In the Shadow of the Crown

The scent of warm water and rare spices filled the chamber, clinging to the air like an invisible shroud. Steam curled in delicate tendrils around the edges of the marble bath, casting the dim candlelight in a hazy glow. The water was tinted with deep crimson petals, floating atop its surface like spilled wine - a contrast to the pale, exposed skin beneath.

Eliza sat within the bath, her wrists still bound in silver cuffs, the chain between them trailing over the water. The enchanted choker rested against her throat, cool against the lingering heat in her skin. She had thought she would grow numb to the sensation, to the way its magic wove through her veins like an unseen tether. But no. It did not fade. It did not ease. It reminded her.

Of him.                                                    

Raen knelt at the edge of the bath, rolling the sleeves of his dark tunic as he soaked a silken cloth in the perfumed water. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though he were savoring this moment. As though she was his to enjoy.

Eliza’s jaw clenched.

“I can bathe myself,” she muttered.

Raen exhaled a soft chuckle, dipping the cloth just below the water’s surface before wringing it out. “And yet,” he mused, tracing the damp fabric over her collarbone, “here you sit. Helpless. Mine.”

Her body tensed at the intimacy of the touch, the way the heated silk brushed over her skin, the way the scent of him - leather, steel, and something darker - filled the air between them. She wanted to push him away. To claw at the collar, at the cuffs, at anything that kept her trapped beneath his will.

But when she moved, the magic pulsed through her like a whisper of fire, leaving her weak.@@novelbin@@

Raen smirked. “Still fighting?”

“I will always fight you.”

His expression darkened, though his smirk remained, like a predator amused by its prey’s last, feeble attempts at escape. He trailed the cloth lower, over her shoulder, down the curve of her arm, before dropping it into the water. His bare hand replaced it, fingers sliding against her damp skin, slow, possessive.

Eliza shivered. The heat in her veins had yet to subside. The lingering effects of the wine, of whatever poison he had fed her, still simmered beneath her skin, making every touch unbearable. Or intoxicating.

[Damn him.]

Raen leaned in, his lips a breath away from her ear. “You feel it, don’t you?”

Her breath hitched.

“Tell me, Eliza.” His voice was velvet and steel. “Is it the magic? Or is it me?”

She turned her face away, refusing to answer.

Raen hummed, dragging his fingers along the edge of her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. The flickering candlelight carved shadows into his sharp features, making him seem both cruel and beautiful.

“Perhaps I should remind you,” he murmured.

Before she could react, he was in the water.

The movement was swift, effortless - his hands gripping her waist beneath the water, pulling her flush against him, her legs instinctively parting to accommodate his form. The heat of his body seeped through the water, through her, making her pulse hammer against her ribs.

“Eliza.” Her name was a hushed command. A promise.

She hated the way it made something inside her tighten.

She shoved against his chest, her bound hands making it clumsy, but Raen caught them easily, his grip unyielding as he guided them behind her back.

Trapped.

His mouth was so close now, his breath teasing her lips, his hands pressing her further against him, against the hardness of his body.

“This war between us,” he murmured, tilting her chin up. “You know how it ends.”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “Not like this.”

Raen smiled against her throat, a wicked, knowing curve of his lips.

“Oh, my love,” he murmured, trailing open-mouthed kisses along her skin, sending fire through her veins. “It will end however I decide.”

Eliza’s breath caught, her body betraying her as warmth coiled deep inside her. She was losing herself in him, in the haze of heat and magic and the way his hands roamed her body like he was memorizing her.

She had to stop this.

But gods, she couldn’t.

Not when he kissed her like he was claiming her soul.

Not when her own body ached for something she refused to name.

Not when.

A knock.

Loud. Sharp.

The world snapped back into focus.

Raen exhaled harshly, pulling away, though his hands remained on her. His patience, it seemed, had run out.

“Stay here,” he ordered, standing in the water with effortless grace before stepping out. He grabbed a cloth, drying himself quickly before pulling his shirt back over his head. His gaze flicked to her once more, dark with something unreadable.

Then he turned and strode toward the door.

Eliza’s breath came in ragged gasps as she fought to gather herself. Her skin was still burning, her pulse still racing, but the moment was over.

For now.

***

The war room was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of parchment and wax. At the center of the grand oak table, a map was spread wide, marked with ink-stained notes and dagger-pierced parchments.

Lord Elrik stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, watching as General Vaughn leaned over the map, tracing routes with a calloused finger.

Raen entered, his presence commanding instant silence. He rolled his sleeves back down, fastening the cuffs with practiced ease. If the others noticed the faint dampness of his collar, the slight trace of heat still lingering in his gaze, they did not comment.

“The king grows restless,” Elrik murmured, not bothering with pleasantries.

Raen smirked. “Good.”

Vaughn’s brows lifted. “You truly believe we can do this?”

Raen’s fingers drummed against the table, his expression unreadable. “Not believe,” he corrected. “Know.”

Elrik exhaled, shaking his head. “And Eliza?”

Raen’s lips curved, slow and deadly. “She is exactly where I want her.”

Elrik did not look convinced.

“You’re letting her get too close.”

Raen’s smirk did not waver. “That is where you’re wrong.” He tapped a finger against the map, right over the royal crest. “She will be my greatest weapon.”

Elrik stiffened. “You love her.”

Raen’s expression did not change.

But his next words were as sharp as a blade pressed to the throat.

“And what is love,” he murmured, “if not the most powerful form of control?”

Elrik said nothing.

Because he knew, deep down, that Raen was no longer simply a knight seeking a throne.

He was a man with a singular obsession.

And for that, the world would burn.