And soon enough, after Lucius pressed that kiss to my lips, he left—without a word, just like the breeze. Or maybe the breeze left with him. He was beginning to harness the energy inside him. I just watched him go. I didn't call out. I didn't chase. I just stood there.
Then Varian stepped into the room.
The wind had thrown the window wide open. Rain poured in, hitting my face, my hair—drenching me. But I didn't flinch. I didn't even feel it. I only watched the place where Lucius had disappeared.
Veryon reached for my hand.
"Was... is anyone here?" he asked, eyes searching mine like he could read the truth there.
I looked away.
"No. Nobody is."
Why did I lie?
Veryon had to know. He deserved the truth. So why was I keeping it from him?
"I don't know why I'm doing this," I whispered, more to myself than him.
He sat me down gently, pulling me aside with a quiet urgency. His breath brushed my ear as he leaned in.
"I know this won't be easy," he said, voice low and warm. "But we'll face it together. You came here looking for the truth, didn't you?"
Then he stood and walked to the wardrobe. He returned with a small, timeworn chest and placed it carefully into my hands.
"These… these are the letters you used to write me," he said. "Back when you lived in the palace. After we met, after you had to leave. You wrote to me every day."
He opened the chest.
Dozens of folded letters rested inside, tied in ribbons of fading blue. He handed one to me. The handwriting—it was beautiful. Neat. Familiar. Too familiar.
It looked like mine. The same curving loops, the same soft pressure in the strokes. Exactly like the letters I used to write in school. In childhood. In another life.
My breath caught.
And the words… God, the words. Every letter bled emotion. Questions about his well-being. Vivid descriptions of what I'd do when he returned. Hopes, dreams, longing… all wrapped in delicate ink.
Then came the last letter.
He hesitated before handing it to me.
I unfolded it with shaking hands.
In it, I'd written that we couldn't go on. That since the Incident of Nihil, we could no longer be together. It was final. Heartbreaking. Unforgiving.
I could see his replies tucked beneath it—pleading, apologizing, begging. And still, I'd refused to write back.
My chest cracked open.
I turned to him, his face taut with restrained emotion. Quietly, I reached for his hand.
"Why did we end?" I asked. "Why did we come to this?"
"You know why," he answered, his voice a fragile rasp. "Because I killed Nihil. And back then, no one knew who he truly was. They all turned against me."
His eyes met mine.
"But now they know. And it's too late. Lucius has everything now. Everything but you."
He leaned in. Close. Too close.
The space between us trembled.
And soon enough, after Lucius pressed that kiss to my lips, he left—without a word, just like the breeze. Or maybe the breeze left with him. He was beginning to harness the energy inside him. I just watched him go. I didn't call out. I didn't chase. I just stood there.
Then Varian stepped into the room.
The wind had thrown the window wide open. Rain poured in, hitting my face, my hair—drenching me. But I didn't flinch. I didn't even feel it. I only watched the place where Lucius had disappeared.
Veryon reached for my hand.
"Was... is anyone here?" he asked, eyes searching mine like he could read the truth there.
I looked away.
"No. Nobody is."
Why did I lie?
Veryon had to know. He deserved the truth. So why was I keeping it from him?
"I don't know why I'm doing this," I whispered, more to myself than him.
He sat me down gently, pulling me aside with a quiet urgency. His breath brushed my ear as he leaned in.
"I know this won't be easy," he said, voice low and warm. "But we'll face it together. You came here looking for the truth, didn't you?"
Then he stood and walked to the wardrobe. He returned with a small, timeworn chest and placed it carefully into my hands.
"These… these are the letters you used to write me," he said. "Back when I lived in the palace. After we met, I had to leave. You wrote to me every day."
He opened the chest.
Dozens of folded letters rested inside, tied in ribbons of fading blue. He handed one to me. The handwriting—it was beautiful. Neat. Familiar. Too familiar.
It looked like mine. The same curving loops, the same soft pressure in the strokes. Exactly like the letters I used to write in school. In childhood. In another life.
My breath caught.
And the words… God, the words. Every letter bled emotion. Questions about his well-being. Vivid descriptions of what I'd do when he returned. Hopes, dreams, longing… all wrapped in delicate ink.
Then came the last letter.
He hesitated before handing it to me.
I unfolded it with shaking hands.
In it, I'd written that we couldn't go on. That since the Incident of Nihil, we could no longer be together. It was final. Heartbreaking. Unforgiving.
I could see his replies tucked beneath it—pleading, apologizing, begging. And still, I'd refused to write back.
My chest cracked open.
I turned to him, his face taut with restrained emotion. Quietly, I reached for his hand.
"Why did we end?" I asked. "Why did we come to this?"
"You know why," he answered, his voice a fragile rasp. "Because I killed Nihil. And back then, no one knew who he truly was. They all turned against me."
His eyes met mine.
"But now they know. And it's too late. Lucius has everything now. Everything but you."
He leaned in. Close. Too close.
The space between us trembled.
He pulled his fingers out of me slowly, deliberately, watching as my slick coated them. Holding his hand up like a prize, he whispered hoarsely, "This… this is all you, my love. All your desire."
My breath hitched.
And then he dropped his cloak.
God.
Time stopped.
His body was carved—broad shoulders, a firm chest, rippling abs, and thick, strong arms that had held me like I was made of stars. Scars laced across his skin like constellations, stories etched into flesh. He was beauty wrapped in brutality.
And still… his eyes dropped, almost shy.
"I know," he murmured, voice barely audible. "My body… it's not as flawless as Lucia's. I'm covered in these marks. Disgraced. I didn't want you to see them. You deserve something perfect. And I'm not that."
I rose without a word.
I walked up to him, heart pounding, and pulled him into my arms.
Then I kissed every single scar—one by one. Slowly. Reverently. From the jagged one across his collarbone to the faded burn near his ribs. I didn't just see him—I loved him.
By the time I reached the last one, his breath was trembling. I looked up. His golden eyes were glassy.
"You didn't have to do that," he said softly, trying to smile through the ache. "No one wants scars."
I placed my palm gently over his heart. "You don't need to be perfect. You're already everything I want. These scars? They prove you lived. You fought. You survived. And I want all of it. All of you."
He stared at me like he was about to shatter.
"Fuck it," he growled.
Then he lifted me effortlessly into his arms, carrying me to the bed with that commanding grace of his. His lips were wild desperate as he kissed me like I was the air he'd been gasping for his whole life. Clothes fell. Skin met skin. Heat surged between us like lightning.
And then—I saw him.
All of him.
Naked. Raw. Glorious.
His cock stood proud—long, thick, veined, flushed at the tip, and aching.
My eyes widened. "Oh my god…"
He smirked, biting my lower lip playfully. "Are you ready for this, princess? Because I've waited so long to feel you."
I didn't even have the words—I just nodded, heart racing.
And then, slowly, he slid inside me.
A gasp tore from my lips. "Ah—fuck—!"
He stretched me so perfectly, painfully sweet. My hands gripped the sheets, eyes rolling back as he filled me completely.
"God, you're so tight," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "So fucking perfect."
He moved slowly at first, savoring the way I clenched around him, moaning with every roll of his hips. But then he picked up the pace, faster, deeper—every thrust making me cry out, every movement stoking the fire inside us.
And then he flipped me.
On my knees now, face flushed against the pillow, I whimpered as he entered me from behind—his hands gripping my hips, guiding me to meet each thrust.
The sound of skin against skin echoed in the room, mixing with breathy moans and curses.
I was unraveling. I was burning.
And I never wanted it to stop.