Page 129 of The Crown's Awakening
I feel it. What he is seeing.
"Every inch of you," he murmurs against the back of my neck. "Perfect."
Afterwards we readjust my clothing and hair. I turn back to the mirror and begin to dress, letting him help without resistance. His hands move with a familiarity that has grown into something instinctive, adjusting the fabric at my shoulders, guiding it into place with a care that feels chosen rather than performed. When I meet his eyes in the reflection, there is no attempt to disguise what he feels. His attention lingers on me in a way that is direct and unguarded.
I smooth my hands down the front of the dress, aware of how differently it sits against me now, how my body has changed in ways that alter even the simplest movements.
I reach toward the small box resting beside the vanity, nudging it slightly toward him without looking away from my reflection.
He opens it without question. Inside, there are fine chains and small stones, the kind designed to be worn against the skin.
He steps closer, lifting one and bringing it toward me, his fingers brushing my skin as he places it along my cheek and temple, adjusting it with care.
I watch him in the mirror as he works. When he finishes his hands linger, drifting to my neck, his thumb moving lightly over the pendant and then the ring where they rest against my skin on their separate chains.
My eyes meet his in the reflection.
"I love it on you," he says finally. Low. Certain.
We stay like that, looking at each other in a way that makes me want to forego dinner altogether.
“We are running late,” I say, though neither of us moves immediately.
We leave our chambers together, the corridor stretching ahead in quiet anticipation. The palace always feels like this just before something shifts, as though the walls themselves are listening.
We do not make it far.
Halfway down the hall, I stop and turn toward him, my arm sliding around his neck as I draw him closer, close enough to feel the heat of him, the constant warmth that seems to live beneath his skin. “I will eat more at dinner,” I murmur, my voice low, meant only for him, “if you give me a reason to be hungry.”
His expression changes in a way that feels immediate and certain, something in him answering without hesitation. “I was about to say the same.”
What follows exists entirely within its own moment. His breath is on my skin, the hard press of his body pinning me to the wall. His hands grip my hips, rough and sure, yanking my dress up as he pushes against me. My belly presses between us, and he adjusts without breaking pace, angling me just enough to make it work.
“You’re mine, Asha,” he growls, voice thick, as he shoves into me with one hard thrust, making me gasp sharp and loud.
“Fuck,” I hiss, my nails digging into his shoulders, the cool marble at my back a stark contrast to the heat of him filling me. Each movement is urgent, relentless, the hallway echoing with the quiet, slick sounds of us.
“Take it,” he rasps, lips at my ear, pace brutal and unyielding. “Take every bit of me."
I’m trembling already, the intensity building fast, my breath ragged. “Don’t stop,” I pant, legs tightening around him.
He doesn’t, driving harder until I’m breaking, a choked cry slipping out as I clench around him. He grunts, low and rough, following right after, spilling into me with a shudder. “My Asha Bear,” he breathes, still pressed close, catching his breath.
It’s over as quick as it started. I lower my legs, smoothing my dress back down, piecing together some semblance of control. He adjusts his robes, face already schooled into his usual hard, unreadable mask. No words are needed, just the weight of what we’ve done lingering between us as we move on down the hall.
We continue down the hall with our pace unchanged, the length of it stretching ahead in a quiet that feels arranged rather than incidental, and by the time we reach the dining chamber there is nothing left of what passed between us except the warmth that lingers low in my body and the awareness of him at my side.
The doors open, and I see him.
Hurstinal sits at the table.
He should be in the fucking dungeons. The thought does not pass through me cleanly. It catches and pulls everything with it, and for a moment I remain where I am because my body refuses to move toward something that should not exist. Anger rises first, hot and insistent, followed by something heavier that presses into my chest and spreads outward, a quiet understanding that this was allowed, that this was chosen, that while I remained behind closed doors, the world beyond them continued without me and decisions were made in my absence.
He sits as though nothing has changed. As though the last time I saw him did not end with his balls on the ground and him dragged beneath this palace.
I force myself forward, because standing still will not undo what has already been done. The feeling does not leave. It remains beneath my skin, contained only because it has to be.
The room comes into full focus as I enter, each presence registering with clarity. Aunt Petunis stands at the head of the table, composed, expectant, her control over the moment unmistakable. Aunt Jularin sits near her, upright and watchful, her attention already fixed on me. Uncle Uralish remains silent, his posture relaxed, his attention fixed on the center of the table with a patience that feels practiced. Syle sits quiet and contained, something in him drawn tight as though he already senses what has been placed before us. Venya sits beside Hurstinal, too close to be incidental, her body angled toward him in a way that suggests alignment rather than comfort.
