© All rights reserved for The King's Bride. The plot and characters are ORIGINAL and all MY OWN WORK. These are the products of my imagination and countless hours spent writing. Please do not copy/ reproduce in any way.

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CHAPTER 15 - ADDICTED

Althea didn't know what time it was.

Midnight? Dawn? The candle had long since gone out, and the tent was cloaked in silence and shadows. The stillness outside was thick, the world muffled as though it were holding its breath.

All night, the Emperor had made love to her.

Though love felt like a strange word. Made love. What a poetic lie. There had been no declarations. No whispered confessions. No soft cradle of affection.

What they'd done hadn't been tender. It had been hunger. Desperation. Pleasure pushed to the edge of pain.

Althea still felt it—between her legs, in the tremble of her thighs, in the ache deep in her core. She shifted beneath the sheets, wincing slightly, sore in places she didn't know could ache. But gods, she couldn't deny the pleasure that had come after the pain. Over and over again.

It hadn't been love.

But it had been everything else.

Beside her, he slept.

And gods, he was beautiful.

Naked, half-covered by the rumpled sheets, chest rising and falling in even rhythm. His face was turned toward her, lips slightly parted, lashes dark against his cheekbones.

The sheets had slipped down to his hips, exposing a chest sculpted like marble. Tan skin, so unlike the other Fae with their pale skin, stretched over hard muscle, every inch carved like a statue from some forgotten temple. His hair was tousled, wild, falling over his brow in ink-dark waves.

He didn't look like a tyrant now.

He looked like sin.

She let her eyes roam—his collarbone, his throat, the hard lines of his chest and stomach, the shadow of muscle and strength carved into every inch.

Her mind betrayed her, conjuring memories of how he had moved above her. Inside her. The weight. The stretch. How it had hurt at first—shocking and sharp. And then...

Then it had turned to fire.

She pressed her thighs together at the memory..

A blush crept up her neck as the echo of his voice returned—hoarse, ragged, "You feel so good, so tight. You were made for me."

She shivered.

And as if drawn by her thoughts, his golden eyes opened.

There was no haze of sleep.

No confusion.

Only focus.

She started to speak, but he was already moving—rolling toward her, dragging the sheet away, revealing her naked body to his hungry gaze. His eyes devoured her.

"Couldn't stay away," he murmured, voice rough from sleep and sex and sin. "Even in dreams, I was inside you."

Her heart slammed into her ribs.

His hand slid lower, fingertips ghosting over her hip, then to her thigh. "Do you know what you do to me?"

She didn't answer.

He didn't wait.

He rolled over her in one fluid motion, pinning her gently beneath his weight, the sheet falling away completely. She gasped as his body pressed flush against hers, skin to skin, heat to heat.

"I should be sated," he whispered against her throat. "But gods help me... I'm not." He proved his point by grinding against her thigh, letting her feel how hard he was.

His mouth trailed down her neck—soft, slow, biting just enough to make her arch.

"You moan so prettily when I touch you here..." His fingers found her breast, thumb flicking across her nipple. "And here..." His other hand slid lower, grazing the inside of her thigh.

Althea whimpered.

He smirked against her skin. "So sensitive. Do you like it when I talk to you like this?"

She hated how much she did.

Soren chuckled low. "You go all shy, but your body doesn't lie. It begs."

Her back arched as he sucked one breast into his mouth, tongue flicking, teeth grazing. One hand kept her pinned, the other teasing lazy circles lower, lower, until her hips bucked.

And then he smiled—that dark, dangerous curve that made her stomach twist in anticipation.

She reached for him, fingers brushing his chest. She wanted to explore his body the way he explored hers. She wanted to feel every hard inch of him, give him pleasure the same way he pushed her body to its limits.

But before she could touch him fully, his hand snapped around her wrist.

Althea gasped.

He pushed her arm up, above her head, and pinned it there against the bed with one hand, his grip strong but not cruel.

His body caged hers in completely, and his golden eyes locked onto hers.

"You don't get to touch me," he murmured.

Althea blinked up at him, heart stuttering.

He leaned in, lips brushing her ear.

"Remember this, Althea. You let me take you," he growled, "but that doesn't mean you own me."

There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Not lust—fear. Just for a second. Then it was gone, replaced by burning, singular desire.

He kissed her throat, then her collarbone, all while keeping her wrist pinned. His free hand trailed lower, fingertips grazing her breast, her ribs, her belly—never stopping, never giving her time to think.

"You're mine," he said again, but this time there was more behind the words. A warning. A claim.

He settled between her thighs, rock hard and pulsing, and her breath hitched as he ground against her slowly, deliberately.

"I dreamed of this," he said. "Waking up between your legs. Sliding back inside before you can beg for it."

Althea whimpered, already arching into him, and he smiled against her skin.

"I should let you beg," he whispered. "But I'm too fucking selfish."

With one sharp thrust, he buried himself inside her.

She cried out, back arching, wrist still pinned above her.

He moved slowly at first—exploratory. Every roll of his hips deeper, firmer, but controlled. His lips brushed hers, breath hot. "You're already so wet for me," he murmured. "You want this. You want me."

She didn't deny it.

Couldn't.

He was too much. Too deep. Too in control.

He kissed her again, this time slow—torturous. Their mouths moved in rhythm, a silent promise building between them. He pulled back just enough to look at her.

"This time," he said, voice like gravel, "you're going to watch me."

And then... he pulled back and sank into her slowly—inch by inch—and Althea felt every maddening stretch of him.

Slow.

Deep.

Deliberate.

She arched into him, hands gripping the silk sheets as her mouth fell open in a silent gasp. No matter how many times he filled her, it never stopped feeling like too much. Like her body wasn't meant to take all of him—and yet it did, hungrily.

The Emperor groaned above her, eyes locked on where they joined.

"Look at you," he whispered, voice hoarse with awe and hunger. "Taking me so well."

Althea tried to look away, overwhelmed by the intimacy, but his hand gripped her jaw and turned her face back to his.

"No," he said, gaze molten. "I told you. Watch."

She looked.

And gods, the sight of him—his muscles flexing, his hips rolling slow and deep, the tight restraint on his face as he tried not to lose control too quickly—it undid her.

He pulled out almost fully, then thrust back in harder, making her cry out.

"That's it," he murmured. "Let me hear you."

Althea's breath hitched. Her nails scraped down his back, leaving faint red lines in their wake. He hissed in pleasure and did it again—slow out, brutal in—setting a rhythm that made her toes curl.

The tent was filled with the sound of their bodies meeting, the slick, obscene rhythm of skin against skin, and the ragged, desperate sounds she could no longer hold back.

Soren leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. "Do you like being under me like this?" he rasped. "Being filled like this?"

She didn't answer.

He slammed into her again, hard enough to make the bed shift beneath them.

"Say it," he growled.

Althea moaned, trembling beneath him. "Y-yes... gods, yes..."

His mouth crashed down on hers again, swallowing her gasp, devouring her like he wanted to consume every sound she made. He was relentless—thrusting faster, deeper, his control slipping with every second.

"You feel so good," he groaned. "So tight, so perfect. You were made for me. Do you feel that?"

She did. Every inch of him.

Every ragged thrust sent sparks through her. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist as her body clenched around him, pleasure coiling low in her belly.

And Soren felt it.

His pace stuttered, then quickened. "You're close," he said, voice wrecked. "I can feel it. Gods, Althea, come with me."

He angled his hips, grinding against that spot inside her that made her eyes roll back. He kept hitting it, over and over, chasing her moans like they were air.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her back arching.

And then she shattered.

Her body convulsed around him, white-hot pleasure flooding every nerve. She cried out his name as her climax tore through her like lightning.

Soren followed with a roar, burying himself deep inside her as he came. His body trembled with the force of it—hips locked, arms trembling, every breath broken and wild.

They collapsed together, sweat-slicked and tangled.

His head rested against her chest, his breathing ragged.

For a long time, neither of them moved.

Althea stared up at the ceiling, heart pounding, body aching and sated. She didn't know where he ended and she began.

And for the first time since entering this palace, she felt something terrifyingly close to wanted.

Maybe even... claimed.

Soren shifted, lifting his head to look at her.

He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

Because the fire in his eyes said it all.

He would never let her go. He was addicted now. He might still fear her, still mistrust the softness of women, of connection.

But none of that mattered now.

Because Soren, Emperor of Aetheria, had tasted pleasure.

And he couldn't let her go.

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