"He didn't wait for permission. He never would. That's what made her go."

The doors slammed open with enough force to send two books and a bowl of fruit crashing to the floor.

"He's back," Miri gasped, out of breath and wide-eyed like she'd just galloped from war.

Lysandra looked up too fast. "Daniel?"

"Not just back. Back." Miri tossed off her cloak, pacing. "He walked straight into the chess room. Didn't bow. Didn't even ask for entry. And then—gods help us—he threw Malrex's head onto the king's table."

The room froze.

"What?" Anais whispered, a wine glass paused halfway to her mouth.

"Right in the middle of the game," Miri confirmed. "The king was halfway through some smug commentary about honor and sacrifice and checkmate—and Daniel dropped a head on the board. Blood. Brain. Crown and all. Eww," she said, scrunching her nose as she pulled  her shoulders in tight and gave a quick, involuntary shake, like her body was trying to fling the image off herself.

Thalia pressed a hand to her mouth, gasping. "You're lying."

"I wish I was." Miri's voice was still vibrating. "And then—oh, stars—he looked the king in the eye and said something really hot and I don't remeber the words. Aghh! "

"Don't leave us hanging like that," Lysandra whined, standing up and fixing her gwon.

Miri grinned, flushed and scandalized. "Well what I heard was you touch my princess you die. And he said it in front of everyone. Ministers, guards, Felipe's wives. No hesitation. Just—boom. Loyalty like fire. Lys, he made it public. He told a king that you own him. Indirectly. Obviously."

And with that she began fake crying, "Find me a lover like that. Please Lysy. I beg you."

Even Anais had nothing clever to say at Miri's ridiculous request but all of them knew one thing Daniel was surely trying to get himself killed.

For once, Lysandra had nothing to say.

Because gods, he had done the unimaginable.

And now she had to decide what she was going to do about it.

She turned for the door.

"Wait—Lys," Anais said, rising. "Don't—don't kiss him."

Lysandra paused.

"Not tonight," Anais warned. "Not like this. It'll be real. Too real. And the court already thinks he's yours—"

"They're not wrong," Lysandra said, voice quiet. "They've just been slow to catch on."

And she left.

***

The walk to his chambers felt longer than it should have. And it was not at all because of the distance but because of the burn. Her thoughts were a storm. She kept replaying it—Daniel's voice. That head. The way Miri had described him. The blood. The conviction. The nerve.

He wasn't just defending her.

He was declaring war for her.

Every step down the hall felt like stepping off a cliff. Servants bowed out of her way. A pair of guards at the end glanced at each other. One even looked like he wanted to speak, but she didn't stop.

She didn't knock.

Her hand went to the door.

And she opened it.

The door clicked shut behind her.

The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of a single wall-lamp. The air smelled of iron and smoke. His jacket lay discarded over a chair, bloodied and torn. His back was turned, shirt halfway off, one arm stretched as he wound gauze around a fresh cut across his ribs.

Lysandra didn't speak. She watched him in silence for a moment, letting the weight of whatever he is feeling settle.

He looked like war, undone.

"Do you need help?" she asked finally.

Daniel didn't turn around. "Do I ever accept help?"

"Rarely." She crossed the room anyway, reaching for the bandages.

He didn't stop her as she gave him a gentle push causing him to sit on the bed.

Her fingers brushed his as she took over, careful, steady. His skin was warm under her touch—fevered from exertion or anger, she couldn't tell.

"You shouldn't have done it," she said softly, wrapping the gauze tight.

"I had to."

"No," she said, firmer now. "You chose to. You chose to walk into a royal chamber and drop a severed head at the king's feet. You chose to speak for me when I didn't ask."

He flinched slightly at the pressure of her hands, but didn't pull away. "I had proof," he said. "I wanted them to see what real justice looks like."

"You wanted them to see you."

He finally turned his head to look at her. "Maybe I did."

Her eyes searched his, calm but burning. "Why would you do something like that? You're not thinking clearly."

"I've never been more clear."

She didn't respond right away. She pressed a clean cloth against another gash on his shoulder, watched the red bloom into the white.

"You think this makes you untouchable?" she asked. "It doesn't. You've crossed every line that protects you."

"I never needed their lines," he murmured. "I only ever needed you."

The words hit like a stone in still water. Neither of them moved.

She tied off the last of the bandages and stepped back, just slightly. "This... whatever it is—it's going to cost you. All of it." saying this she sat beside him, hands in her lap.

"I already paid," he said. "In blood. In silence. When they whipped you and I stood still."

Lysandra blinked. Once. Twice.

She turned and hesitantly reached for his face. Her thumb traced the line of his jaw, slow, deliberate. He didn't lean into it—but he didn't pull away, either. That stillness of his, that held-breath tension, said everything.

Her voice was barely audible. "You don't owe me your ruin."

"I don't," he said. "But I gave it anyway."

Then his hands gripped her hips and pulled her straight into his lap.

She gasped, but didn't resist.

Her skirts bunched at her thighs, riding up as her legs straddled either side of him. Heat. Pressure. The tension between them cracked open like flame licking oil.

She was pressed fully against him, their faces inches apart. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, and his breath grazed her collarbone like a brand.

She could feel it in the silence. The tension. The things left unsaid.

He cleared his throat, then asked it—too casual to be casual.

"...Did you... Um.. like it?"

She didn't look up. "Like what?"

"The kiss," he said. Voice rougher now. "At the engagement."

She paused mid-gaze. Then blinked. Slowly. "From Felipe?"

He didn't respond. Didn't have to. Her lips curled, just slightly. "Why?"

Daniel swallowed hard. "He got to kiss you. In front of everyone. And no one questioned it. Like it belonged to him."

She looked up at him now, truly seeing his expression. Jealousy. Resentment. Shame at both. And something else—maybe hope, but barely formed.

"You think I liked it?" she asked, amused, brow arched.

"I don't know." His voice was low now. "You smiled after."

"I smiled," she said, "because it irritated you."

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost. Then, quieter: "May I?"

The air tightened between them. She tilted her head. "May you what?"

His eyes met hers, steady now. Burning. "Kiss you."

Lysandra didn't answer. She just leaned in and pressed her lips against his.

Soft. Deliberate. Barely there.

No hunger. No rush.

Just silence, and heat, and the quiet possession of it.

Then she pulled away. And smiled.

He stared at her like the world had just shifted beneath his feet. and said nothing ..She leaned back with a small, pleased look—as if the moment had been complete.

But inside?

They both already knew: one kiss had undone them more than any sword ever could. Her lips just left his. Soft. Careful. Measured.

But Daniel only watched her, the ghost of a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

"That's not a kiss, princess."

She blinked. "It felt like one."

"It wasn't the one I wanted."

Her brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering across her face. "Lip to lip, right? That's... a kiss?"

He tilted his head. "You really don't know."

Her cheeks flushed—not in embarrassment, but something deeper. Warier. Wanting.

"Trust me," he said, voice lower now, heat winding through it like smoke. "Open your mouth. Do what I do."

Before she could respond, he slid his hands around her waist and pulled her closer to him.

Her breath hitched.

His mouth found hers.

This time, he didn't hold back.

Soft at first—just lips grazing lips, warm and close, breath slipping between them.

Then he tilted his head and deepened it, tongue brushing past her lower lip, coaxing her open.

She gasped—but didn't stop him.

Instead, she followed. Hesitant at first, then with growing need, her mouth moving with his, her hands tightening on his shoulders like she needed to hold onto something or risk losing herself.

Tongue met tongue—slick, warm, tasting, testing.

And then it hit her: that feeling.

That impossible sensation of mouths merging, of breath shared, of wet and heat and want building in her chest so fast it almost hurt.

It wasn't just kissing. It was claiming.

It was fire and silk and surrender, all at once. Lips parting, teeth grazing, breath catching.

She whimpered into him—because it scared her. How much she liked it. How new it felt. How wild it already was.

But she didn't stop.
Because fuck it.

If this was what kissing meant—she wanted all of it.

His tongue stroked hers, slow then deeper, and she caught on—followed faster, hungrier, learning by instinct. Their mouths moved in rhythm, teeth clashing now, the kiss turning heated, messy, loud.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, a thin silver string of saliva still connected their lips.

Daniel reached up and wiped it gently from her mouth with his thumb—slow, deliberate, possessive.

Her eyes were wide.

Her lips red.

And her heart was wrecked.

Because now she knew what it meant to be kissed by someone who would burn the world just to taste her.

"You know what it means to defy Felipe," she said, her voice low, dangerous. "You know what it means to stand against a crown."

"And I know what it means to choose you," he said, voice rough. "Because I'll always do it. In rooms like this. In battlefields. In courts. In hell."

Their lips almost touched. Neither moved.

"Then come to my chambers," she whispered. "Tonight. When the palace sleeps."

She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear.

"Claim me."

His entire body went still.

No movement. No sound. Just the soft, sharp exhale of a man at war with what he wanted and what he thought he deserved.

She slid off his lap, slowly, deliberately. Fixed her dress. Smoothed her skirts.

Daniel watched her like a man watching the sun disappear behind a blade.

She reached the door. Paused.

He was still staring.

"So.. do you love me, princess?" he asked, voice dark, half-mocking, all heat.

She turned her head over her shoulder, mouth curved in a smile that wasn't sweet at all. "You call yourself my dog, right?" she said.

He stood. Straightened. Jaw tight.

"Obey, then," she continued, cool and lethal. "You'll get your answer yourself."jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjmjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

Then she was gone.

And all that was left behind was the drumming of his heart in the anticipation of what was coming next.

***

The door shut behind her with a soft click as she entered her room.

She sighed as a shade of crimson creeped up her neck.  "He'll be here soon. He'll claim me tonight."

Lysandra stood resting her back on it, her breath still uneven, her pulse still rioting somewhere between her ribs and her throat. And her lips still tingled from him—from that kiss.

She touched her mouth lightly, fingers brushing over the heat he left behind.

That wasn't a kiss. That was a mark.

Not a brand burned into her skin—but something deeper. Something intimate and terrifying and new.

She'd kissed before. Politely. Ceremony. Duty. Expectation.

But this? This had been—

Tongue on tongue.
Mouths opening.
Breath shared like secrets.

She'd felt the scrape of his teeth on her lower lip, the heat of his hands on her waist, the low sound he made when she kissed him back like she meant it. Like she wanted it.

And gods help her, she did.

She wanted more.

That scared her more than anything else.

Because it wasn't just a kiss.jjjj

It was permission.
To want.
To feel.
To fall.

Her knees were still shaky. Her hands trembled when she reached for the ties on her waist. Her reflection in the mirror looked like a girl who'd been kissed into becoming someone else.

Tomorrow was the ritual. The paint. The milk. The shedding.

But tonight?

She'd do it all.

She wasn't just waiting to be touched.

She was choosing who got to rewrite her.

And she'd already made her choice.