After dinner, Arvin walked her to the corridor that led toward the consorts' quarters. His hand brushed her arm, just lightly, just enough to spark the memory of their kiss all over again. His voice was gentle—too gentle.
"Go to your chambers, Mirha. Rest."
She bowed her head, unable to trust her own voice, and turned away.
The moment she stepped into the hallway, her breath hitched. The silence felt too loud, her thoughts too sharp. She walked fast—then faster—until it turned into a soft, anxious run. She reached her chamber door with her heart pounding like it wanted to escape her ribcage.
The second she entered, she shut the door behind her and pressed her back against it.
Oh Lord… I just kissed the Emperor.
Her hands flew to her face. Her cheeks were burning. Her heart was beating as though she were still standing beside him.
She stumbled to the bed and fell onto it, limbs trembling. She turned to her side. Then the other. She sat up. She lay back down. Nothing helped.
Her mind replayed everything—the warmth of his fingers, the way his breath slowed before he kissed her, the way he said "Mirha" like it meant something.
And then the storm began.
A low moan of wind curled around the building, making the lanterns tremble. The branches outside scraped against each other. The night grew darker, thicker.
Mirha curled into the blankets, but the storm seemed to crawl beneath her skin. Every gust of wind felt like her own heartbeat echoing back at her.
She sat up again.
No sleep was coming.
Her breaths were shallow. She pressed a hand to her chest, but the rapid thudding didn't stop.
She got up.
There was a small table near the window with a bottle of deep red wine—Taican vintage, strong enough to quiet a general. She grabbed it with trembling fingers.
She poured a cup and stared at it.
Her mind raced.
She reached for a parchment and wrote a short note, her handwriting uneven:
I planned this. It was my decision.
I needed to numb my body. Just for tonight.
She set the note under the bottle, where anyone would see it.
Then she lifted the cup.
The wine hit her tongue like fire. It burned down her throat, but the sharpness felt good—better than the storm outside, better than the storm inside her.
She poured another.
Then another.
Her limbs slowly relaxed. Her heartbeat softened. The world grew a little blurry, a little warmer, the storm fading into a distant roar.
She drank again.
Trying to quiet her mind.
Trying to quiet her fear.
Trying to quiet the memory of his lips.
Trying—just for tonight—to stop feeling so much.
Arvin sat alone in his chambers, elbows on his knees, palms pressed against his forehead. The storm outside rattled the lattice windows, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside his chest.
His pulse had not calmed since the moment she left him.
He could still taste her.
Every time he blinked, he saw Mirha's lips—the way she looked at him right before the kiss, breath soft, unsure yet brave. It was torment. Sweet, maddening torment.
He stood abruptly, pacing across the room. His robe brushed against his skin, too warm, too suffocating. His body was restless. Hungry. His blood hot enough that even the cold floor beneath his feet didn't help.
He went to the door.
For a moment, he truly thought about saddling his horse and riding across Taico until dawn. He needed the wind, the distraction—anything to rip the image of Mirha from his mind.
But the moment he opened the door, a violent gust of wind howled through the corridor, shaking the lanterns. The storm was worsening. Even the palace guards looked uneasy.
The horses would panic.
He shut the door with a quiet, frustrated curse.
Arvin dragged a hand over his face. He had fought in battles, commanded armies, endured cold winters and political wars—yet nothing compared to the helplessness of wanting a woman he had promised not to pressure.
He leaned back against the wall, head tilted upward.
Gods… allow me to sleep. Just tonight.
But sleep refused him.
Everywhere he looked, her presence filled the room. The faint scent of her on his robe. The memory of her eyes widening when he kissed her. The soft warmth of her hand in his.
A low groan escaped him—half frustration, half longing.
He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady himself. His body was betraying him, burning with desire he had no right to touch.
He moved to the window, staring at the storm clouds swirling like ink across the sky.
"She's just down the hall," he whispered to himself.
"Don't go to her. Don't you dare go to her."
But the pull was unbearable.
He closed his eyes again, exhaling through clenched teeth.
Mirha… what are you doing to me?
The rain crashed against the palace like a thousand drums, drowning out everything—until suddenly, beneath the roar, Arvin heard something that made his eyes snap open.
A voice.
Soft. Slurred. Familiar.
"…I would like… to see His Majesty…"
He froze.
Mirha?
No. He must be imagining it. Desire was clouding his senses.
Then came the guard's frantic whisper, barely audible over the rain:
"Please, my lady, he may be sleeping—your ladyship, you're drunk and soaked through. It is pouring heavily. Allow me to escort you back to your chambers—"
"No!"
Her voice was childlike, stubborn—and heartbreakingly innocent.
Arvin's pulse slammed in his chest.
He took a sharp breath, praying it was a trick of the storm. But the voices grew louder…the rain pounding harder…footsteps shuffling in the hallway.
He stood.
Another "No!"—this time accompanied by the sound of someone stumbling.
That was no imagination.
Arvin didn't think. He moved.
With one decisive stride he reached the doors, swung them open—
And froze in place.
There she was.
Mirha stood in the hall, drenched from head to toe. Her hair clung to her cheeks, droplets rolling down her jaw and soaking into her clothes. Her lips were flushed, her eyes glassy from the wine she had forced down. The guard tried to hold an umbrella above her, but she kept swatting it away.
She turned—and saw him.
For a moment, she blinked, almost confused. Then her expression softened into the sweetest, most disarming smile.
"…Your Majesty…"
His heart cracked open.
Rainwater kept dripping off her, forming a small pool beneath her bare feet. Her hands trembled—whether from cold, wine, or the weight of her emotions, he could not tell.
Arvin's voice dropped, low and breathless.
"Mirha…"
She took one unsteady step toward him, and the guard tried to pull her back.
"My lady—!"
Arvin raised a hand.
"It's alright. Let her come."
Mirha wobbled but kept walking, her gaze fixed on him as though he were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
She stopped just a single breath away from him, rain still sliding down her neck.
"Your Majesty…" she whispered, voice fragile and warm.
"I… I wanted to see you."
The storm outside raged.
Arvin stepped aside, his heart pounding as he gestured for the guard to leave them be. The man bowed hastily and retreated into the shadows of the corridor, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that sealed them in together. The storm's fury seemed distant now, muffled by the thick stone walls of his chambers, but the air between them crackled with something far more electric.
Mirha swayed slightly as she crossed the threshold, her bare feet leaving wet prints on the polished marble floor. Water trailed from her sodden gown, darkening the rugs in her wake. Arvin's gaze lingered on her for a moment too long—the way the fabric clung to her curves, translucent in places, outlining the soft swell of her breasts and the gentle dip of her waist—before he forced himself to act.
"Come, you need to get out of those clothes," he said softly, his voice a low rumble that cut through the patter of rain against the windows. He moved to a carved chest near the hearth, pulling out a set of his own garments: a loose linen shirt and soft trousers, far too large for her frame but dry and warm. He draped them over a chair, then turned his back to her, giving her the privacy she deserved, though every fiber in him ached to watch.
Behind him, he heard the rustle of wet fabric peeling away from skin, the soft hitch of her breath as the chill air kissed her bare body. She pouted audibly, a childish sound that tugged at something deep in his chest—a mix of protectiveness and longing. "These are so big," she murmured, her words slurring just a touch, laced with that innocent frustration.
Arvin kept his eyes fixed on the flickering flames in the fireplace, his hands clenched at his sides. "They'll do for now. Better than freezing in your own skin."
When the sounds ceased, he glanced over his shoulder only after hearing her bare feet pad across the room. She had changed, the oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder, the trousers cinched awkwardly at her waist with a belt she'd improvised from a sash. She looked adorably disheveled, like a child playing dress-up in her father's clothes, but the vulnerability in her eyes made her seem achingly womanly.
Without a word, she wandered to the side table where a decanter of deep red wine sat, half-empty from his earlier indulgence. Her small hand wrapped around the goblet, lifting it to her lips before he could stop her. She took a generous swallow, the liquid staining her mouth crimson, a dribble escaping down her chin.
"Mirha—" Arvin crossed the room in two strides, gently but firmly prying the goblet from her fingers. "Enough. You've had plenty tonight."
She blinked up at him, her lower lip jutting out in that same pout, but there was a spark of defiance in her glassy eyes. He sighed, the sound heavy with affection, and scooped her up effortlessly into his arms. She was light, warm despite the chill, her damp hair brushing his neck as he carried her to the grand four-poster bed draped in silken sheets.
He laid her down gently on the edge, the mattress dipping under her weight, then climbed in beside her. Without hesitation, he pulled her close, wrapping his strong arms around her slender form. She nestled against him immediately, her head tucking under his chin, her body molding to his as if it belonged there. The scent of rain and wine clung to her, mingling with the faint floral notes of her skin. Arvin's hand stroked her back in slow, soothing circles, the oversized shirt bunching under his palm.
They lay like that for a moment, the storm's rhythm syncing with their breaths, the world outside forgotten. Then, her voice emerged, muffled against his chest, small and trembling. "I... I took the wine so you could come make love to me. Take my purity."
Arvin's breath caught, his hand stilling on her back. The words hung in the air, raw and unguarded, born of her intoxication and the emotions she'd buried for so long. He tilted his head down, searching her face, but she kept it hidden, her cheeks burning against the linen of his tunic.
"Really?" he whispered, his voice thick with surprise and a dawning hunger. It wasn't demand or doubt—just a quiet plea for confirmation, as if he needed to hear it again to believe this fragile dream unfolding in his arms.
Slowly, she lifted her head, her eyes meeting his. They were wide, shimmering with unshed tears and something deeper—trust, desire, a vulnerability that pierced him straight through. She nodded, once, decisively, her lips parting as if to speak but finding no words.
That was all it took. Arvin's restraint shattered like glass under the weight of his longing. He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs brushing away the damp strands of hair from her cheeks, and leaned in. Their lips met softly at first, a tentative brush that sent sparks racing through his veins. But the kiss deepened quickly, her mouth yielding to his with a sigh that tasted of wine and sweetness.
He poured himself into it, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she opened for him, letting him explore the warm cavern of her mouth. The kiss stretched on, endless and consuming, their breaths mingling in hot, ragged bursts. Time blurred—the storm, the palace, the crown—all faded until there was only her, only this.
When they finally parted, gasping, Arvin didn't stop. His lips trailed across her face, feather-light kisses dusting her forehead, her closed eyelids, the delicate curve of her temple. She shivered beneath him, her hands clutching at his shoulders as if to anchor herself.
Lower still, his mouth found the column of her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. He nipped gently at her pulse point, feeling it flutter wildly under his tongue, then soothed it with a slow lick that drew a soft whimper from her throat. Her head fell back, exposing more of her throat to him, and he took the invitation, sucking lightly until a faint mark bloomed there—a secret claim in the heat of the moment.
His hands roamed now, sliding under the loose shirt to caress the bare skin of her back, pulling her flush against him. She arched into his touch, her body responding instinctively, hips shifting restlessly. Arvin's mouth descended further, pushing the fabric aside to reveal the swell of her breasts. They were perfect, soft and full, nipples already pebbled from the cool air and his attentions.
He captured one in his mouth, sucking gently at first, his tongue swirling around the hardened peak. Mirha gasped, her fingers threading into his hair, holding him there as a moan escaped her lips. He lavished attention on her, alternating between licks and gentle tugs with his teeth, feeling her body tremble and writhe beneath him. The other breast received the same treatment, his free hand kneading the soft flesh, thumb circling the neglected nipple until she was panting, her breaths coming in short, needy bursts.
But he held back, savoring the slow burn, the way her innocence mingled with awakening desire. He didn't push further—not yet. This night was theirs to unfold gently, layer by layer, in the shelter of his bed while the rain wept outside.
"Arvin," she breathed, his name a plea on her lips, her eyes dark with want as she gazed up at him. He smiled against her skin, pressing one last kiss to the valley between her breasts before lifting his head to meet her stare.
"I'm here," he murmured, his voice rough with restraint.