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He had devoted himself to believing only in a code. A list of principles that helped him determine what was right and wrong because he knew full well that his own blood, his own heart could lead him in the direction of that which would destroy him and all those around him.
His belief in that had been unwavering.
When he looked at her, his Violet, his wife, he knew that he could believe entirely in her. In her magic. In the way her soft mouth rained kisses down over his skin, in the way her delicate fingertips brushed over his body. The way that she undid the buttons on his shirt and tackled the buckle on his belt. Yes. He could believe in that.
He could drop to his knees and pledge his loyalty to her and her alone, seal his utter and total devotion by losing himself in her womanly flavor. By drowning in the desire that rose up between them like a wave, threatening to decimate everything that he had built.
And he didn’t care.
Just like he hadn’t cared that first time they had kissed in the ballroom those weeks ago, when she had belonged to another man and his loyalty should have stood the test of time but crumbled beneath all that she was.
She was magic. And she was deadly.
And now, just now, he did not have the strength to deny her. To deny them.
And so, why not surrender? Why not drown in it? She was his, after all. He had gone down this path weeks ago, and it was too late to turn back. He had made her his.
His.
And tonight he would make that matter. He would revel in it.
He stole the power of the kiss from her, taking control, growling as he wrapped his arms around her and walked her back against the wall, pinning her there, devouring her, claiming her as his own.
He had spoken vows, but they were not enough; he needed to seal them with his body. He needed her to know.
He needed her to understand.
The way that she destroyed him. The way that he was broken inside. So that she would know. And he didn’t know why he needed her to know, just like he didn’t know why he had been in the library that night they had first made love. Why he had been looking through that same book that she was, trying to read the same story and find some meaning in it.
To try to see through her eyes the way that she might see him.
And it shouldn’t matter. It never should have. Because she had been his brother’s and he had been toying with betrayal even then.
But she’s yours now.
Yes, she was his. For better or worse.
He feared very much it might be worse. Because he hurt people. It felt like a natural part of what he was. That monster.
But perhaps if it was only this, if it was only lust, he could control it.
He wrenched that beautiful dress off her body. She was an Angel in it, far too pure for him, and it nearly hurt to look at her. Burned his hands to pull the filmy fabric away from her. But it left her standing there in white, angelic underthings. Garments that spoke of purity, and he knew that he was unequal to the task of touching them. Just as he had been unworthy of touching her in the first place.
But he had.
And he would.
He tore them away from her body, leaving her naked before him. Except for those jewels. The necklace glittering at the base of her throat, the cuffs heavy on her wrist, the chain wound around them. And the ring, his ring, glittering on her finger, telling the world that she belonged to him.
He had never had her in a bed.
He hadn’t realized that until this moment. And tonight he would have her in his bed. Their bed.
She would not have her own room, not after this.
It was often customary for royal couples to keep their own spaces, but they would not.
She would be here. Under the covers, in his bed with him. Her naked body wrapped around his. Yes. That was what he required. It was what he would demand.
