Page 15 of Burning Her Beautiful

VAROK

M idnight settles over the citadel of Galmoleth like velvet ink, soft enough to lull the sentries lining the parapets, yet heavy with an unspoken promise of trouble.

The stained-glass panels in my private dining salon glow with backlit lightning, painting the long table in restless, jeweled patterns.

Two place settings await, gold forks gleaming beside crystal goblets.

My hands rest on the chair backs while I listen to the pulse roaring inside my ears.

Tonight should belong to strategy. Tomorrow I will face a hall of nobles thirsty for scandal, and Lady Sarivya is no doubt poised to pour them poison sweet as amaranth wine. Agent Yalira’s evidence must be planted before dawn. Garrik’s reports of guard rotations still lie unread on my desk.

None of that matters in this single, suspended breath.

Bootsteps whisper beyond the carved doors.

My heart lurches—ridiculous and eager—so I school my expression into calm the moment the latch clicks.

Iliana enters, cloaked in dusk-blue velvet that catches lamplight like a moonlit lake.

A single vine blossom—white, impossible in this season—rests behind her ear, its petals trembling with each graceful step.

She shuts the door behind her, eyes sweeping the room, then settling on me.

“You requested my presence,” she says. The words hold no fear, only a quiet current of curiosity that ignites heat beneath my skin.

“I did.” I draw out her chair. “Please, sit.”

She studies me for a heartbeat—measuring command, perhaps savoring it—then glides across the carpet and lowers herself onto the padded seat.

Her cloak parts to reveal a fitted bodice of matte indigo leather that traces the gentle swell of her breasts before flaring at the waist into soft silk panels.

At her throat, an amethyst pendant glints, its chain dipping into the hollow where her pulse flickers.

She rests her hands in her lap—fingers laced, poised, and utterly unbroken.

I pour a wine infused with star-fruit and dark spice.

When I hand her the goblet, our fingers brush.

The small contact disrupts the carefully balanced air, sending awareness spiraling through me.

I retreat to the opposite chair but do not sit.

Instead, I circle the table, letting the silence stretch until it vibrates.

“Your network grows,” I say at last while refilling my own glass. “Garrik counted seventeen new hums traveling the pipe shafts before dusk. None matched our codes. I assume they were yours.”

She lifts her brows, neither confirming nor denying. “The stones resonate beautifully when their prison forgets to listen.”

I smile despite the hard knot of desire tightening in my belly. “You accomplish in one day what scholars take months to design.”

“And you pave paths with flowers that bow to your whim.” She sips the wine, lashes lowering. “Perhaps we trade methods.”

A rush of pride swells inside me. I move to the window, gaze fixed on the rolling cloud sea. “You have become a variable I did not predict, Iliana.”

She sets her glass down, the soft clink loud in the hush. “Variables keep equations alive.”

I turn. Moonlight washes her features, rendering her striking cheekbones in gentle silver. I feel the precarious edge between caution and possession crumble beneath my boots.

“Come,” I command, voice low.

She stands—silk rustling—and approaches.

I hold out my hand. She places hers atop it without hesitation.

The warmth of her palm floods my veins. I lead her past the table, through a side arch into a quieter chamber lit only by braziers of scented charcoal.

The aroma coils—cedar, myrrh, and a faint vanilla—and I feel the space closing around us, intimate as a secret.

A single chaise, upholstered in midnight velvet, waits near the far wall. I face her and lift one gloved finger, tracing air just above her collarbone. “Remove the cloak.”

Her breath catches, but her gaze never wavers.

She unclasps the silver brooch at her shoulder, lets the velvet slide down her arms, and hands it to me.

I drape it over a nearby screen. When I turn back, she stands bare-shouldered except for that sleek bodice, her skin glowing warm bronze in the firelight.

“Tell me,” I murmur, stepping closer, “do you trust me?”

She inhales, then nods. “To a point.”

“Which point?”

“The one just beyond fear.” Her voice flutters but does not falter. “The place where choices become declarations.”

My pulse kicks. I cup her cheek, thumb stroking the delicate curve below her eye. “Then declare something, Iliana.”

She rises on her toes and brushes her lips across mine in the gentlest stroke imaginable.

I feel it everywhere—skin electric, lungs greedy for air.

She lowers herself but keeps those emerald eyes on mine.

“I declare that I am not afraid of you,” she whispers, “but I am terrified of what we could become.”

The honesty pierces. I slide my hand into her hair, fisting gently at the nape. “Let the terror rest tonight.”

She presses closer, palms flattening against my chest. “Then show me how.”

I claim her mouth with quiet hunger, a kiss that starts reverent and then deepens until her sigh becomes a low moan. She tastes of fruit and daring. I take, yet I also offer—unyielding, vulnerable in the hush between breaths. When I break away, she sways.

“Turn around,” I order softly.

She obeys, exposing the row of silver toggles that fasten her bodice.

I trace a single finger down her spine, following the leather seam.

Each contact pulls a shiver. I work the toggles loose, one by one, until the garment gapes and slides forward.

She raises her arms to help, and I free her torso, baring the elegant lines of her shoulders and the subtle dip of her waist. I drop the bodice to the floor.

She stands in a simple silk bandeau, the cloth thin enough to hint at dusky peaks beneath.

I trail my fingertips along her arms, feeling her tremble.

“Is this all right?” I whisper against her ear.

“Yes,” she breathes, arching back slightly against my chest. “Keep going.”

I slip the bandeau upward, brushing my thumb over a taut nipple as I lift.

Her gasp sings straight through me. I toss the scrap aside.

My hands fill with warm curves, palms cupping the weight of her breasts.

I knead gently, rolling her nipples until they peak harder.

Her head tilts back, resting on my shoulder—lips parted.

“Beautiful,” I rasp, suddenly desperate.

I glide one hand down the flat plane of her stomach, pausing at the waistband of her silk skirt.

With a firm tug, I loosen the knot, and the fabric puddles around her ankles.

She steps free, entirely bare except for the blossom behind her ear and the thin leather anklet I had never noticed before. The sight sears into memory.

I turn her to face me. Firelight licks over her skin, gilding collarbones and bathing the subtle swell of hips.

I shrug off my coat, then unhook the belt that holds my scaled cuirass.

She watches—breathing faster—as muscles stretch and flex beneath crimson skin.

When I pull the linen shirt over my head, lamplight paints rune-scarred flesh with molten copper.

Her gaze lingers on the spiral brand over my heart, a mark still faintly glowing from recent adrenaline.

She lifts her hand, tracing the edge with near-sacred care.

The touch steals breath. I grasp her wrist, guiding her palm flat against the thrum beneath.

“It beats faster for you than it ever did for war,” I confess, my voice gritty.

A soft smile curves her mouth. “Prove it.”

I back her toward the chaise. She sinks onto the velvet, hair spilling.

I kneel before her, hooking her thighs over my shoulders.

She cries out when my tongue slides along slick folds, and the sound rips a groan from my chest. I taste salt and honey, lap slowly, savoring the way her fingers clutch my horns for balance.

Each stroke draws a fresh tremor, a hitching gasp that tells me her control slips.

I circle the swollen knot of nerves with firm pressure, teasing with the flat of my tongue until her hips lift, seeking more.

But dominance is patience; I withdraw, blow cool breath against wet heat, and she whimpers.

“Varok—please.”

The plea fractures restraint in aching shards.

I slide two fingers into her, pressing upward, curving to strike that hidden place that makes her clench around me.

She arches, spine bowing from the chaise.

I stroke, tongue flicking, fingers thrusting, until her entire body tightens like a drawn bowstring.

She comes with a cry that echoes off stone, nails scoring my scalp with delicious pain.

I slow only after the aftershocks fade. She collapses, chest heaving, eyes glazed. I rise, tugging my trousers open. My cock strains—dark and thick, slick at the tip. I watch her pupils dilate when she sees exactly how much hunger she kindles.

“Turn over,” I command, voice hoarse.

She rolls onto her stomach, lifting to hands and knees, her back an arc of want and defiance, hips rising like an offering in the hush.

The firelight gilds every curve in molten gold—her spine a living map I ache to memorize.

I run both palms down that back, slow and reverent, feeling the tremor beneath skin still glowing with climax.

She shivers when I reach the swell of her ass, when my fingers trace down to where she’s soaked and open for me.

The head of my cock brushes against her entrance, and gods—she’s wet, slick, pulsing heat. I pause, every muscle taut, breath heaving.

“One word,” I say hoarsely, bent low behind her, my chest grazing her back. “One, and I stop.”

She doesn’t speak. She pushes.