His hands slid under the hem of her jumper, palms splaying across her waist like he needed the contact more than breath itself. The heat of his touch branded her, making her arch closer. “I’m trying to play the role. To be the king they need.” There was vulnerability in his confession, a rare glimpse behind the royal polish.
She pressed her forehead to his, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tension wound through his body. “And when do you get to be what you need?” Her voice was soft, almost fragile in the quiet room.
His answer came in the form of a low groan, primal and honest, his lips trailing down the column of her neck as his fingers flexed against her skin. “Right now. Here. With you.” The words vibrated against her throat, each syllable a promise.
She didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to. The tension of the day—the Queen’s cool precision, the impossible future stretching before them—had been pressing against her ribs all night like a too tight corset. And now here he was: messy, human, hers.Just Alexander, she thought,not a crown or a title.
They stumbled back toward the sofa, laughter breaking through the chaos as Alexander nearly knocked over a brass lamp with his elbow, the shade wobbling precariously.
“I thought you came to sweep me off my feet, not redecorate,” she teased, breathless, her eyes dancing with mischief.
“Collateral damage,” he muttered against her collarbone, and she laughed—really laughed—the sound rich and genuine, just as he lifted her into his lap and kissed the laughter right out of her mouth, swallowing it like it was something precious.
Buttons gave way under eager fingers. Fabric shifted and rustled in the quiet room. Time blurred, measured only by heartbeats and shared breaths.
They didn’t rush—but they didn’t pretend, either. It was urgent, tangled, deeplythem—all sharp edges and soft places, mouths and hands speaking in ways words never could. His whispered praises against her skin. Her soft gasps when he found the places that made her tremble.
Later, they lay tangled on the floor, the antique rug barely soft enough beneath them, her sweater crumpled near the fireplace and his shirt forgotten somewhere behind the sofa. The moonlight slanted through the windows, painting silver stripes across their intertwined bodies.
His fingers traced lazy, almost worshipful shapes along her spine, making her shiver.
“I don’t want to go back out there,” he murmured, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath her ear. The admission felt like a secret too dangerous to voice in daylight.
“So then don’t,” she whispered, eyes closed, savoringthe weight of his arm across her waist. “Not yet. Stay with me.”
He kissed her shoulder, his lips lingering as if trying to leave an invisible mark. “You’re everything that’s real in this place. You know that?” The vulnerability in his voice made her heart ache.
She smiled into the dark, nestling closer. “You only remind me every day.”
He held her tighter, and for the first time that day, neither of them had to be anything but exactly what they were: a king and his historian, tired and tangled, victorious and vulnerable.
And entirely each other’s.
* * *
Sunlight crept in through the thin linen curtains, soft and gold as honey, catching dust motes that danced in the still air. Emilia stirred beneath the blanket tossed haphazardly over the bed, the warmth at her back already gone, leaving a hollow space that matched the one forming in her chest.
For a moment, she thought she’d dreamed it—his hands, his mouth, the way he said her name like a vow and an apology all at once. The night seemed almost too perfect to have been real, a fantasy conjured by her exhausted mind.
But then she heard it: the sound of a zipper, the low mutter of a man cursing under his breath as he tried to button a dress shirt in the half-light. The familiar scent of him still lingered on her skin.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, blinking away sleep, her hair a wild tumble around her shoulders. “You know, you’re terrible at sneaking out.”
Alexander looked over from where he was standing near the mirror, halfway dressed and fully rumpled, collar crooked, hair even worse—a king in disarray. When he saw her, his expression softened immediately, the lines of duty momentarily erased. “I was trying not to wake you.”
She smirked, tugging the blanket around her bare shoulders. “You’re six foot two, in leather-soled dress shoes, and swore twice in the last minute. I don’t think stealth is your calling.” Her voice was husky with sleep, teasing but tender.
Hecrossed to her, moved by some invisible gravity, and leaned down to kiss her with a tenderness that made her toes curl under the blanket. His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing across her cheekbone as if she were something infinitely precious. “I have to go before Thomas sends a search party and the Queen sends a memo.”
Emilia sighed, her breath warm against his wrist. “You think she doesn’t know?”
“Oh, she absolutely knows,” he muttered, reluctantly straightening to slip into his jacket, adjusting the cuffs with practiced motions that couldn’t quite hide his reluctance. “But as long as I’m not caught walking around the palace in last night’s shirt while a scandalized staffer faints, she’ll pretend otherwise.”
She sat up, sheets falling slightly to reveal the curve of her shoulder, the blanket a poor substitute for his warmth. “So, tell me—was the plan to just charm your way past anyone who caught you?”
He grinned, a boyish smile, the one he never wore in public. “Maybe?”
“I worry for this monarchy.” She shook her head, but couldn’t stop her answering smile.