Page 30 of Burning Her Beautiful

ILIANA

M oonlight washes Galmoleth in pale blue, softening the edges of ramparts and spires as if a patient artist has taken a charcoal stick and blurred every hard line.

From the balcony of Varok’s new command tower, I watch lantern-barges drift along the river, each vessel carrying singers who hum the motif we spun at the amphitheater.

Their harmony rises on the cool night wind, curling around me like a silken shawl.

The melody lifts, pauses, and settles again—steady, reassuring, alive.

Behind me, the chamber glows with heart-warmth.

Fires burn low in twin braziers, perfuming the air with cedar and crushed sage.

Maps of fault lines and troop patrols lie stacked on a round table, their edges weighted by quartz anchors.

The world beyond these walls still schemes and plots, but for a few stolen hours the parchment can wait.

Tonight belongs not to charts or laws, but to the living currents that thread between Varok and me, tugging with quiet insistence.

Boot-steps cross the mosaic floor. I turn as Varok closes the balcony doors, latching them against the wind.

Armor gone, he wears only loose dark trousers and an open linen shirt.

Moonlight traces the line of a scar that arcs across his collarbone, a souvenir from battles he never boasts about.

His horns catch the glow, polished obsidian curving with austere grace.

Yet it is his eyes that hold me fast—molten silver now tempered by tenderness.

“Your pulse races,” he murmurs, voice velvet over stone. “I feel it from across the room.”

“I cannot seem to slow it,” I admit, pressing a hand to my throat where the resonance pendant rests. “So much changed in a single day. The charter passed, our bond was recognized, and storm lines were redrawn. Part of me fears I will wake and find it a dream.”

He steps closer, heat rolling from him. “Dreams fade. This stands.” He lifts my hand, placing it against his chest—firm muscle yielding to a heartbeat that thuds in time with mine. “Feel that? Flesh and truth.”

My palm tingles with each beat; his skin beneath the shirt smells faintly of smoke and mountain pine. I curl my fingers, anchoring.

Outside, a bell chimes midnight, its bronze tone drifting through shutters. The hour evokes an ache; tomorrow Tovor and his faction will meet to draft countermoves. Yet right now the city rests, and we must feed our strength.

I slide my cloak from my shoulders, letting it fall across the arm of a nearby chaise.

His gaze trails down the emerald-silk tunic I still wear, lingering on the crimson guard sash cinched at my waist. A half-smile pulls his lips.

“When you first arrived, chains clasped your wrists. Tonight the color of command wraps you instead.”

“And you removed your plate to meet me unarmed,” I note.

“For you I never need armor.” The honesty in his tone sends nerves humming.

I close the distance until only a breath separates us. The air between our skins sparkles—static born of lightning and song merged. My fingertips rise, tracing the line of his scar. “Tell me the story of this mark,” I whisper.

“South-ravine rebellion,” he answers, voice low. “A spear found me when I shielded a wounded recruit.”

“Did it hurt?” I already know it did, yet I wish to hear him share.

“Pain told me I was alive.” He lifts my chin with a gentle thumb. “Tonight pain has no place here.” He leans forward, brushing his lips along the faint slave-collar scar at my throat. Warm breath chases a shudder down my spine.

I exhale slowly, meeting his mouth halfway.

The kiss is unhurried—exploration rather than conquest. He tastes of cinnamon and dusk.

My hands climb to tangle in his hair, silky around the base of his horns.

He groans softly, deepening the angle. Lantern-light flickers, painting golden streaks across his cheekbones.

When we part, my lungs burn with need and wonder. I draw back just enough to gauge his eyes. Vulnerability lies bare there—no mask of rank, only a man who gave up glory for his heart.

“I want you,” I say—the confession a river bursting through a dam—“not because fear looms, but because life feels bigger beside you.”

Silver irises soften to pewter. “And I want you, not as victory’s prize, but as equal flame.” He slides his palms down my arms, thumbs circling the soft underside of my elbows. “Will you share your light with mine tonight?”

Rather than answer with words, I reach for the sash knot.

His hands still mine. “Allow me,” he murmurs, voice husky.

Fingers work slowly, loosening the crimson fabric.

He draws it aside, then presses his lips to the hollow beneath my ear while slipping tunic ties.

I tremble, knees suddenly unsure. Every brush of linen against skin heightens sensation.

The tunic falls in a whisper to the floor, pooling like spilled moonlight.

Cool air ghosts over bare shoulders, pebbling flesh.

Varok’s gaze roams from throat to hips—reverent rather than possessive.

He traces the line of my collarbone down to the swell of a breast, a fingertip feather-light. Heat floods.

I slide his linen shirt off broad shoulders, palms gliding over runed tattoos etched in deep silver-blue spirals down his arms. Their patterns pulse faintly, reacting to my touch.

Among them, fresh ink from two nights ago—twin leaves intertwined around a lightning bolt—marks our unity.

I brush my lips over those new lines; his breath staggers.

He lifts me effortlessly, cradling my thighs around his waist and carrying me to the bed draped in ivory sheets. The mattress sinks beneath our weight. He settles on his knees between my legs, moonlight spilling through the skylight—painting a tableau woven from dreams and prophecy both.

He pauses, eyes asking permission though his body yearns.

I answer by cupping his cheek, drawing him down.

The kiss turns hungry, tongues mapping familiar yet always-novel terrain.

Fingers roam: mine exploring ridges of abdominal muscle, his tracing the curve of my hip, thumb sweeping the sensitive skin where thigh meets flank. Sparks ignite nerves.

Clothing slips away in increments guided by mutual patience.

He worships each reveal—pressing lips to a scar on my rib from a Velinth whip, kissing the inside of my wrist where a manacle once bruised.

I mirror that devotion, mouthing a path along the dusky line where winged muscle meets back, feeling him shudder under the gentle scrape of teeth.

Connection deepens. At its apex we bare ourselves entirely, nothing hidden. He steadies above me, bracing on his forearms, forehead resting against mine. “Say stop if ever you need,” he breathes.

“I will only say more,” I reply, my voice trembling with truth.

He guides himself slowly, cock thick and hot as it presses into me, stretching the slick walls of my pussy inch by inch.

I gasp, a soft cry slipping past parted lips as he eases deeper, the ache sharp and sweet all at once.

My thighs tremble where they cradle his hips.

I feel the fullness, the deliberate drag of every ridge as my body adjusts to take all of him.

Varok groans, low and guttural, like the sound is torn from somewhere ancient in his chest. “Fuck, Iliana… you feel like fire wrapped in silk.”

He stills when he’s fully inside, his forehead pressing to mine.

Our breath tangles, erratic, the only sound beyond the crackle of the braziers and the distant hum of river song outside the balcony.

His cock pulses inside me, deep and unmoving, and I can feel his heartbeat through it—wild, reverent.

“Are you all right?” he murmurs, lips brushing mine.

I nod, barely able to speak. “You feel… perfect.”

That cracks his control. Slowly, he begins to move. The first pull-out is torturously slow—just enough friction to light a fuse along my spine. Then he glides back in, hips rolling forward, deeper, deeper still. My mouth falls open around a moan.

Each thrust is a wave, a slow tide gathering in strength.

He fucks me like he’s reading the runes of my body, like he knows what I need before I do.

His cock strokes every nerve, every slick contour, hitting places I didn’t know craved touch.

His lips graze my throat, then my collarbone, then lower, capturing a nipple between his teeth.

“Say it,” he rasps. “Tell me how this feels.”

“Full,” I pant, curling my fingers into his back. “So fucking full… You stretch me just right.”

He growls, hips snapping forward a little harder. The sound of our bodies meeting—wet, desperate, rhythmic—fills the room like its own kind of music.

“You take me so well,” he murmurs, voice raw. “So tight and wet for me. Gods, Iliana—your pussy grips like it never wants to let me go.”

I can barely answer. He shifts his angle, hips grinding down, and stars burst behind my eyes.

“There,” I gasp. “There—Varok?—”

He doesn’t relent. Over and over he drives into that spot, the head of his cock rubbing against the swollen center of my pleasure until I’m trembling. My legs lock around his hips. His hand slips between us, thumb circling my clit, coaxing more.

“I want you to come for me,” he whispers against my lips. “I want to feel it when you fall apart.”

I do. Gods, I do—my orgasm crashes over me like a wildfire, raw and unrelenting. My pussy clamps down around him, pulsing, wringing. I sob his name, tears prickling behind my eyes from the intensity. He kisses them away, murmuring praises as I ride out the wave.

But he doesn’t stop.

Before the tremors even fade, he lifts me with startling ease, rolling us so I straddle him now, his cock still buried inside. The shift stretches me in a new way, deeper, the angle sharper. I bite my lip to stifle another moan.