Maevor watched her with the kind of gaze that could burn cities.
She moved like a priestess in a temple built for sin—bare feet silent on the stone, velvet pooling around her ankles like spilled wine. The ruby in his skull pulsed faintly, as if it recognized her touch and hungered for more.
He leaned back against the carved bedpost, one arm slung over the silken sheets, the other resting near the hilt of his dagger. His mouth curled, wicked and amused.
"You speak as if I had a choice," he murmured, voice low and dark, "as if the palace holds anything worth my time when you're righthere."
Sybella sat before the mirror, the candlelight catching the curve of her throat, the gleam of bone-carved earrings now nestled against her skin. She combed her hair slowly, deliberately—each stroke a quiet defiance, each motion a reminder that she was not his subject, but his sovereign.
"Mm," she hummed, lips parted just enough to tempt, "and yet the mistress frets. She fears what thy obsession might birth."
Maevor laughed, the sound sharp and feral.
"She should. Obsession is the only honest thing I've ever known."
He rose then, slow and deliberate, the black of his coat whispering against the floor. He came to stand behind her, one hand sliding over her shoulder, the other curling into her hair like he was claiming a relic.
"You wear madness well," he whispered, mouth brushing her ear. "Like a crown forged in lust and ruin."
Sybella turned her head slightly, eyes meeting his in the mirror. Her gaze was calm. Knowing. Dangerous.
"And you," she said, voice velvet-wrapped steel, "bask in the madness like it were holy fire."
He grinned, the ruby eye gleaming faint it is.
His fingers tightened in her hair—not cruel, but possessive. Reverent. He bent lower, lips grazing the nape of her neck.
"Let them whisper. Let them tremble. I'll bring you to court wrapped in silk and sin, and let the nobles choke on their prayers."
She smiled, slow and devastating.
"Then let them choke."