Lord of the realm

He could almost hear their footsteps growing nearer, the sound of their jeweled heels clicking against the flagstone. Perfume and laughter washed ahead of them like waves.

Then they saw him.

"Speak of the devil," murmured one of the women.

"The Lady's darling pet."

They approached, the rustle of fabric and perfume filling the air.

Jaenor straightened, schooling his features into a polite smile.

"My ladies," he said smoothly, bowing.

"You honor me with your attention."

He could tell, judging by their flushed expressions, they were all drunk. They didn't ask him why he was there or what he was doing.

Viviannah's gaze lingered. "Tell me, sweet boy—what does she see in you? I imagine it isn't conversation."

He met her eyes without flinching. "If I knew, my lady, I'd bottle it and sell it to every jealous man in the realm."

Their laughter was soft and wicked, curling through the air like smoke. Their gaze lingering on him, taking in his full frame.

One reached out as though to touch his sleeve, fingers hovering, but then stopped.

Jaenor saw curiosity there, and something more dangerous: temptation.

And then the hall grew silent.

Morgana had arrived.

She appeared like a ripple in moonlight, gliding forward with the grace of a storm contained in human form. Her gown shimmered violet and black, her hair bound with silver filigree. Her eyes, cold and knowing, swept over the gathered nobles and settled on Jaenor.

There was a warning there—but also something deeper.

Possessive. Protective.

The women—three of them, bold and beautiful—had been circling him like hawks for the better part.

Jaenor had been their target since the moment they saw him, and though he relished the attention, part of him could not shake the absurdity of it.

Keep the fuck away from me, women! Jaenor thought to himself.

When Morgana entered, the laughter dimmed to murmurs. Even the most daring of the ladies shifted their stances, that subtle tilt of deference that accompanied her every entrance.

Her presence had certainly brought a change to the women; they were a bit fear-struck.

"Enough," she said softly, her voice carrying without strain.

"You've plucked the boy raw already. Leave him be."

The ladies exchanged looks, the eldest among them, Lady Aislen, letting out a small titter. "We are only talking to him for amusement, my lady. Surely your Jaenor can spare a few more smiles?"

"He is not mine to spare," Morgana replied, her tone cutting like silk drawn over steel.

"Nor yours."

Aislen's lips curved. "Possessive, aren't we?"

Morgana's eyes flicked to her, unblinking.

"Protective," she corrected, then glanced at Jaenor.

"And I protect what I choose."

The tension was fragile, shimmering.

One of the younger women, flushed with wine and mischief, stepped closer. "Then perhaps you might lend him to us, Lady Morgana? Just for a night?"

The suggestion dripped honey and venom both.

Morgana's eyes did not flicker. "You may not borrow what you cannot afford to keep."

That quiet finality silenced them.

Jaenor, half-smiling, could not help the flicker of amusement that touched him.

Gods, she was beautiful when she was cruel.

He leaned toward the women and said softly, "You see, my ladies? I'm priceless. A shame for your purses."

The ladies withdrew in a flutter of silks and whispers, but one remained—Viviannah.

She lingered near Morgana's shoulder, the scent of jasmine heavy on her skin, her eyes glimmering with something sharp and unspoken.

Jealousy, Jaenor realized.

She wanted Morgana—wanted her with the kind of hunger that made her hands tremble when she brushed her hair back.

"Morgana," Viviannah said sweetly, "you guard him like a dragon guards its gold."

"And you circle like a vulture," Morgana replied without looking at her.

Then came Roland himself, his laughter deep and commanding as he approached from the archway. "Ah, my favorite people," he said, bowing with exaggerated flair.

"You bring life to my dreary halls. Tell me, must you hoard all the beauty in the room?"

Morgana did not smile. "You speak too much, Baron."

"And you too, little one." He turned his grin on Jaenor.

"You, lad. You've caused quite a stir. Come—bring your lady with you. There's a gathering in the courtyard. You'll find it... liberating."

"Roland," Viviannah murmured, but he silenced her with a glance both intimate and commanding. She obeyed, lips parting slightly as if in some wordless ache.

Jaenor followed them through the candlelit corridors, Morgana a step ahead, her back impossibly straight. "You know what sort of gathering this will be, don't you?" he asked her quietly.

"I do," she said, not turning.

"And yet you follow."

He grinned. "Well, I've never been one to turn down an education."

She looked over her shoulder, expression unreadable. "You mistake indulgence for wisdom."

The night air met them in a rush—the courtyard alive with scent and sound.

A thousand candles flickered among flowering vines, and from braziers of burning herbs came a sweet, intoxicating aroma that tangled with the mind like silk threads through hair. The nobles were already gathered there, some half-clothed, others stripped bare, bodies gleaming with oil and desire beneath the stars.

People were already going at it, silently, bodies moving against each other. The low moans and whispers of pleasure created a sensual symphony that filled the air. It was a scene of decadence and debauchery, where boundaries blurred and inhibitions melted away in the flickering candlelight.

Jaenor's eyes widened. "Liberating, you said? Seems more... liberally indecent."

Roland laughed, clapping him on the back. "Decency is a sickness of the timid, boy. Tonight, we are gods."

Morgana's gaze swept the scene once, cool and distant. "Gods?" she murmured.

"Then why do they all kneel?"

Roland chuckled, and Viviannah never let her gaze leave the sight of Morgana.

They found a corner beneath the marble colonnade, where cushions were scattered like spilled jewels. Servants brought wine, dark and spiced, and Jaenor drank deeply, trying to ignore the rising pressure in his chest, the ache coiling low in his belly.

Around them, moans and sighs rose like music, blending with the scent of sweat and flowers.

Aislen, Meris, and Viviannah—and they were bolder now, emboldened by wine and the sight of shameless pleasure.

Aislen laughed, her voice husky. "Well, Lady Morgana, if you mean to keep your Jaenor from us, perhaps you'll share something else instead. A show, perhaps?"

Morgana's brows arched faintly. "A show?"

"Yes," Meris chimed, sliding down beside Viviannah, their eyes gleaming. "You've denied us his lips, his hands. Prove he's worth guarding. Kiss him. Let us see what fire lies between your dignity and his desire."

For a long moment, silence.

The night itself seemed still.

Jaenor met Morgana's eyes, and in them he saw something dangerous flicker—challenge, perhaps, or the ghost of curiosity.

Then, with a motion as graceful as moonlight, she turned to him.

"Very well," she murmured.

Jaenor blinked. "Morgana—"

"Do not speak," she said softly, and before he could draw breath, her hand cupped his jaw, cool fingers tracing the line of his throat, and her mouth was on his. It was not gentle. Her kiss was a command—liquid, deep, and claiming. The wine and the incense and the heat of her lips swirled together until Jaenor's thoughts shattered.

He answered her, his tongue seeking hers, tasting the quiet fury behind her composure.

Aislen laughed. "Oh, she is possessive."

Viviannah's voice trembled, low. "Or starving."

The women laughed softly, clapping, but their voices were distant now. Morgana's body pressed closer, her gown brushing against his chest, and he felt her heartbeat thrumming against his ribs. He slid his hands to her waist, fingers trembling as he pulled her nearer.

She did not stop him. Instead, she deepened the kiss, her body moving against his in a rhythm that sent sparks racing through him.

"Mmm," she breathed against his mouth, the sound half a sigh, half a growl.

The air was thick with it, the scent of sweat and arousal mingling with incense. Her hips rolled against him, slow and deliberate, until he could no longer think. They were clothed, but the friction, the press of her thighs, the heat of her—it was unbearable. He could feel every curve through the silk, every tremor as she exhaled against his ear.

Gods, she's fire wrapped in frost, he thought, dizzy.

How could I ever think to tame her?

The kiss grew more desperate, more real. Her hands tangled in his hair, her breath hot against his cheek, her lips bruising his with hunger she could no longer hide. Around them, the laughter blurred into moans; the revelry swelled into something primal. Morgana gasped softly, a sound that made his pulse hammer. He wanted her—wanted her with the kind of raw need that left no room for reason.

But through the haze of lust and wine, something in him resisted.

He looked at her, at the way her pupils had dilated, at the faint tremor in her lips. The incense and the drink—they had made her light-headed and unguarded.

This was not how he wanted her.