Chapter 66: The Princess's Plaything
The corridor outside the east wing was abandoned; it had been near enough to the hall that the music could still be heard, yet this banquet had long since ended. Music of the evening still drifted faintly from the great hall; there would always be those who stayed around to dance some more. The melodies were muffled by thick stone and the press of velvet drapes.
Yet, here between them, there was only shadow and silence.
Leaning against the carved wall, Sephora looked more voluminous than her lithe figure actually held, thanks to the flickering torchlight. The same light now was painting her pale eyes in ghostly blue. She had guided the young lord by the hand to this spot, with nothing more than a playful look, a tilt of her head that promised something far sweeter than wine or dance this night.
Orian hesitated at the threshold. His breath was uneven, his feathers bristling as though he expected Seraphina—or worse, Queen Nox herself—to round the corner at any moment.
"Sephora…" he whispered, his voice a trembling thread. "This is madness. If anyone—if we are caught—"
Her laugh was soft, sharp, like glass breaking in the dark. She stepped closer, her wing brushing his arm as she passed, circling him the way a raven circles prey before striking.
"If we are caught," she murmured, "they will blame me. I am the reckless one, the flawed one, remember?" Her lips curved in a smile both mocking and sultry. "What could they possibly do to you? You are only a poor, helpless noble… seduced by your princess."
The way she said it made his pulse quicken, shame and exhilaration twined into one.
"I… I shouldn't…"
"You already are." Her voice was velvet and steel, command wrapped in softness. She pressed closer, so close he could feel her breath ghost across his neck. "And if you wish to leave, Orian, then leave. Now."
His limbs betrayed him, and so he didn't move. All of his limbs, even a slightly excited member, he sheepishly tried to hide.
Instead, his wings quivered, his hands hovering as though afraid to touch her, though his body strained with the want of it.
Her pale fingers lifted his chin, forcing his gaze to hers. "I told you," she whispered, the words intimate as a kiss, "this was my idea. Not yours. You'll do nothing but what I tell you. Do you understand?"
His nod was begging, hot, quick and ragged, desperate. "Yes… Princess." Hungry like a wild animal that may have caught the last prey alive. However, it was not only Orian feasting tonight.
Her smile bloomed—slow, victorious.
It was then that she began to guide his hands, nervous and trembling hands at last, placing them where she wanted them. On her small breasts under her dress, she was not gifted with beauty in that sense, but he still squeezed as she pulled his head to them. Feeling his breath on her nipple as he licked and sucked, she grew more eager. Further moulding him as deftly as a smith shapes steel, "I want more of you... Orian." Her feigned sweetness mixed with her real excitement was the perfect blend. Her hands find themselves inside his trousers, feeling his matching excitement that now had nowhere left to hide.
Whatever minimal reserves of Orian's restraint existed, shattered like brittle glass; all his careful bowing, all his polished manners dissolved in the space of a heartbeat. "Princess, you are mine." He pulled her over to a shaded alcove padded bench between two columns. As open as it was private, the risk of getting caught was minimal but enough to send Sephora into ecstasy.
Helping Orian loosen the garments around his member, he then mounted her and pulled up her dress. No longer did his hands need guiding, nor any other part of his body.
"Sephora…" he gasped, voice breaking as he surrendered wholly, utterly, into her.
"Yes," she murmured, lips curving near his ear, nails grazing the line of his jaw. "Say my name. That's all you'll ever be allowed to say."
And so he did—over and over, until the silence of the forgotten corridor was filled with nothing but the sound of her name, and the hushed, desperate surrender of a young noble who no longer belonged to himself at all.
When it was done, when shadows reclaimed their stillness, Orian was breathless, undone, eyes wide with the shock of how far he had fallen.
Sephora, meanwhile, was immaculate. She adjusted the sleeve of her gown, smoothed her raven-dark hair, and cast him a glance equal parts indulgent and dismissive.
"You worry too much, Lord Rellshade," she said, her tone light as though nothing had passed between them. "It spoils the fun."
He swallowed hard, still trembling. "What if someone—what if—"
"Then you'll do what I tell you," she said simply, her pale eyes glittering like frost. "Whenever I tell you. Wherever I tell you."
And with that, she left him in the shadows, shaking, consumed, and entirely hers.