Ashiel Raen Castiel stepped into the shadowy meeting room of the Winterborne Estate, the marble tiles echoing under his boots with every deliberate step. The air was crisp with the scent of snow drifting in from the open balcony, a soft reminder of the empire he ruled with distant disdain. Snowflakes clung to the tips of his silver-blond hair, melting as they kissed the warmth of his skin. His long coat was tailored to perfection, dark as ink, contrasting his pale complexion and the sharp frost in his blue eyes. The room was silent except for the faint crackle of the fireplace, and the presence he walked toward—Lucien Valen Blackthorn—watched him like a predator studying the most exquisite prey.
Lucien sat sprawled with deliberate elegance in a high-backed leather chair, the firelight casting golden shadows across his sharply angled features. His obsidian eyes gleamed with curiosity and hunger. He was the kind of man who made promises with his smile and delivered threats with his silence. Ashiel had read his file—ruthless, charming, intelligent. And dangerous.
"You came," Lucien said, his voice a rich timbre that warmed the icy room. "I wasn't sure you'd accept my invitation."
Ashiel took a seat opposite him, every move calculated. "It was curiosity, not compliance. Say what you need to say."
Lucien reached for a crystal decanter, pouring two glasses of blood-red wine. He slid one toward Ashiel without breaking eye contact. "A marriage contract."
Ashiel's brows arched. "You're joking."
"I'm never not serious," Lucien replied. "This union would consolidate the northern and southern territories. It's logical. Beneficial."
Ashiel tilted his head, sipping the wine, letting its warmth bloom over his tongue before answering. "So you want a queen to parade around while you play king?"
Lucien leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "No. I want a partner—someone who doesn't bore me. Someone with teeth. And you, Ashiel Castiel, are the sharpest blade I've seen in years."
Ashiel's eyes narrowed. "Flattery won't make me any more inclined."
Lucien smirked. "It's not flattery if it's fact."
They stared at each other, tension thick in the room, not just political but magnetic. Lucien's eyes drifted down Ashiel's body, shameless, calculating.
"Is this your seduction technique?" Ashiel asked coolly.
"Only if it's working," Lucien replied, standing.
Ashiel remained seated, crossing his legs slowly. "You assume I can be bought or wooed."
"No," Lucien murmured, circling behind Ashiel's chair, his fingers brushing over the other man's shoulder. "I assume you can be tempted."
Ashiel's breath hitched for only a moment—brief, but noticeable. Lucien noticed everything.
"I don't do weakness," Ashiel whispered, his voice low, defensive.
Lucien bent close, his lips brushing Ashiel's ear. "Neither do I. But this isn't weakness. It's strategy. Pleasure. Power. Submission and dominance, balanced between two kings."
Ashiel turned his head slowly until they were nose-to-nose. "You think I'd submit to you?"
Lucien's eyes glittered. "I think you'd enjoy it more than you admit."
Their mouths collided.
It was war—teeth, tongues, heat.
Lucien dragged Ashiel out of the chair and onto his lap in one motion, fingers digging into his hips. Ashiel straddled him, coat tossed aside, one hand fisting Lucien's dark hair, the other undoing the buttons of his own shirt. The cold night air poured in from the balcony, but neither man felt it.
Lucien's hands were fire on Ashiel's skin, tracing the ridges of his abdomen, the small of his back. Ashiel moaned softly as Lucien's lips found the pulse at his throat and bit down—not enough to break skin, but enough to mark.
Ashiel retaliated by grinding against him, slow and merciless. Lucien groaned, his composure slipping.
"Is this part of your proposal?" Ashiel panted.
Lucien growled. "This is the contract."
They made their way to the desk, scattering papers, knocking over the decanter. Lucien bent Ashiel over the polished surface, yanking open his trousers. Ashiel gasped, arching back, clutching the edge of the table.
"Tell me to stop," Lucien whispered.
Ashiel didn't. Instead, he reached back and pulled Lucien closer, grinding against him.
Their coupling was raw and wild—no words, just moans, growls, skin against skin. Ashiel was a tempest of control unraveling, Lucien a storm willing to drown in him.
Afterward, they lay tangled on the rug before the fire, chests heaving, sweat mixing with the scent of sex and ash.
Lucien brushed a lock of silver hair from Ashiel's brow. "You still refusing my offer?"
Ashiel chuckled, breathless. "I haven't agreed."
"Not yet," Lucien said. "But you will."
Ashiel looked at him, eyes blazing. "We'll see who owns who."
Lucien smiled.
And so it began.