass Palace, drawn by the promise of quiet and something else—a magnetic pull she’d been ignoring for weeks.
She found the private library door ajar, a sliver of warm, candle-lit honey-gold spilling onto the floor. She pushed it open.
The scent hit her first—aged leather, rosewater, and the faint, dark spice of something she couldn’t name. The library was a cathedral of knowledge, towers of bookshelves woven with silver filigree reaching into shadow. Prismatic light from a single candle danced across glass-fronted cases.
And there he was.
Prince Dorian Havilliard was sprawled on a deep emerald couch, one arm flung over the back, the other holding a crystal glass of champagne. His formal jacket was gone, his white shirt open to mid-chest, the fabric parted to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of taut, defined abdomen. His black hair was slightly ruffled, and his sapphire eyes, brighter than any jewel in the crown, locked onto her the moment she crossed the threshold.
“I was wondering if you’d find your way here,” he said, his voice a smooth, rich sound in the quiet.
“I got lost,” she lied, leaning against the doorframe.
“Liar.” A slow, wicked smile spread across his face. He took a sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving hers. “You followed the scent of rebellion. And my excellent champagne.”
The sexual tension in the room wasn’t just high; it was a living, breathing thing, thick enough to taste. It had been there for weeks, a game of glances and double-edged compliments. They had touched—a guiding hand at her lower back, her fingers brushing his when passing a document—but they hadn’t kissed. They hadn’t fucked. And standing there, seeing him laid out like a feast, feeling the heat of Chaol’s conflicted gaze still on her skin, she decided both those things were monumental oversights she planned to correct.
Arousal, sharp and immediate, coiled low in her belly. The dress felt even more like a second skin, the silk suddenly abrasive against her heightened senses. She saw his eyes darken, dropping to take in the plunge of her neckline, the way the fabric hugged her waist and hips. A noticeable shift in his posture, the subtle tightening of the fine linen across his thighs, told her everything. He was hard. The knowledge sent a thrill of pure power through her.
“Come in, Celaena,” he murmured. “Or should I use your real name when I’m about to have you on my couch?”
She pushed off the doorframe, the click of her heels deliberate on the polished wood floor. “You’re very presumptuous, Your Highness.”
“I’m very observant.” He set his glass down on the floor as she neared. “You’ve been looking at me all night like you wanted to set me on fire. I thought I’d save you the trouble and combust on my own.”
She stopped before the couch, looking down at him. “Perhaps I just like watching things burn.”
In one fluid motion, he reached out and hooked a finger around the delicate strap of her dress where it had slipped off her shoulder. The pad of his finger traced the line of her collarbone. A shiver, unbidden, raced down her spine. “This dress,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky register. “It’s an act of war. I saw Chaol. He looked like he was going to either arrest every man in the room or throw you over his shoulder and carry you off.”
“Jealousy is a dull blade,” she said, but her breath hitched as his other hand came up to cradle her other shoulder, his thumbs stroking the sensitive hollow of her throat.
“I’m not jealous.” His smile was all carnivore. “I’m opportunistic.” His hands slid down, following the severe line of the dress’s neckline, tracing the upper swells of her breasts exposed by the deep V. He didn’t touch the flesh directly, just the threatening edge of the silk. The ache it created was exquisite. “He watches you like you’re a prize to be won. A trophy.” His fingers drifted lower, skating over the ribs beneath the fabric. “I just want to play with my new favorite weapon.”
His hands slid around to her back, fingers finding the naked skin exposed by the backless dress. He traced the knobs of her spine, his touch incendiary. She let her own hands fall to his shoulders, feeling the hard muscle under the linen. She pushed the shirt open wider, her nails lightly scoring a path down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach. He sucked in a sharp breath, his abdomen clenching under her touch.
“You talk too much,” she whispered, leaning closer, her hair a curtain of gold around them.
“You’re one to talk,” he breathed back, his hands moving to her hips, pulling her until her knees bumped against the edge of the couch, until she was standing over him, the heat of him radiating through his trousers. “All that fire, and for what? Parading at banquets?” One hand slid from her hip, up the outside of her thigh, gathering the heavy silk of her skirt. His fingers touched bare skin above her garter, and a jolt went straight through her core. “I’ve wanted to taste your fire since the moment you walked into my father’s court.”
Still, they didn’t kiss. It was a maddening game. His face was inches from hers, his lips parted. She could smell the champagne on his breath, see the flecks of cobalt in his blue eyes. His other hand came up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking her lower lip. She turned her head just slightly, catching the pad of his thumb between her teeth, biting down gently. A low groan escaped him.
His hand on her thigh tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh as he tugged her forward, off balance. She fell into him, one knee on either side of his hips, straddling him on the couch. The hard length of him, trapped beneath his trousers, pressed against the heart of her. A soft, desperate sound escaped her throat.
“There it is,” he murmured, his hands clutching her hips, holding her firmly against him. “There’s the wildfire.” He moved her against him, a slow, torturous roll that had her seeing stars. The silk of her dress whispered its own secret against the rough texture of his trousers.
She ground down against him, her head falling back, a cascade of blonde hair sweeping over his hands. His mouth went to her exposed throat, his lips and tongue tracing a feverish path along her pulse. He licked, he nipped, but still, he did not kiss her mouth. The denial was its own exquisite pleasure.
“Dorian,” she gasped, her fingers twisting in his hair.
“Say it again,” he demanded against her skin, his hands sliding up to grip her rear, pulling her even tighter against him.
“Dorian.” It was a command, a plea.
He smiled against her throat, his breath hot. “My queen.” Finally, he pulled back to look at her, his eyes blazing with triumph and hunger. The tension was a physical wire about to snap. “Now,” he said, his voice rough with promise. “Let’s see if you can be as loud as you are clever.”
The challenge hung in the air between them, sparking off the shelves of ancient philosophy and forgotten histories. Aelin felt a wild, untamed grin twist her own lips. She shifted her hips against him, a slow, deliberate roll that made his eyes flutter shut for a brief, vulnerable second.
“Loud is for amateurs,” she purred, leaning down so her lips brushed the shell of his ear. Her breath stirred the dark hair at his temple. “I prefer… devastatingly quiet.”
His hands, which had been gripping her hips, slid around to cradle the full curve of her ass, his fingers pressing into the soft, giving flesh through the silk. He squeezed, once, a possessive, appreciative grip that shot a bolt of pure heat straight to her core. “This,” he groaned into her neck, “is a masterpiece. I should commission a statue.”
She laughed, a low, husky sound, and ground down against the hard ridge of his erection again, feeling him throb in response. “Save your gold. It’s not for public display.”
“No,” he agreed, his voice rough. His hands slid up her back, seeking the fastenings of the dress. “It’s for my private gallery. My exclusive, secret collection.” He found the first hidden clasp at the nape of her neck, his fingers deft. “Tell me, Celaena. Aelin.” He said her real name like a dirty word, a delicious secret. “When you fantasize about putting a king on his knees, is it my father’s head you see… or mine?”
The question was so blunt, so perfectly aligned with the dark threads of her own thoughts, that it stole her breath. Her fingers, which had been tracing the lines of his shoulders, stilled. She pulled back just enough to look into his face. The candlelight danced in his blue eyes, showing not just desire, but a sharp, cunning understanding.
“A king on his knees has its appeal,” she admitted, her voice a throaty whisper. “But a crown prince…” She let her gaze drift down his body, then back up, slow and assessing. “A crown prince is more… fun. You have further to fall.”
He barked a laugh, the sound rich and unrestrained in the silent library. “Gods, you’re perfect.” His fingers released another clasp. The dress loosened across her upper back. “All that power. All that fury. Wrapped up in this…” One hand left her back to sweep around and cup her breast through the silk, his thumb flicking over the already-pebbled peak. She gasped, arching into his touch. “In this devastating package. Tell me, does Chaol know what he’s trying to cage? Does he have any idea what these perfect fucking tits feel like in a man’s hands?”
The crude, explicit words, delivered in his cultured, princely tone, were more effective than any practiced seduction. Her nipple hardened painfully against his palm. “He has… theories,” she managed to say, rocking against him, seeking friction. “He lacks your academic curiosity.”
“I am a very dedicated scholar,” Dorian murmured, his mouth traveling back to her throat, her collarbone. He used his teeth, biting down just hard enough to walk the line between pleasure and pain. She cried out, a short, sharp sound she muffled against his hair. “I want a dissertation. I want to know what makes you moan. I want to know what makes you beg. I want to know if the fire on your skin tastes like the fire in your soul.”
His hand left her breast, both hands returning to the back of her dress. With a few more efficient movements, the final clasp gave way. The red silk, held up only by the tension of her body and the will of the gods, sighed open.
He didn’t push it off her immediately. He kept her pinned there, straddling him, the dress gaping, held up only by the swell of her breasts and the clutch of her thighs. His eyes drank her in, the shadowed valley between her breasts, the quiver of her stomach.
“You are so unbelievably fucking beautiful,” he said, and for the first time, the playful arrogance was gone, replaced by a raw, stunned honesty that was far more dangerous.
Then he kissed her.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. His mouth crashed down on hers, all hungry lips and demanding tongue. She met him with equal ferocity, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. The taste of champagne and Dorian and sheer want exploded on her tongue. He licked into her mouth, and she sucked on his tongue, and the world narrowed to the slick, hot slide of lips, the groan vibrating from his chest into hers, the desperate shift of their bodies.
This was not courtly love. This was a battle for dominance, fought with lips and teeth and clutching hands. He bit her lower lip, and she retaliated by scraping her nails down his back, feeling the muscles cord and jump beneath his shirt. He pulled her closer, if that were possible, one arm a steel band around her waist, the other hand tangling in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss.
She broke for air, panting, her forehead resting against his. “Gods,” she whispered, the word torn from her.
“Which ones?” he breathed against her mouth, chasing her lips again for a softer, slower kiss that was somehow more intimate. “Name them. I’ll burn offerings tomorrow.”
“This is so hot,” she whispered, the confession shuddering out of her in the space between their mouths. “You. Me. Here.” She kissed him again, sucking his tongue. “The heir to the throne of Adarlan,” she murmured against his lips, each word a hot puff of air. “And the heir to Terrasen.” She rolled her hips, making him gasp. “Fucking in a library. It’s so… obscenely erotic. It makes me want to burn the whole palace down.”
“Start with me,” he growled. He finally tugged the dress, pushing the silk from her shoulders. It slithered down her arms, catching at her elbows, baring her to the waist.
The cool air of the library hit her skin, pebbling it, making her nipples draw into even tighter peaks. His gaze dropped, and his breath left him in a ragged sigh. “Hell,” he whispered.
He didn’t just stare. He worshiped. His hands came up, not roughly, but with a reverence that was shocking, to cup the full, heavy weight of her breasts. His thumbs swept over the taut peaks, once, twice, before he lowered his head and took one into his mouth.
The sensation was electric. His mouth was hot, wet, devastatingly skilled. He laved her with his tongue, then sucked, deep and pulling, while his other hand teased its twin, pinching and rolling the nipple until she was writhing above him, a steady stream of curses and pleas falling from her lips. She bucked against him, the silken core of her making a damp patch on his trousers, seeking the pressure it desperately needed.
“Dorian, please…”
“Please what?” he asked, releasing her breast with a soft pop, his lips glistening. He looked up at her, his blue eyes dark with lust, his hair thoroughly wrecked by her hands. “Use your words, my queen. Command your subject.”
She framed his face with her hands, forcing him to look at her. “Stop playing. Fuck me. Now.”
A predatory smile lit his face. “Your wish.” His hands went to her thighs, hiking up the heavy skirts of her dress, pushing them up around her waist. The air kissed the bare skin of her upper thighs. And then his hands stilled.
His gaze locked not on the simple, dark lace underwear she wore, but on the leather strap just above it.
A dagger. A thin, wicked-sharp blade in a supple leather sheath, strapped to her right thigh.
He stared at it. The arousal that had been pounding through him seemed to triple, condensing into a hard, almost painful wave. A shiver that had nothing to do with cold racked his tall frame.
“Fuck,” he breathed, the word utterly awed. His fingers, which had been so sure, trembled slightly as they brushed over the cool leather of the sheath, then the warm skin of her inner thigh beside it. He looked up at her, his expression one of dazed, overwhelming hunger. “You come to a prince’s bed armed.”
“I come everywhere armed,” she said, her own voice unsteady, watching his reaction. The sight of his desire, heightened and sharpened by the weapon, was impossibly potent.
“It’s the most erotic thing I have ever seen in my life,” he confessed, his voice thick. His fingers traced the line of the strap, then dipped beneath it, finding the sensitive skin beneath. He hooked a finger in the lace of her underwear, pulling it aside. “This,” he said, looking from the dagger to the dark lace, to the bare, glistening flesh he’d just exposed. “This is going to kill me. You are going to be the death of the Adarlanian line.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He kissed her again, a deep, starving kiss, as his fingers finally, finally touched her. He found her wet, soaked, ready. He slid a finger through her folds, circling her clit, making her jerk and cry out into his mouth.
“So loud already,” he taunted gently, his breath ragged against her cheek. “And I’ve barely begun.”
He added a second finger, stretching her, preparing her, his thumb keeping up a relentless, torturous rhythm on her clit. She was panting, clutching at his shoulders, her head thrown back, the world dissolving into sparks behind her eyelids. The pleasure was a tight coil, winding mercilessly in her lower belly.
“Dorian, I’m—“
“Not yet,” he commanded, his voice guttural. He removed his hand, ignoring her whimper of protest. With frantic, clumsy hands, he worked the fastenings of his own trousers, freeing himself. He was thick, hard, the tip flushed and leaking. He gripped himself, stroking once, his eyes rolling back for a second before he focused on her.
He looked at her, bare from the waist up, skirts piled around her hips, the dagger on her thigh, her lace underwear pushed aside, her face flushed with wanting him. A raw, ragged sound tore from his throat.
He gripped her hips, lifting her slightly. “Look at me,” he demanded.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his blazing blue gaze.
He positioned himself at her entrance. “This,” he said, pushing into her, an inch, two, an exquisite, burning stretch. “This is history.”
And he sheathed himself inside her completely.
The feeling was catastrophic. A fullness, a rightness, a friction so perfect it blinded her. She collapsed forward with a sob, her forehead against his shoulder, her inner muscles clamping around him. He held still, buried to the hilt, both of them shuddering, breathing in ragged unison.
“Gods,” he choked out, his arms wrapping around her, holding her as if she were the only solid thing in a spinning world. “Aelin.”
She moved first, lifting herself up, then sinking back down, taking him even deeper. A groan was ripped from his chest. He met her on the next rise, his hips driving up into hers. They found a rhythm, frantic and deep, there on the velvet couch in the heart of his family’s power. The only sounds were their ragged breaths, the slick slap of skin, the creak of ancient furniture, and the soft, shuddering moans she couldn’t suppress.
He clutched her ass, pulling her down onto him harder with each thrust, his fingers digging into the flesh. “You feel… you feel like dying,” he gasped into her hair. “You feel like claiming a kingdom.”
She rode him, her breasts bouncing, her hair a wild cascade. She leaned down, capturing his mouth again, swallowing his groans. The coil inside her tightened, unbearably. The sight of him beneath her—the powerful, handsome prince undone, his political cunning shattered into pure physical need—was the final trigger.
“Dorian,” she cried out, her body seizing, clenching around him in pulsating waves. The pleasure was a silent scream, a detonation that turned her bones to liquid fire.
Her climax triggered his. With a shout he didn’t even try to muffle, he thrust up into her one last, deep time, his body arching off the couch as he spent himself inside her. His grip on her was iron, his face buried in her neck, his cry muffled against her skin.
They slumped together, a tangled, sweating, breathless heap of limbs and silk and undone clothing. The only light was the guttering candle. The scent of sex and rosewater and old books filled the air.
Slowly, the world swam back. Her heart hammered against his. His breath was hot on her collarbone. She became aware of the uncomfortable edge of her dagger sheath digging into her thigh, of the damp silk of her dress crumpled around her waist, of the profound, startling emptiness as he softened and slipped out of her.
Neither of them spoke for a long time.
Finally, Dorian shifted, his hand coming up to stroke her hair, which was stuck to her damp temple. “Well,” he said, his voice hoarse but a thread of its old humor returning. “I believe my hypothesis was correct.”
She lifted her head, looking down at him. “Which was?”
He smiled, a slow, sated, devastatingly handsome smile. “That you, Aelin Galathynius, are the single most dangerous and compelling creature in Erilea.” His finger traced the line of her jaw. “And that I am officially, and irrevocably, a dead man.”
From the hallway outside the library, faint but growing louder, came the sound of bootsteps on marble. Purposeful. Multiple pairs.
Aelin froze, the hazy aftermath of pleasure evaporating in a heartbeat. Dorian’s body went rigid beneath her.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
A knuckle rapped, sharp and imperious, against the wood. It was not a servant’s knock.
“Prince Dorian?” called a voice—cold, familiar, and laced with a tension that had nothing to do with courtly protocol. Chaol.
Dorian’s eyes met hers. In the dim light, the ghost of passion was swiftly replaced by the sharp glint of strategy. His hand, which had been stroking her hair, moved to the back of her neck, a silent signal to be still, to be silent.
He cleared his throat, his prince’s mask sliding into place with unnerving speed, though he made no move to dislodge her from his lap. “Captain Westfall?” he called back, his voice remarkably even. “I’m occupied.”
A pause. Aelin could feel Chaol’s fury through the door. “Your presence is required. Immediately. It’s regarding your… guest.”
The word was a weapon.
Dorian’s jaw tightened. His eyes never left Aelin’s. They held a question, and a promise. The game had changed. The secret was threatened. The fire they had just stoked was about to be tested by a very different kind of flame.