The kiss was brutal. Three centuries of suppressed desire mixed with fresh betrayal. She responded with equal hunger, hands already working at his armor with practiced efficiency that made his stomach turn.
How many times had she done this? How many men had she undressed exactly like this?
He pushed her against the weapon rack. Practice swords clattered to the floor, the noise shocking in the silent hall. His hand slid roughly up her thigh, finding the edge of her undergarments.
She gasped against his mouth. "Wait—"
But his fingers were already sliding between her legs, and—
Gods.
She was soaked. Already dripping wet. And when he pushed inside, the truth crashed over him.
She was loose.
Not just relaxed. Not just aroused. *Changed*.
"Valeria..." His voice came out strangled. "What have they done to you?"
She whimpered as he explored her, his fingers moving easily where there should have been resistance. This wasn't how elven women felt. She'd been stretched, used, fundamentally altered.
His fingers pushed deeper and encountered something else. Slickness that wasn't hers.
The King's seed. Still inside her.
The realization should have disgusted him. Should have made him pull away in revulsion.
Instead, he grew harder.
"You still have his—" He couldn't finish the sentence.
"Don't," she begged. "Please don't say it."
But he could feel it coating his fingers. Evidence of her defilement. Proof of her corruption.
He pulled his hand away, looking at his glistening fingers in the dim light. Then, hating himself for the impulse.
"Bend over." His voice came out rough, commanding. "The training bench. Now."
She obeyed without argument, moving to the wooden surface they'd installed centuries ago. How many times had he and Aelindor sparred here? How many hours spent training together, laughing, building their friendship?
Now he was about to desecrate it all.
Valeria bent forward, bracing her hands against the bench. Círdan moved behind her, yanking down her remaining clothing, freeing his aching cock.
When he entered her, reality shattered his fantasy.
He barely filled her.
Círdan was average for an elf—exactly the same size as Aelindor. And whatever Valeria had experienced recently had ruined her for men like them.
She made a soft sound. Not pleasure. Just acknowledgment of his presence.
"Fuck," he grunted, trying to push deeper. Trying to make her feel something. "Valeria—"
But there was nothing. No clenching. No gasps of pleasure. She simply accepted him, her body tolerating his inadequacy.
He thrust harder, desperate. Changed his angle. Gripped her hips and pounded into her with all his strength.
Still nothing.
The humiliation of it—being inside the woman he'd wanted for centuries and knowing he couldn't satisfy her—made him fuck her even more desperately.
"Círdan—" she started.
"Don't." His voice cracked. "Don't say it."
But they both knew. He wasn't enough. Just like Aelindor wasn't enough.
They were interchangeable in their inadequacy.
Then she moved.
Valeria pushed back against him, forcing him still. Before he could protest, she'd pulled away completely.
She turned to face him, her expression unreadable. Then her hands pushed at his chest until he stumbled backward onto the bench.
"What are you—"
She straddled him, sinking down onto his cock with agonizing control. Taking over.
From this new angle, Círdan could see her face clearly. Could watch the concentration there as she moved, adjusting angles, searching for something his average size couldn't provide.
She rode him with increasing desperation. Eyes closed. Lip caught between her teeth. Chasing an orgasm that would never come from him.
She wasn't there. Wasn't with him at all.
"Who are you thinking about?" The question escaped before he could stop it.
Her eyes snapped open. Caught.
"The King?" His hands gripped her hips, feeling her rhythm falter. "That human everyone whispers about? Someone else entirely?"
"Círdan—"
"Just tell me the truth." His voice broke completely. "For once, just tell me the fucking truth."
"I can't stop." The words burst from her like a confession. "Even if I wanted to, I can't stop. I'm too far gone."
She kept riding him, faster now, but he could see the frustration building on her face. Could see the moment she accepted it wouldn't happen.
The casual disappointment in her eyes destroyed him more than anything else could have.
The humiliation—being inside her and knowing he was failing—pushed Círdan over the edge. He couldn't last. Couldn't maintain control.
"Off," he managed through gritted teeth. "Get off—I need—"
She dismounted smoothly, dropping to her knees between his legs with practiced grace. How many times had she done exactly this? How many men had she serviced in precisely this way?
He finished with a strangled groan, watching her take him in her mouth. She swallowed efficiently, then cleaned him with her tongue—not sensual, just thorough.
Routine.
When she finished, she sat back on her heels, waiting.
The silence stretched unbearably.
Círdan couldn't meet her eyes. Couldn't face what had just happened. What he'd just done to his best friend.
"You didn't," he said finally.
"No."
One word. But it contained everything.
"Because I'm—"
"Yes."
The truth settled between them like a death sentence.
"I'm not enough either," Círdan said, voice hollow. "Just like Aelindor. We're the same to you, aren't we? Interchangeable disappointments."
Valeria's expression shifted—something that might have been pity. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize to me." Bitterness flooded his voice. "Save it for your husband."
They dressed in silence. Círdan's hands trembled as he fastened his armor, fumbling with catches he'd operated thousands of times.
"I won't tell him," he said finally, the words tasting like ash. "Your secret stays safe."
She should have looked relieved. Instead, her face remained carefully blank.
"But this isn't over." His voice hardened with desperate determination. "You're mine now too. Whenever I want. However I want. That's the price of my silence."
Valeria nodded slowly. Another man to service. Another master to please. The King, Ethan, and now her husband's best friend.
The collection was growing.
She turned to leave, but his hand shot out, catching her wrist.
"Wait."
She looked back, and he saw his own desperation reflected in her eyes.
"Tomorrow night," Círdan said, jaw clenched. "My quarters. One more time."
Understanding flickered across her face. She knew what he was asking. Knew it wouldn't change anything.
"I'll impress you," he insisted, grip tightening on her wrist. "I swear it. Just give me one more chance. Let me try again."
Valeria stared at him for a long moment. This conflicted elf who'd just betrayed his closest friend. Who couldn't make her feel anything. Who thought somehow, with preparation and determination, the next time would be different.
He was deluding himself. They both knew it.
But she nodded anyway. "Tomorrow."
She left him there, already planning how she'd fake it more convincingly next time. How she'd give him the illusion of success to maintain his silence.
It was what she did now. Performance. Lies. Whatever it took to keep her worlds from colliding.
Behind her, Círdan slumped against the training bench, mind already racing with desperate plans.
*One more chance. I just need one more chance. I'll study technique. I'll figure out what she needs. I'll make her forget them.*
*I have to.*
That night, Aelindor was waiting in their quarters with wine and that heartbreaking, hopeful smile.
"There you are," he said warmly. "I was getting worried. Where were you?"
"Training," Valeria lied smoothly, the deception effortless now. "Lost track of time."
He believed her. Of course he did.
And in his own quarters, Círdan stared at the ceiling, still tasting her on his lips, knowing he'd have to look Aelindor in the eye tomorrow and lie about where he'd been.
Just like she did.
Every. Single. Night.
The only difference was that Círdan knew he was destroying his best friend.
And couldn't bring himself to stop.