[Silthara Palace—Emperor's Chamber—Later—Midnight]
Moonlight spilled across the chamber floor like liquid silver, soft and cold—yet the room itself simmered with heat.
Not the heat of fire, but from the heat of him.
Zeramet.
The Malik of Zahryssar, seated against the carved headboard, shoulders broad, breath deep…and wrapped entirely around Levin.
One powerful arm caged Levin's waist, his silver tail coiled possessively between his thighs—slow, deliberate, and dangerously gentle.
Levin sat curled against the emperor's chest, still clothed, but the tension… the closeness… the unmistakable hunger simmering under Zeramet's skin made it feel as if every layer between them was made of smoke.
Levin's cheeks glowed pink, his fists clenched weakly at Zeramet's chest, and his heart thudded like a trapped bird.
'Is he… going into rut?' Levin wondered.
He lifted his gaze slowly—hesitantly—toward the emperor's face.
