Page 52 of The Sol Crown (Fractured Lights #1)

“ H ow is it that I’m once again naked, and I still haven’t seen you without trousers?” My voice is scratchy, raw from the screams he tore from me.

Stone glances up from where his head rests lazily on my stomach, propped on the top of his hand—a wicked glint dances in his eyes.

“Not true,” he murmurs, smug. “I seem to recall you getting quite the view when I stepped out of the shower in Imperia.”

Heat floods my cheeks at the memory of his glistening body in a towel, and he grins when he sees it.

“If only you knew,” he says, voice dropping to a gravelly murmur, “how much I wanted to fuck you right then. How badly I craved that smart mouth and your absolutely devastating body.”

His fingers glide along my side, and he follows their path with a soft kiss, his lips brushing against the spot he’d just touched.

“Tell me,” I whisper, breath catching, heat blooming between my legs again.

His eyes darken, one brow arching at my request, but he doesn’t tease. He indulges.

He sits back on his knees between my thighs, hands running up the length of them, slow and possessive.

“I wanted to wrap these gorgeous legs around my waist,” he says, voice low and rough as he grabs my thighs and yanks me down into him.

I gasp, moaning as his clothed cock grinds against my soaked, swollen core.

“Then,” he growls, “I imagined setting you on the sink, dropping my towel, and thrusting into you in one. Hard.” He thrusts forward then, with a firm grind of his hips, his thick length rubbing exactly where I need him, and I arch my back with a moan. “Push.”

“Stone, please,” I whimper.

He chuckles, low and dangerous. “I never took you for the begging type, Red.”

His rogueish smile is all male satisfaction, but his eyes—Gods, his eyes are blue flames, flickering with hunger and something deeper.

“I’ll be anything you want me to be,” I breathe, writhing beneath him, hips twisting in search of the friction he’s now cruelly withholding.

He leans down, hand gripping my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. All trace of teasing vanishes. What I see in his face steals the breath from my lungs.

“I want you, Elina,” he says, voice rough, full of conviction. “Just. You.”

The words unravel something inside me. I surge up, kissing him fiercely, desperate to close the space between us, and he allows it for two beats until he takes back control. His hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just holding me there, possessive, dominant.

And for someone bearing the weight of a kingdom, the loss of control is startlingly, deliciously, freeing.

His other hand moves fast, the unmistakable sound of a zipper being lowered cutting through the air. I reach to help, but he swats my hands away, catching them in one fluid motion and pinning them above my head again, his breath hitching at the image before him.

I’m starting to understand that he likes me like this. Entirely his. Entirely at his mercy.

“Do you know what else I’ve imagined?” he murmurs, voice gravel- dark as his hips press down, and I feel the hot, aching weight of him nudging between us. “Scenes I’ve played in my head so many times, I swear I almost lost my mind?”

He brushes a thumb across my bottom lip, dragging it slowly before slipping it just past my mouth. I part for him without hesitation, my body responding with an urgency that borders on worship as I suck and lick at his thumb.

“Every time you challenged me. Every time you argued. Every time you looked at me like you wanted to fight…” His voice dips, wicked. “I dreamed about taking this mouth and fucking the sass out of it.”

He withdraws his thumb, slow and deliberate, and my lips feel empty without the pressure.

I’ve never surrendered this way before, not to anyone. But with him? With Stone? I want to. I want to give him everything.

His head drops, and he kisses my neck. “What do you say, Red? Want to live out my fantasies?”

I don’t speak. I don’t think I can. Instead, I press my hands to his chest, urging him back, and to my surprise, he lets me. He watches me, barely blinking, as I sit up and rise to my knees before him, pushing his trousers down the rest of the way.

The hunger in his gaze, the way he’s staring at me, makes me feel more powerful than any crown ever has.

His breath catches, sharp and guttural, as I take him in my hands first, slow and deliberate. My fingers wrap around the weight of him; he’s hot and thick, and I feel him pulse at the first stroke.

“Elina,” he groans, voice cracking.

I dip my head, flicking my tongue over the tip, tasting the heat of him.

Then I take him into my mouth, inch by inch.

The sound he makes is raw, almost broken.

I close my eyes and focus on him—the way his thighs tense under my grip, the rasp of his fingers twisting in the sheets, the way he mutters my name like a prayer laced with sin .

“Fuck, baby—” he tries, breathless.

I look up at him, lips stretched around his size, and his hand comes to rest lightly on my cheek, not guiding, just touching. Like he needs the contact. Like he needs to know this is real.

I move with slow purpose, letting him feel every part of me, every ounce of heat and intent. The taste of him is salt and musk, and the surge of possession that runs through me shocks me to my core.

His hips jerk, and his breathing becomes frantic. “Gods, Elina,” he chokes out. “You’re better than any fantasy.”

His words spur me on. I pick up speed, determined to watch him fall apart just like I did.

And when he finally does—head thrown back, a hoarse sound tearing from his throat—I feel powerful and free and completely, irrevocably his.

At some point, we fall asleep wrapped up in each other again. It’s quickly becoming my favourite place to be—tucked between his thick, tattooed arms where the world and all my obligations quiet.

* * *

I wake in the morning when Stone swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits. His back is to me, bathed in early light spilling through the curtains, gold catching the edges of his spine, the curve of his shoulder. I push up onto my elbows, the warmth of sleep still heavy in my limbs.

Then I see them.

Faint in some places, raised and pale in others. His scars.

Dozens of them slashed across his back.

And just like the first time I saw them, my breath catches. My heart aches.

“Stone… ”

He goes still.

“Tell me who did that to you,” I whisper, my words a plea.

His shoulders rise and fall with a long, measured breath. For a moment, I think he might brush it off again, or worse, shut me out entirely, tell me it’s none of my business. But then his hand runs through his hair, and he speaks, quietly, carefully.

“They’re from my father.”

The words land heavy. Final.

“I told you we don’t get along… well, when I was younger, this is what he would do to me. Most days, the beatings didn’t leave marks. Just bruises. Welts. Things that faded. But sometimes…” He pauses, exhaling through his nose. His hands clench at his sides. “Sometimes he used his belt buckle.”

I rise from the bed slowly, letting the sheet fall from my body as I cross to him. He still doesn’t turn, it’s like he can’t bear to see what’s written on my face.

I reach out and trace the scars with gentle fingers, feeling each one like I can remove the pain they caused and absorb it into myself. Then, I lean in and press a kiss on each of them.

Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight visible lash marks. Twenty-eight permanent lines of proof that someone once dared to lay hands on him.

“I’ll kill him,” I breathe, and the sound of my voice startles even me. I’ve never felt such a raw, primal fury before.

He turns then, eyes finding mine, and the look he gives me nearly breaks me, like he’s staring at something sacred. The sheer adoration in his gaze feels impossibly out of place in a conversation about pain and beatings.

He lowers his forehead to mine, hands settling on my waist, grounding himself in me.

“The honour of killing him belongs to me,” he says softly. “But thank you.”

Then he kisses me—not out of desire, but need. A silent plea. And I give it to him without hesitation.

We end up in the shower together, slow and unhurried, steam curling around us like a cocoon.

He washes my hair with gentle fingers, and I return the favour, letting my hands linger over his skin with purpose.

When I reach his back, I take my time, stroking each scar with care, pressing kisses to the ones that ache the most. I don’t speak, but I hope he feels it in every touch.

The love. The promise. The silent ache of what I’m not quite ready to say.

He turns to face me then, his forehead resting against mine, eyes closed like the moment is too big for words.

And in the hush between heartbeats, we just stand there, holding each other, letting the water carry away everything but this—this closeness, this quiet, sacred thing growing between us.

* * *

The last few days of the week pass in relative peace. We train, we eat, and we sleep in the same bed every night. My heart and soul feel at rest, like something missing has finally clicked into place. It’s the most content I’ve felt in… maybe ever.

“So,” Deacon murmurs, elbowing me as we half-listen to Barnett drone on about the proper grip for a staff—something I learnt at the age of eight, “things are going well between the two of you, huh?”

He nods toward where Stone stands across the yard with Trent, their heads bent in low conversation. But even from here, I can feel him watching me. When our eyes meet, a slow smile spreads across his face like he’s been waiting for me to look his way. My cheeks flush, traitorous.

“I keep expecting him to be done with me,” I say quietly—an admission.

My eyes drift back to Barnett as he demonstrates a manoeuvre using Brynn, and I groan in annoyance. He knows damn well I could have him on his ass in ten seconds flat with a staff, but apparently, I’ve got to relearn all this shit.