Page 36

She tears at my vest, fumbling with the fastenings. I help her, shrugging it off, letting it drop to the grass. Our kisses intensify, tongues meeting in a heady rhythm. Her hands roam my chest, nails scraping lightly across my war sigils. A shiver wracks me.

“Gods,” she mutters between heated kisses. “Why does this feel more real than anything?”

“Because it is,” I rasp, pressing her back against the tree trunk, mindful to cushion her with my arm. Our bodies align, and we both gasp at the friction. Heat coils low in my belly, overwhelming logic.

We fumble with laces, our breath coming in ragged bursts. The orchard’s breeze cools my skin where her fingers explore, but the rest of me burns. She arches into my touch with a low moan, eyes fluttering shut.

Yet it’s different from our first time—less of that furious collision, and more raw with emotion. We’re not just sating lust or channeling anger; we’re connecting in a bond forged by shared peril and reluctant devotion. My heart hammers with the realization: This is no mere fling.

Her lips trail across my collarbone, drawing a hiss from me.

My hands glide along her thighs, discovering fresh bruises, each one igniting a protective rage.

I pause, meeting her gaze in silent question: Is this all right?

She nods, eyes shimmering with trust. My chest constricts at that vulnerable acceptance.

We lose ourselves in sensations. The orchard spins into a blur of gold-green light, shadows shifting as we move. Our kisses slow, become more deliberate, tongues exploring with aching tenderness. She clings to my shoulders, her soft gasps urging me onward.

Finally, with one shared breath, we let the last barriers slip away. Our bodies unite in a slow, deliberate rhythm. She cries out softly, muffling it against my neck. My groan echoes in my ears. The orchard’s hush magnifies every sigh, every whisper of skin on skin.

Time stretches, dissolving into pure feeling. My hand cups her cheek, forcing our gazes to lock. “Lysandra,” I murmur, voice hoarse with emotion. “I’m with you. Always.”

She presses her lips to my palm, tears glistening in her lashes. “Promise me,” she breathes. “Promise you won’t abandon me.”

"I swear," I choke out, the sincerity of it slicing through me. My cock throbs inside her, buried to the hilt, and she arches against me with a gasp. The heat of her pussy clenches around me, slick and warm, and I grit my teeth against the overwhelming pleasure.

"Xelith—" Lysandra’s voice is ragged, her nails biting into my arms as we move together.

Each thrust sends a wave of desperate need through me, her body rocking against the tree trunk, the bark rough against my forearm where I brace her.

The orchard air is thick with the scent of crushed grass and her skin, sweat-slick and trembling beneath my hands.

"Feel how wet you are," I growl against her throat, my fingers digging into her hip as I pull her harder onto me. "Gods, you take me so fucking well."

She whimpers, her thighs tightening around my waist. "I feel you—every inch—" Her breath hitches as I angle deeper, and her head falls back with a moan. "Fuck, right there?—"

The friction is unbearable, exquisite. Her pussy grips me like a vice, fluttering as she nears the edge, and I can’t hold back my own ragged groan. "Don’t look away from me,” I demand, my voice raw.

Her eyes lock onto mine, dark with need, her lips parted on a pant. The vulnerability there undoes me. This isn’t just fucking—it’s something deeper, something that terrifies me with its intensity.

"Come with me," I rasp, my thrusts turning uneven, desperate. "Let go, Lysandra?—"

Her climax crashes over her first. She cries out, her body clamping down on my cock in pulsing waves, and the sheer pleasure of it drags me under. I bury myself inside her one last time with a groan, spilling deep as she trembles against me.

For a moment, the world narrows to the sound of our ragged breathing, the rustle of leaves above us, the way her fingers clutch at me like I’m the only thing keeping her grounded.

"I’ve got you," I murmur, pressing my forehead to hers as aftershocks ripple through us both. Her skin is fever-hot against mine, her breath mingling with my own.

Slowly, reality seeps back in—the orchard’s golden light dappling our tangled bodies, the distant call of birds, the ache of my muscles from holding her so tightly. She lets out a shaky laugh, her fingers tracing the war sigils on my chest.

"That was..." She trails off, her cheeks flushed, and I smirk.

"Real?" I finish for her, brushing a damp strand of hair from her face.

She nods, her gaze softening. "More than that."

I kiss her, slow and deep, because words fail me. The promise hangs between us, unspoken but undeniable—this is more than lust, more than desperation. It’s a vow.

Eventually, I gently ease away, smoothing her hair from her damp forehead.

We exchange a shaky laugh tinged with relief.

She tugs her tunic back into place, cheeks flushed.

My own face burns with the intensity of what we’ve just shared.

This is more than just lust; it’s a reaffirmation that we stand as one, beyond the realm of betrayal and doubt.

She rests her head on my shoulder, exhaling softly. “We should… get back. They’ll wonder if a scouting party found us.”

I nod, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Yes. And we have preparations to finalize. The council won’t rest. We can’t, either.”

We help each other straighten our rumpled clothing, pulse still unsteady. The orchard’s breeze cools the sheen of sweat from my skin. When we’re presentable enough, we stand, lingering a moment, hands still joined.

A swarm of emotions buzzes in my chest: fierce protectiveness, a surprising tenderness, and renewed determination. If we survive the battles ahead, it’ll be because we forged this unity—together.

We step from behind the trees, rejoining the clearing. My guards and her rebel allies avert their gazes politely, though I catch a few smirks. Lysandra’s cheeks color, but she lifts her chin, resolute. I do the same, ignoring any snide remarks that might come.

One of my most trusted soldiers, Takar, approaches with an air of urgency.

“My prince,” he says, saluting. “We’ve scouted further south.

There’s a sizable farmland enclave that’s agreed to meet with you—under Lysandra’s guarantee.

But they warn that the council’s outriders have been sighted nearby. ”

I exchange a glance with Lysandra. She nods, face smoothing into resolve. “We can’t let them slip away. If we can rally that enclave, we might form a real base of resistance.”

I turn to Takar. “Then gather everyone. We leave within the hour. If the council’s outriders attempt to intercept us, we’ll deal with it.”

He salutes and hurries off. Lysandra exhales, scanning the orchard. “I just hope they trust me enough to stand down. If they see you, a Dark Elf prince, leading an armed band, they might panic.”

I thread my fingers through hers, drawing her gaze back to me. “We have no choice but to try. Our alliance is the only chance we have.”

She squeezes my hand, giving me a faint, determined smile. “Then let’s do it.”

Within the hour, we mount our horses—some borrowed from farmland stables, others carried over from the fortress escape.

Our combined force is a motley crew of a dozen Dark Elf soldiers loyal to me, plus about half that number of humans who followed Lysandra, or at least trust her enough to see reason.

The orchard behind us recedes as we set off under the rising sun.

We ride in a tight formation, scanning the horizon for any sign of pursuit. My thoughts drift to the second we shared behind those trees. My body still hums from her touch, a fierce reminder that whatever fate awaits us, we won’t face it alone.

At midday, we crest a low hill and spot the farmland enclave in the distance—a sprawling cluster of huts and makeshift barricades. Figures pace the perimeter, wary of intruders. Lysandra signals for us to halt a short distance away.

She dismounts, calling out to them in a clear, confident voice. “It’s me, Lysandra Riven!” The tension in our group spikes, but she stands tall, ignoring the anxious glances from my men. “I come with a Dark Elf prince who’s turned against the council. We want to parley.”

For a heartbeat, I sense the hush of the farmland. Then, a single figure emerges from behind the barricade—an older man with a scar across his cheek. He narrows his eyes at Lysandra, then at me. “Riven,” he mutters. “We heard rumors you joined them. Sold us out.”

She shakes her head emphatically. “Never. The council wants me dead. Xelith saved my life. He’s an outcast now, same as we are. We’ve come to unite, not conquer.”

A murmur ripples through the small crowd behind the barricade. The old man eyes me warily. “Prince or not, a Dark Elf’s a Dark Elf. Why should we trust him?”

I swallow any offense, focusing on calm. “Because the council hates me nearly as much as they hate you,” I say, letting a wry note slip into my voice. “We stand a better chance together than apart.”

He spits on the ground, still uncertain. Lysandra steps forward, voice steady. “Please. We don’t have time to argue. The council’s outriders scour the farmland. They’ll crush anyone who defies them. Xelith and I can help you fortify, or at least relocate somewhere safer.”

A flicker of doubt clouds the man’s features, but Lysandra’s words must resonate. He motions for us to come closer, though his people remain armed, lining the barricade. My men bristle at the hostility, but they keep their weapons sheathed.