Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Dellamorte chateau is quiet, save for the slow, steady crackling of the fire. Shadows curl long against the walls, flickering with each restless movement of the flames, dancing across the ornate moldings. Outside, an unusual Antivan winter presses cold fingers against the glass, the night heavy with frost and silence, the occasional soft patter of ice crystals tapping against the windowpane.

Rook sits on the couch, dressed in a simple silk chemise and house robe that whispers against her skin with each breath, her legs stretching out, cradling an untouched glass of wine between her fingers. The crystal is cool against her skin, a counterpoint to the warmth emanating from the hearth. Across from her, Viago de Riva occupies the other end of the seat, his posture the same as always— lounging, languid, deceptively at ease. One arm stretches along the back of the couch, fingers curling idly, the other resting near his thigh. Neither stiff nor restless, but still deliberate, as always.

She has spent years studying him, learning the small shifts in his expression, the calculated movements of his hands, the way he could turn silence into a weapon sharper than any dagger. The familiar tension coils within her chest, a mixture of anticipation and wariness that has become as natural as breathing in his presence. Her shoulders remain relaxed, but just beneath the surface, every muscle seems wound tight, waiting.

And yet, after all these years, she is still unable to tell what he is thinking. The opacity of his thoughts both frustrates and fascinates her, leaving her constantly searching his face for clues, for any crack in that perfect composure that might reveal the man beneath.

It had started innocently. He had come knocking at her door, the sound a sharp knock against the quiet of the evening.  She hadn’t thought to be better dressed before inviting him in, and now the thin silk robe molds to her skin where the heat lingers, leaving her with the uneasy sense of being far too bare.

Old stories, softened at the edges by time, had been spoken into the calm of a half-finished evening. The words hung in the air between them, fragrant with nostalgia, bitter with regret. House de Riva, the past, the versions of themselves that no longer existed— all recalled in voices that grew softer as the night deepened, until the memories seemed to hover in the fire-lit air like ghosts, tangible enough to touch if either of them dared to reach out.

The wine still sits untouched between the both of them. Viago had poured it himself, of course. He always did. A master poisoner trusts nothing he hasn’t prepared with his own hands. 

Viago’s blue eyes study the burgundy liquid in his glass, watching how it catches the firelight. His silence has weight, a familiar pressure Rook has felt countless times before, like the air before a storm, heavy and charged with potential energy. She waits, patient as only someone who truly knows him can be, though beneath her stillness, anticipation tangles tight in her stomach.

The crackling fire provides the only soundtrack to their silence, punctuated by the occasional soft pop of burning wood. The room smells of cedar, wine, and the faint spice of his cologne – scents that have become inextricably linked with these private moments between them.

“Teia is gone,” he finally says, the words a cut of a knife through the silence.

Rook takes a careful sip of wine, giving him space to continue. Her pulse quickens despite her composed exterior, her fingertips tingling slightly where they touch the cool glass.

“For good this time?” she asks when he offers nothing more.

A wry grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Yes. Quite definitively.”

He shifts slightly, the movement controlled, but the dip of the cushion sends a subtle wave of warmth toward her, his body heat drawn closer.

“She discovered certain... ambitions of mine. Found them distasteful.” His finger traces the rim of his glass, the soft crystal singing faintly under his touch. “Or perhaps dangerous. The distinction hardly matters now.”

Rook feels the low thrum of excitement tighten in her gut. “Your claim to the throne.”

It’s not a question. 

She’s known of his plans for years— careful, meticulous plans that would eventually position him to claim his birthright as the king’s bastard son. Plans she has watched slowly unfold with a mixture of awe and trepidation, feeling both pride and concern twist together in her heart.

“She wanted no part in it.” Viago’s voice remains level, but Rook catches the slight tightening around his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “Said she hadn’t signed up to be queen of a country built on poison and plotting, so she left.”

“Her loss,” Rook says, surprised by the fierce protectiveness that rises in her.

Viago’s eyebrow arches. “Is it?” 

“You’ve never hidden what you are.” Rook lowers her glass. “Not from those who truly know you.”

Something shifts in his expression— a softening, so faint most wouldn’t catch it.

“No,” he agrees, “not from you.”

The fire pops loudly in the hearth, sending a cascade of crimson sparks up the chimney. The sudden sound makes Rook’s heart jump, though she keeps her expression carefully neutral. 

When Viago speaks again, his voice has dropped lower, raising goosebumps along her arms. “You’ve always understood, haven’t you? The necessity of certain... methods.”

“I understand that kingdoms aren’t built with clean hands, Viago. I never expected yours to be.” Rook meets his gaze, steady as always, though her pulse thrums beneath her skin. “Besides, do you remember when you told me you’d be king of Antiva someday, all those years ago?”

Viago hums, slow and considering. Not looking at her. Looking past her, into the flames that dance and flicker. A shadow crosses his face. “I said a lot of things.” 

She lifts her glass, feeling the cool crystal against her lips as she smirks over the rim. “Oh, don’t do that. You said it like you meant it. Like the entire world would fold just because you decreed it should.” 

That got a twitch of his lips. Almost a smile. “You told me you’d be my queen.”

“I was mocking you, Viago,” she says, and a laugh breaks free as she throws her head back, wild and full of teeth, like she’s forgotten how to be cautious.

He finally turns to her, sapphire eyes dragging like silk over bare skin, pausing at the slope of her neck, then drifting lower, as if following a thought he doesn’t voice.

Not undressing her with his gaze— Viago was too refined for that. It isn’t obvious, isn’t hungry, not in the way a lesser man’s would be. If he wanted to look, truly look, she would never catch him doing it. And yet, the restraint in his observation only stokes the heat building within her, a slow-burn that curls low and steady, threatening to strip away her composure altogether.

She then turns toward him, draping an elbow along the back of the couch so she can watch him fully. She takes in the sharp lines of his profile, the way the firelight dances across his tanned skin, the dark hair that she knows would feel like silk between her fingers.

He lets her.

That, more than anything, is telling.

Viago never lets people observe him unguarded. But he remains as he is— shoulders at ease, posture unbothered, long, elegant fingers tracing slow, idle patterns against the rich fabric of the couch. Patterns that she finds herself wanting to trace onto his body with her own fingers, with her lips. 

His voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“Do you miss it?”

Rook blinks, dragging her focus back to his face. That wasn’t a casual question. Not from him. Not with the weight of history that hangs between them, the years of shared secrets and stolen moments.

“House de Riva?” she asks, more to buy herself time than anything else. Time to steady her racing heart, to quell the flutter in her stomach.

Viago tilts his head slightly. “Mm.”

It is not a careless inquiry, borne from thoughtlessness. There’s a depth to his gaze, an intensity that suggests he’s searching for something in her answer. Something more than just idle curiosity or polite conversation.

She exhales slowly, fingers drumming once against the plush fabric of the couch. “Not particularly.”

Viago makes a soft, considering noise. “No?”

She shrugs, shifting in her seat, acutely aware of the way his eyes follow the movement, the way they linger on the curve of her shoulder, the line of her neck. “Do you miss having me around?”

He swirls his wine, letting the light catch the deep red liquid, casting crimson reflections across his face. He finally takes a sip, his lips pressing against the glass. She watches the way his throat moves when he swallows, how his fingers curl so precisely around the stem. A flicker of heat flares low in her belly. She shouldn’t still notice these things. And yet she does.

“Only when I’m bored.”

Rook’s lips curl, a slow, feline stretch. “Then you must miss me constantly.”

There’s a ghost of a smirk, a flash of heat in those piercing blue eyes of his.

“Maybe.”

The silence between them thickens, winding tighter, smoke curling from a dying ember. It’s a silence laden with memories, with the echoes of almost kisses and whispered promises. A silence that speaks of the years they’ve spent orbiting each other, drawn together by a force that feels as inevitable as gravity.

“You were always good at finding your own entertainment,” Viago murmurs.

Rook lets her fingers trace the rim of her glass, a deliberate motion that draws his gaze. “And you were always good at making sure I didn’t get too carried away.” 

“And what of your own entertainment these days?” Viago asks, voice dipped in silk but lined with steel. He speaks as if making idle conversation, but Rook knows better. “How fares your arrangement with Lucanis Dellamorte?”

The name lands like a dagger, casual in tone but honed to cut. Rook doesn’t flinch—she never does—but her fingers pause on the glass, a breath of stillness betraying her before she resumes the slow, deliberate motion around the rim.

“Lucanis and I have an understanding,” she replies. “It’s all very professional. Very civilized.”

Viago doesn’t react. Not visibly. But she can feel his focus tighten, like a noose pulling closer. “And is that what you wanted?”

She tilts her head slightly, forcing a slight smile. “What I wanted was influence. Reach. Stability. Now I have all that and more.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Rook exhales through her nose, a slow release of breath that might be irritation or restraint. She isn't entirely sure anymore, but still, she doesn’t look away. “Then rephrase it.”

“Are you satisfied?”

The pause that follows is deliberate. She lifts her glass, takes a slow sip, the wine washing over her tongue. She doesn’t answer immediately. She lets silence stretch, an old habit, a practiced form of power. If this is going where she thinks it is, she wants to make him wonder. Make him wait, as he has made her wait for years.

When she does speak, her voice has cooled several degrees. “It’s functional,” she says. “Efficient. We’ve each given up the pretense of fairy tales.”

Viago’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers still against the couch fabric, a tiny tell that betrays his reaction to her words. In the silence that follows, Rook can feel the weight of his gaze, the intensity of his scrutiny, as if he’s trying to see beneath her skin, to the heart of her. “A practical match, then.”

“A very Antivan arrangement,” she replies, her smile thinner now. “Two god-killers, together. You should approve.” 

Viago’s eyes flick to her mouth, and linger there a fraction too long. Not with hunger, but with intent, as though the curve of her lips contains the answer he’s been chasing. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less dangerous. “Perhaps. Though I never took you for someone who settled.”

Rook does not rise to it, not immediately. But her fingers tighten minutely around the stem of her glass, a small crack in her otherwise flawless performance. 

Settled.

The word echoes louder than it should. Is that what this is? Separate lives under the same roof, polite conversation over dinner, a cold bed with no one waiting, the quiet knowledge that passion and true connection live elsewhere?

She forces a laugh, breathy and quick, so he doesn’t see that she is off balance, already trying to pivot. “Only you would call marrying the First Talon settling. I’d call it otherwise.”

Viago’s smile cuts sideways, the expression delicate and cruel all at once. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Dress it up however you like. It’s still survival.”

“We’re Crows,” she says. “Survival’s what we’re made for.”

“So tell me, Rook.” He sets his glass down, the crystal tapping gently against the wood with a soft clink. “Is this the life you chose… or the one you were left with?”

A memory rises, unbidden: the two of them, younger then, hands still unbloodied, lying in a field gone gold in the late summer light. He turns to her and agrees she'd be his queen. Not a dare, not a game, but promise in those ocean blue eyes of his.

Now, years later, he watches her with that same stillness, that same impossible gaze. The fire gilds the edges of him in gold and red, and he looks both familiar and dangerous— the boy who taught her poison craft with patient hands and the man who would be king, whose ambitions run as deep and dark as Antivan nights.

And even now, with the years and blood between them, some part of her still believes him.

“You’re asking if I’m happy,” she says, softly. And in that moment, stripped of pretense, the question isn’t political at all.

Viago doesn’t confirm it. He knows he doesn’t have to.

“We’re comfortable with our arrangement,” she continues. A familiar ache blooms beneath her ribs, perhaps regret or longing, something that exists in the space between. “It’s a marriage of convenience that serves us both. No expectations beyond loyalty to the contract.” She hears it as if from a distance—hollow, too polished. A line she’s told herself so often it no longer feels like hers. Not when the emptiness still wakes her in the middle of the night.

Viago takes a measured sip of wine, and Rook watches the rim catch against that unforgiving line of his mouth, the same one that once whispered poison and promises in equal measure. “A diplomatic way of describing a cage, however gilded.”

The practiced curve of her lips remains perfect, poised, even as something colder settles in her gaze. “We all have our cages, Viago.” 

The truth hangs between them, unspoken but understood. He knows her too well—knows that beneath her well-crafted life lies a restlessness that no political marriage could ever satisfy. The same restlessness that had her scaling palace walls at sixteen, that had her training with blades when others practiced needlepoint. Just as she knows that behind his meticulous ambition burns a desire that no throne could ever quench, a longing that runs deeper than power, older than politics.

“Tell me, what do you truly want, Rook?” 

Years of diplomatic training hold her spine straight, keep her expression composed even as something molten stirs beneath her ribs. “What makes you think I don’t already have what I want?” The defiance in her words is deliberate, a parry to his thrust.

“Because I know you. Just as you know me.” There is no arrogance in his tone, only certainty— the certainty of years, of secrets, of watching each other become the people they are now.

“And what is it you think you know?” she challenges, and in that moment—despite everything—she betrays herself.

“That these arrangements and alliances will never be enough. Not for you.” His eyes hold hers, unflinching, piercing blue against the warm tones of the room. “Just as they will never be enough for me.”

The admission settles between them, neither accusation nor confession. It is something more honest than either has allowed themselves in years, carrying the weight of shared history, of possibilities glimpsed and denied, of paths not taken.

And Rook doesn’t deny it. Cannot deny it. Not to him. Not when he looks at her as though he can see past the facade to the woman beneath— the woman who wants things she shouldn’t, who dreams beyond the boundaries set for her.

“Then what would be enough?” she asks, the question barely above a whisper.

For a moment, his mask slips, and she glimpses the hunger she’s always suspected, carefully caged, never truly tamed.

“That,” he says quietly, “is the question we’ve both been avoiding, isn’t it?” 

And then he’s looking at her that way again.

Not in the way a mentor looks at his protege. Not even in the way an old friend looks across a glass of wine.

No, Viago is watching her the way a poisoner watches the vial, aware of its potency, savoring the risk. His gaze doesn’t simply burn; it seeps beneath her skin, slow and precise, igniting a flutter in her chest that feels less like desire and more like a slow-acting venom— sharp, intoxicating, and already too late to stop.

The truth coils low and hot in her gut, that tension sharpened by their years of dancing around each other. The silence between them tightens, not a barrier but a blade’s edge glinting with everything they’ve never said, trembling with the gravity of what they could still become.

And Rook, who has spent years pretending not to want this, finally realizes she isn’t pretending anymore.

Chapter Text

There's still time for Rook to turn this around. Still time for her to sit up, pull her robe tight, send Viago out the door—never to be alone with him like this again.

She could stay content with the contract. Keep up the appearance of a happy marriage with Lucanis for the public, for those who know her, even for herself.

But Viago has always been her weakness. A persistent temptation, forever whispering what if in the still of the night. What if she steps off the precipice with him? What if his vision for Antiva takes root and she's left behind in the rubble of the old guard, clinging to a world that no longer has a place for her?

So instead, she takes another sip of wine.

The rational part of her mind works quickly, weaving justifications like a spider forming a web. They're merely talking. Old friends sharing wine and memories. Nothing improper has occurred—yet, she thinks, before forcing the thought away—nothing that would breach her arrangement with Lucanis. Her husband understands the nature of political marriages; discretion is all that's required.

Besides, information is power. Viago sits at the center of a network that spans all of Antiva. To turn him away now would be to surrender advantage, to abandon strategy for sentiment. If she's to navigate the coming storm—and there will be a storm, she's certain of it—she needs to understand his plans completely.

These thoughts cascade through her mind in seconds, logical and ordered, even as something deeper and less rational pulses beneath them.

"It's late," she says finally. "And we have much to consider."

Viago's eyes never leave her face, searching for the decision she's already made but hasn't yet voiced.

"Indeed." He makes no move to leave, understanding what her continued presence means. What her failure to dismiss him signifies.

Rook shifts, letting the sleeve of her robe slide just so, baring the delicate line of her collarbone. A test. A challenge. She wonders briefly if he can sense the anticipation coursing through her, the electric thrill of their unspoken game.

A muscle feathers in Viago’s jaw at that. She notices this, too. How could she not, when there's a flicker of hunger in his eyes, of calculation, the thread of restraint pulled taut and ready to snap? He's waiting for her to act, for her to fold, for her to dare him to do the same.

There was a game she would play with Viago in their younger years—before he was Fifth Talon, before she was ever called Rook. Poison or not, she'd called it, picking up vessels at random in his lab and lifting them to her lips, just to see if he'd stop her. It never failed to drive him mad.

Would it still?

She reaches for his glass.

Slowly, lazily, as though it is an afterthought. "Poison or not?" she asks as she lifts the glass, tilting it toward her lips with no hurry, no concern.

The wine never touches her tongue. Viago moves first.

His hand catches her wrist, his fingers pressing warm and firm against her pulse, the wine glass still poised between them, her fingers still curling around the stem.

She feels the weight of his touch, the quiet command in it. Her mind races with forbidden thoughts, with the knowledge that this moment crosses boundaries they've silently agreed to respect until now. Yet she cannot bring herself to end it, addicted to the dangerous possibility hanging between them.

"You don't trust me?" she murmurs, her voice lighter than it should be, given their proximity. Given that she is a married woman. The question is a shield, a pretense that this is still about the wine, about trust, about anything other than this.

He leans in a fraction, just enough for her to feel the warmth of his breath, for his gaze to pin her in place. There’s still calculation in his eyes, yes, but something else now, too. Want, bright and burning, barely caged behind his calm.

"I'd rather you taste it from my lips."

She inhales softly as a flicker of fear licks through her—not fear of him, never that, but of what might unravel inside her if she gives in. She’s not sure she’ll be able to gather herself again.

Yet she doesn’t pull away.

She swallows, her lids heavy, barely shifting. "Is that an order?"

His fingers slide from her wrist, trailing higher, over the line of her forearm, then upward, to the curve of her shoulder in a slow, unhurried ascent. Each point of contact burns like a brand against her skin.

His palm finds the hollow of her throat, his thumb ghosting over the sharp line of her jaw, tilting her chin just so. Every rational thought dissolves beneath the weight of his gaze, those sapphire eyes seeing through every defense she's ever constructed.

His breath is warm against her lips, the barest whisper of wine and poison lingering there. A temptation, a promise.

Then—"Idiot."

His lips brush hers first, barely a touch, a hesitation that was not born from him, but from the years they had stolen from each other. It's a moment suspended in time, fragile as the crystal she's still holding, and Rook feels something crack open inside her chest—a vault of longing she had sealed away so thoroughly she'd convinced herself it no longer existed.

Rook lets out a small gasp, her fingers tightening around the forgotten wine glass still cradled between them. His hold on her wrist doesn't falter, but she feels the shift beneath his skin, the slow, controlled unraveling of restraint.

And then he presses forward.

The kiss deepens, a slow, inexorable slide into ruin. Her heart thunders against her ribs, each beat a confession denied for years, as she tastes red wine and winter’s chill upon his lips.

The fire snaps and pops behind them, flames licking at the air, but it is nothing compared to the heat sinking into her bones, the molten warmth of Viago's mouth on hers, as if he were tasting something he had always known he would take one day.

And Rook knows she should laugh and turn away, throw another sharp-edged tease between them, and let the moment slip through her fingers like all the other times. Gears turn in her mind, cataloging all the reasons this is dangerous—their positions, their history, the impossibility of what might follow.

But she finds that she cannot stop him, would not stop him even if the world were ending around them.

Her body betrays her, leaning into him, the wine glass slipping from her grasp.

Viago's hand is there before it can shatter, plucking it from her fingers with the same effortless ease with which he has always handled her mistakes.

Then he kisses her again like he has thought about this for years. Indulgent, not hurried, like he has been waiting for this slow descent into something that has never been a choice.

And maybe it isn't a choice. Maybe this has always been coming for them. Maybe the mistake isn't in the kiss itself, but in believing they could spend their lives avoiding it, avoiding this.

Years of tension melt away under his touch as his hand skims down, over the line of her throat, along her collarbone, fingers catching at her neckline. The pressure of his hand awakens a hunger in her that she's suppressed for years; she moans against his mouth and in that single breath is every moment she's wanted this, every time she's denied herself, every night she's touched herself with his name on her lips.

Viago hears it, and it unlocks something in him.

The restraint in his movements falters, just slightly. The control that has defined him, that has held him back all this time, wavers beneath his hands. He tilts her chin further, steals the last bit of distance between them with a slow, claiming sweep of his tongue.

The kiss has changed something, shattered some final barrier between them, and now her hands move with a will of their own, seeking more, craving the heat of skin she’d only ever dared imagine in the darkest hours.

She pulls back just enough to look at him, his blue eyes now holding a storm within. His gaze doesn't waver, his trust implied as she slides her fingers to the first button of his shirt and begins to undo it without a word, dragging over his skin like a map long memorized. The fabric slides to the floor. Her hands return to him, seeking warmth, history, and absolution.

Viago's fingers press in where they touch her bare skin. His control has never been in question, but control means nothing if he does not choose to keep it.

And right now, he is choosing to let it slip.

Rook feels it in the way his tongue brushes against hers, velvet-soft yet insistent, in the way he's pulling her ever closer to him.

Viago's breath is unsteady when he pulls away, a ragged sound that sends heat pooling in her core, though his hands have not moved. His forehead brushes against hers, lips still so close that the next breath might undo them entirely. She can still taste the wine, rich and sweet on his breath.

"Tell me to stop."

She knows that voice, knows that restraint. The part of him that will always give her the choice.

He would stop if she asked. She knows that. But Rook also knows that he knows she wouldn't. Couldn't, not when every fiber of her being has been yearning for this moment.

Instead, she wraps her hands around the nape of his neck, feeling the soft hair there curl around her fingers, brushing her nose against his.

"You know I won't," she whispers.

Viago lets out a huff, something close to a laugh if Rook didn't know better. Then, against her lips, he murmurs, "Idiot," and kisses her again.

Slower this time, as if trying to convince himself this is still within his control. As if savoring the moment will somehow lessen the immorality of it. His lips move against hers, soft and plush, the slight scratch of his beard a delicious contrast to the softness of his mouth.

His hands grip her hips and draw her into his lap, her chemise sliding higher with the motion as she lets her house robe fall to the floor, joining his shirt. Calloused yet gentle hands roam over her, up to the dip of her waist, her rib cage, the swell of her chest.

This is no longer slow, no longer controlled. This is inevitability, breaking through the dam.

Then his mouth is on the line where her jaw meets her throat, then on the column, down to her collarbone, grazing his teeth against her skin, then soothing it with his tongue. His hands slide higher, cupping her breasts through the thin fabric of her chemise, thumbs brushing over her peaks.

Rook's body responds to Viago's touch, her desire uncoiling like a tightly wound spring. Her hips roll into his, a rhythm that builds between them, the heat between her legs a welcome ache.

There’s a tremor in his breath, a hitch that betrays the tension beneath. He tries to breathe through it—measured, careful—but she feels it in the way his mouth lingers a second too long, in the way his fingers flex against her skin like he’s holding back a flood.

She should be thinking of Lucanis. Of Teia. Of what happens when the other Talons find out what they have done.

Yet all she can think of are Viago's hands in her hair, on her back, her thighs. His breath is ragged in her ear, whispering in Antivan, words she understands too well, too deeply. She shouldn't melt at the sound of them, but she does. His need, want, and desire for her, and only her.

Something in the world outside shifts. A gust of wind rattles the window panes, and for the first time, Rook wonders—

Not if they should stop. They won't.

But what will happen when someone finds out they didn't?

The crushing, unstoppable gravity of the moment presses in around them— a torch already lit, the fire creeping toward the curtains before they’ve even noticed the flame.

He breathes in, his lips tracing the base of her throat. But this touch is different now. Almost desperate. Not for her, but for time. For whatever borrowed moment they can steal before this comes crumbling down around them.

Rook's fingers tighten in his hair, holding him there, a plea of her own telling him don’t stop— not yet, not now.

Viago understands, exhales, warm as embers, heavy as guilt. His lips brush against her skin once more, a phantom touch, a cruel tease.

"All these years," he murmurs, lowering his head to press his lips to the hollow of her throat. "All these years watching you, wanting you."

A shiver courses through her at his words. She's lied to everyone else about Lucanis. Told them it was a partnership. A match of equals. But here, in the space between Viago's breath and hers, there's no use pretending.

Her eyes hold his as she makes her decision—and moves.

She sinks to her knees between his legs. She reaches for the ties of his breeches with slow precision, begins to undo the laces. Viago says nothing, but she sees the way his hands grip the arm of the couch, white-knuckled with restraint.

"Rook—" There's tension in his voice—a man unaccustomed to giving in.

She hushes him with a look. "Let me."

His jaw clenches, the muscles ticking with the effort to obey. Not because he doubts her skill. But because letting go—giving her this—means relinquishing control he’s never ceded to anyone else.

When she finally slides his breeches down his hips, off his body, she drinks in every inch of him, exposed and unguarded. Even in surrender, he's devastating.

Slowly, she traces the length of him with her tongue, memorizing every ridge, every tremor. His restraint is agonizing to watch, beautiful in its own right.

And then she takes him into her mouth—wet, warm, and deliberate. Her lips part slowly over the head of his cock, tongue tracing a lazy circle around the crown before she draws him in with aching slowness, inch by inch. The weight of him rests heavy on her tongue, slick and pulsing with restraint.

She sets a rhythm meant to unravel him, not just please him, each motion drawn out, each retreat slow enough to feel the loss. Her tongue flattens along the underside, tracing the vein that makes him twitch, then swirls again at the tip as she pulls back with a soft, wet drag. Her hand follows where her mouth leaves off, stroking the base of him.

Viago's hands fist into the couch cushions, knuckles gone white. His hips twitch, but he doesn’t thrust—not yet. He's too disciplined, too proud to let himself go. Which only makes her want to break him more.

She moans softly around him, the vibration making him suck in a sharp breath, then choke on a groan. She feels it, his control fraying thread by thread. The tremor in his thighs. The staggered hitch in his breath. The curse he swallows down like it might give her more power than he's ready to surrender.

He's close, she can feel it. Her eyes flick up to meet his. His head is tipped back, jaw clenched, chest heaving like he's just fought a battle and lost. But when he feels her watching, he drags his gaze down to meet hers— and the look in his eyes is wrecked, wild.

Then he moves. One swift, seamless shift of muscle and intent, and his hands clamp around her arms as he pulls her up, guiding her with a force that's barely leashed. Her breath stutters out in surprise, half a gasp, half a laugh of disbelief—before the world tilts.

The rug is suddenly beneath her back. Viago follows her down, pressing her into the floor, his body a cage around hers. His eyes blaze as he braces one forearm beside her head, the other hand skimming down her waist.

Firm but gentle, he guides her arm above her head, then the other, pinning them both with one hand. His eyes ask the question his voice doesn't.

She nods, just once.

The wood crackles in the hearth, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney as Viago lowers his mouth to her neck again, tracing a path down to her collarbone.

His palm flattens against her stomach, slides higher, cupping her breast. His thumb circles, teases, draws a gasp from her lips that he captures with his own. The kiss is deeper now, hungrier, his tongue brushing against hers as she moans into his mouth, each one shameless in her need.

His weight presses her into the rug, the coarse weave abrading her back. Heat surrounds them— from the fire, from their bodies, from their delicious friction as he rocks against her.

When he releases her wrists to use both hands, she doesn't move them, keeping them stretched above her head like a silent challenge, like she wants to be held there. His fingers find the hem of her chemise, dragging it upward with slow purpose, baring inch after inch to the firelight until he slips it over her head and tosses it aside.

His hands find the waistband of her smalls, and then he's tearing them down her hips. The fabric stretches, strains, nearly rips before it’s tossed aside. She lifts her hips for him without hesitation, offering herself to his touch.

Dark and hungry eyes devour her as he drags one hand down the inside of her thigh, thumb pressing firm into soft skin, each caress more intoxicating than the finest Antivan wine.

His lips crash into hers with the heat of a long-denied hunger, tasting of wine and possession. The scrape of his beard sets her skin alight, rasping along her jaw as his hand knots in her hair, holding her in place.

When his palm finally cups between her legs, she gasps into his mouth, the sound swallowed by the kiss, her hips rolling against his touch without shame.

There's no space left for the armor of wit, no mask left to wear. There's only the sharp spark of contact, the searing burn of skin against skin, and the gravity of his body falling with her off the precipice.

His hand slides between her folds, calloused fingers gliding over her, dragging through her slick heat. He groans, forehead falling to her shoulder.

"Maker," he breathes, voice cracking. "You're soaked."

She twitches beneath his hand, and he lets out a low, ragged chuckle. "How long have you been like this?" he murmurs. "Waiting for me to touch you?"

He drags a finger up through her folds, featherlight, spreading her wetness before pressing in, thick and sure. 

Rook arches against him, her spine bowing as he adds another finger. Her inner muscles flutter, and her thighs tremble against his. She lets out a strangled sound, not a word, just need. Her nails bite into his shoulders, grounding herself in the hard muscle beneath his skin.

His thumb strokes her clit in slow, devastating circles, perfectly timed with the thrust of his fingers. Her breath fractures into gasps, her hips chasing that razor's edge he's pushing her toward.

"You were never meant to be his," Viago says, looking into her eyes, "never his wife. Never another house's prize." He thrusts deeper, curling his fingers. "You were always mine. From the moment you walked into House de Riva."

Her eyes snap open at that, breath catching—not from pleasure this time, but something sharper. "Yours?" She props herself onto her elbows, glaring up at him. "Is that why you want to take me here? In my husband's house?"

He doesn’t stop. His fingers curl again, hitting that devastating spot, making her vision spark white. She jerks in his hold, lips parting in a silent cry.

Viago grins wickedly. "Maybe," he says, dragging his fingers out torturously slow. 

She grits her teeth, fighting to hold onto the part of herself that refuses conquest. "This doesn’t make me yours."

His eyes flash, blue and burning. "Then let me remind you."

She gasps, hips stuttering, but before she can find release, he withdraws. The delicious thickness, the burning heat, gone. She nearly whimpers at the emptiness left behind.

Then his hands are on her again, firm at her waist, guiding her.

"Lie back."

It's not a request. It’s a low command, thick with something that makes her blood surge.

She reclines onto the rug, the coarse fabric scratching her spine. Her legs fall open again for him, thoughtlessly, her breath still catching from where he’d left her empty.

Viago kneels between them, stroking himself once, twice, the head of his cock flushed and slick. His eyes devour her—flames of blue, seared into her skin.

Then he lowers himself over her, and she feels the weight of him again, the promise of what's coming.

With one hard thrust, he drives into her.

She bites down a cry from the fullness, the dizzy stretch of him seating himself to the hilt inside her. Her head tilts back against the rug, her fingers clawing for his arms, his shoulders, anything to hold onto as he fills her completely.

She's wanted him for years, denied it for just as long. And now, feeling him inside her, there is no denying the truth of her own heart— she is utterly undone by it.

A small, unsteady gasp escapes her as her fingers finally tighten on his shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscle there, tethering her to this man, this moment, everything she'd convinced herself she could live without.

This isn’t what she was supposed to want. She'd chosen stability, influence, control. She'd married it in gold and blood and kept the sheets cold out of respect. The contract never forbade this, not explicitly. But that's not what makes it dangerous.

Rook swallows hard, pulse hammering in her ears. She shifts her hips just slightly, just enough to feel him twitch inside her, and his breath catches.

"If this makes me yours," she says, her voice low, breath stuttering as her hips roll up to meet his again, "then you’re just as much mine."

Her words set something loose in him.

A growl vibrates against her throat as he thrusts deeper, more deliberately now— each movement purposeful, every drag of his cock slow enough to make her feel it, then fast enough to steal her breath. He pulls her wrists above her head once more, pinning them with one hand while the other slips between their bodies.

His thumb finds her clit again, circling it in steady, devastating rhythms that match the roll of his hips. She feels split open by the sensation, the friction building unbearably tight in her core. The fire crackles beside them, casting flickering shadows across the sweat-slicked lines of his body as he moves above her.

"Viago—" her voice breaks on his name, high and helpless.

His gaze drops to her, drinking in every shift of her expression, the tension in her thighs, the breath that catches in her throat. His lips brush hers, but he doesn’t speak right away—just watches her like he's memorizing the way she comes undone.

Her back arches, hips chasing the pressure, the rhythm faltering as the heat builds fast and sharp. Her fingers curl against his skin, nails biting deep.

"Let go for me," he breathes— and it's not a demand. It's an invocation.

Something in his voice, in the way he says it, splits her wide open. Her breath hitches, then catches completely as her body tightens around him. The wave builds fast and hot, cresting at the base of her spine and rising like fire licking through her veins.

And then it crashes.

Her climax hits with staggering force, sharp and bright. Her cry spills against his mouth, swallowed by his kiss. He doesn't stop, doesn't give her a second to come down. His thumb keeps circling her clit, gentle now, coaxing. His hips grind into her with slow, deep thrusts, drawing it out. Stretching the pleasure until it borders on unbearable.

She feels everything— the heat of the fire at her side, the delicious ache where he fills her, the velvet drag of every thrust. Through it all, his mouth stays on hers, his kisses slow and ruinous, as if he's claiming each shudder she gives him as his due.

It doesn't end so much as it bleeds into something slower. Her limbs tremble, her chest heaving in shallow gasps. And even as he slows, there's nothing soft in the way he grips her hips.

He brushes his lips just beneath her ear. "I'm not done. Not until you forget anyone else ever tried to please you."

Before she can catch her breath, he pulls out, guiding her onto her stomach with effortless command. The rug scratches against her front, and she barely finds her elbows before he's behind her, the head of his cock dragging through her wet heat.

One sharp thrust and he's back inside her. The new angle steals her breath, deeper, more devastating. A sound escapes her throat, half-moan, half-gasp, as her body clenches tight, raw nerves alight from the overstimulation.

Viago leans over her, chest to her back, breath fanning against her temple. One hand laces over hers on the rug. The other threads into her hair, tugging her head back just enough to feel the bite.

"So beautiful like this," he says, "every inch of you remembering who you belonged to first."

His thrusts come harder now, brutal in rhythm, relentless in intent. She meets him every time, hips crashing back, not yielding but matching. There's no space for restraint anymore. Only heat and friction and the sharp splinter of pleasure when his cock hits deep.

His name slips from her mouth like a plea and a curse all at once.

And that is what shatters him.

He pulls free with a gasp, the motion sudden and taut. A sharp jerk of his hips, a low growl dragged from somewhere deep in his chest— and then he's coming against her skin, every breath shuddering from him like it's being torn loose.

She hears the way he chokes on it, how he groans her name into the space between them. One hand grasps her hip, fingers pressed hard into the flesh, while the other braces against the floor beside her, his weight trembling in the aftermath.

Her real name, spilled from his mouth, cuts through the haze. Her name before the world turned her into a weapon. It sinks beneath the noise, threading through the pleasure like a needle through silk. A truth he never forgot.

She stays there, chest heaving, heart pounding. The heat of his release is slick on her back, the space between them humming with aftershock.

Then, movement, swift and sure. She doesn't need to look to know what he's doing as fabric rustles. Her house robe, drawn back into his hands. The warmth of it spreads across her skin as he wipes her clean, his touch steady and unhurried.

But there's a tenderness in the way he gathers the robe, folds it aside. A gentleness in the silence that follows. He doesn't touch her again until she shifts, muscles aching—that's when his arms come around her, decisive and possessive, pulling her into the warmth of his chest.

One hand finds her waist. The other slides beneath her ribs, his thumb grazing the underside of her breast in a slow, unconscious arc. A claim he doesn't dare speak, but makes anyway.

The fire's low now, a dull glow casting warm shadows across the room. The only sound is the soft cadence of their breathing, gradually slowing as the tension between them shifts into something more fragile.

Rook lies half-curled against his chest, the thrum of his heartbeat steady beneath her ear. The robe he used to clean her is discarded somewhere nearby, forgotten now that her skin is pressed to his. She should move. She doesn't.

"You've ruined me," she teases, a shaky smile curling her lips despite everything. "I'll never be satisfied with anyone else now. Completely ruined."

Viago captures her wandering hand, bringing it to his lips. His eyes hold hers, that piercing blue gaze that has always seen straight through her. "That's how it was always supposed to be."

Rook nestles against Viago's chest, the weight of his arm around her waist anchors her to this moment, though she knows better than to expect it to last. Men like Viago don't stay— especially not men with his responsibilities and position. Morning will bring with it the inevitable departure, the careful reconstruction of the walls between them.

Yet she remembers the field, the golden sun embracing them in warmth, the boy who promised her a crown. She remembers wondering if it could be real.

She traces the outline of a scar on his collarbone, memorizing its shape with her fingertips. Every mark on his body tells a story she wants to learn, to catalog in her mind for the lonely nights ahead.

"What are you thinking?" Viago murmurs, his voice rumbling beneath her ear.

Rook considers lying, offering some light quip to maintain the fragile peace between them. But the words don’t come as easily this time. She thinks of the contract, the terms laid out in ink and blood, with no expectations beyond loyalty. No room for love, no space for need.

But tonight, she broke every clause. Gave herself over to something reckless, unspoken, alive. And despite everything she stands to lose, the only thought that lingers is how long it’s been since she’s wanted like this.

"That I should savor this while it lasts," she says finally, the truth too sharp to dress in anything softer.

His fingers still. "You think I'm leaving."

It's not a question, but Rook answers anyway. "I know you are. House de Riva doesn't run itself." She props herself up on an elbow to look at him, drinking in the sight of his face in the dim light. "I'm not naive, Viago. I don't expect promises."

Something flickers in his eyes— perhaps surprise, perhaps appreciation for her pragmatism. He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering on her cheek.

"Then what do you expect?"

Rook leans into his touch, allowing herself this small indulgence. "Nothing more than what we have right now." She presses a kiss to his palm. "This moment. Maybe a few more before dawn."

Viago's expression shifts, the playfulness giving way to something more intense. His fingers slide beneath her chin, tilting her face until their eyes meet. The blue of his gaze burns with an unexpected ferocity that catches Rook off guard.

"You're wrong," he says softly. "There will come a day when I prove that to you."

Rook feels her breath catch in her throat. She's seen Viago make promises before— to allies, to enemies, to those who serve House de Riva. His word, once given, is unbreakable. But this... this feels different.

"What exactly are you saying?"

His thumb traces the curve of her lower lip, a gentle contrast to the intensity of his gaze. "I'm saying that one day, I will show you that this isn't just a moment. That this isn’t just a stolen night."

Rook wants to scoff, to deflect with a cutting remark or teasing jab as she always does when conversations venture into dangerous territory. But something in his expression stops her— a certainty, a determination that she recognizes all too well.

"And when that day comes," Viago continues, "you will stand with me. Not behind me, not at a careful distance— but at my side, where you belong."

The declaration hangs between them. Rook knows what he's asking— what he's promising. Alignment. Partnership. A future where they won't have to pretend indifference in public spaces, where what they feel for each other isn't a liability but a strength.

It's a beautiful fantasy. Dangerous and alluring in equal measure.

"You're insufferable when you're right," she mutters, unable to keep the smile from her voice.

His eyes crinkle at the corners, that rare genuine smile transforming his face. "Then I must be insufferable quite often."

She wants to say something—anything—but the words never come. Instead, she leans forward and kisses him. Claiming, just as much as being claimed.

"What happens now?" she asks, tracing his beard gently.

He presses his lips to her temple. "Now we sleep. And tomorrow..."

"Tomorrow we figure it out," Rook finishes for him.

He nods, pulling her closer until her head rests on his chest. His heartbeat drums a steady rhythm beneath her ear, and Rook allows herself to sink into its comfort.

For years, she's maintained careful boundaries between them, convinced that crossing them would lead to disaster. Yet here they are, those boundaries shattered beyond repair, and the world hasn't ended. Instead, it feels as though something has finally clicked into place, a lock finding its key after years of resistance.

Rook closes her eyes, listening to Viago's breathing deepen as sleep claims him. She knows there will be complications, consequences, difficult conversations ahead. Their positions, their responsibilities, their histories— none of these will simply disappear because they've given in to what they've both wanted for so long.

But she's burned down too many futures already. What's one more?

Rook presses a final kiss to Viago's chest, breathes in the warmth of him, and lets herself fall. For the first time in years, sleep finds her at peace.