The room still reeked of sex.
The fire crackled low now, casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls like a thousand half-formed hands reaching and curling over the shelves and tapestries. The snow had silenced the world outside completely; no wind, no rustle, no echo of servants' shoes in the hallways. Just heat and ruin and breath—hers, shallow and erratic. His, slow and composed.
Yen was already dressing.
He stood near the hearth, bare-chested, tying the thick waistband of his inner robes with slow, meticulous fingers. His skin gleamed in the firelight, glistening faintly with sweat still clinging along his abdomen, his collarbone, the faintest trail disappearing under the cloth he now tightened. His expression hadn't changed—not since the moment he'd spilled inside her. Calm. Collected. As if nothing had happened at all. Like he hadn't fucked her for half an hour.
Lily, on the other hand, was sprawled across his chair like a rag doll left behind in a child's tantrum.
Her chest rose and fell in stuttering gasps, lips parted and cheeks flushed red. Her hair had come loose, strands clinging to her forehead and sticking to the damp sheen along her throat. Her legs were still parted around the arms of the chair, the heavy folds of her skirt haphazardly gathered at her hips. Beneath it, her inner thighs gleamed where his cum had run down her skin, slick and glistening in the firelight.
She couldn't move.
Not yet.
Not when her body was still thrumming with the remnants of that last orgasm, not when her core still clenched faintly around nothing, too sensitive to think, let alone stand.
She heard it before she saw him.
The low rapping of knuckles on wood.
Three sharp knocks.
"Patriarch," came Jang's voice, muffled through the door. "Dinner is set."
Yen didn't reply right away.
He let the silence sit. Let it stretch.
Let it thrum like a pulse in the room.
Lily blinked slowly, her fingers twitching weakly against the armrest. She tried to sit up and failed, her body refusing to obey. Her legs were boneless, thighs sore, her entire lower half still trembling.
Yen finally turned from the hearth.
Still shirtless.
Still too composed.
He walked back toward her with slow, deliberate steps—his boots soft against the fur rug, his shadow stretching across the floor like something alive. When he reached her, he crouched low, one hand braced against the armrest as he looked up at her.
She tried to close her legs.
He didn't let her.
With one hand, he nudged her thighs open again, his knuckles grazing her inner skin—warm and sticky and sensitive. Her breath hitched. She turned her face away in shame, in resistance, in something too complicated to name.
He ignored it.
Yen's fingers slipped beneath her skirts with practiced ease, brushing along the mess he'd made of her. He found the edge of her underwear—displaced, damp, twisted somewhere near her knee—and carefully slid it back up into place.
His fingers caught a slick trail of their mixed release still clinging to her thigh.
He paused.
And licked his fingers clean.
Her eyes widened.
He met her gaze.
There was no shame in his expression. No cruelty. Just hunger, calmly restrained. Like a man tasting wine he already knew the flavor of but still appreciated for its complexity.
Then, without a word, he adjusted her skirt—smoothing the fabric down her thighs, tucking the folds properly, brushing away the wrinkles with both hands. When he was satisfied, he took a moment to fix her bodice, tugging it straight, retying the loose ribbon at her collarbone with slow fingers.
She still hadn't spoken.
Didn't trust herself to.
But her eyes burned with something. Heat. Humiliation. Resentment.
He leaned in, close enough to kiss her, but didn't.
Instead, he whispered against her cheek.
"On your feet."
It wasn't an order. Not quite.
But she obeyed like it was one.
He stood first, towering over her, then offered a single hand. When she reached for it, he pulled her up in one swift motion—strong, steady, unyielding. Her knees nearly buckled. She clutched his forearm, breath catching again, her entire body still shaking.
He didn't mock her.
Didn't smile.
But there was something smug in the way he slid his arm around her waist, pulling her close, anchoring her against his side.
Yen walked with her through the corridors, the flickering torches casting soft orange halos across the stone. His gait was smooth, purposeful. Lily, half-draped over him, struggled to keep pace. Her legs still wobbled with every step, each movement a reminder of how deeply he'd broken her just minutes before.
There were only two servants who kept their head low when they passed.
Yen said nothing.
His hand rested firmly at her waist the whole time, fingers splayed wide, thumb gently pressing into the soft dip above her hip. It wasn't affection.
It was ownership.
By the time they reached the private dining hall, Lily's pulse had evened out—but her skin still burned. The hall was dimly lit, quiet, with a single table set for two. The dishes were arranged neatly—steamed duck with plum sauce, seasoned rice, roasted vegetables in honey glaze, and a bottle of spiced winter wine opened and already breathing.
Yen pulled out her chair for her.
She hesitated.
Her body ached in too many places.
But she sat.
Carefully.
Legs together.
Back straight.
Trying to pretend nothing had happened.
Yen took his beside her, lounging like a man fully fed, not just hungry for food. He poured wine for them both—his hands calm, precise. When he handed her the cup, she noticed the faint red marks on his knuckles, likely from where he'd gripped her thighs too tightly.
He didn't mention them.
She didn't dare.
They ate in silence.
For a time.
The only sounds were the clink of silverware, the faint murmur of the fire behind them, the occasional hum of wine poured into glass. Lily forced herself to eat slowly, chewing each bite like her life depended on it—because in some twisted way, it did. Routine meant normalcy. And normalcy meant safety.
But then she looked up.
And caught him watching her again.
His gaze roamed her face, then her collarbone, then lower—down the line of her bodice, the faint bruises blooming along her neck like fingerprints. His expression didn't change.
"Eat more," he murmured, slicing into the duck without looking at his blade.
"I am," she replied softly, voice hoarse.
He hummed.
"Good."
Just that.
Nothing else.
No apology.
No acknowledgment.
Just that smug, quiet confirmation that he'd taken everything from her—her strength, her voice, her balance—and now watched her sit beside him at dinner, well-dressed and wrecked, his mark still drying on her thighs.
The next bite she took tasted of iron.
She drank her wine too quickly.
But he didn't stop her.
No, Yen merely refilled her cup. "Slowly."