Morning in the Velvet Court was a lie.
Beneath the shine of polished floors and the scent of fresh roses, there was only the echo of last night's moans, the stain of lust on expensive sheets, and whispers crawling between curtains.
Lucien awoke alone.
The chaise was empty, still warm. His clothes were neatly folded beside him, his sigils glowing faintly like afterglow on his skin. He touched the mark at his throat—it pulsed under his fingers.
Evelyne had marked him.
And gods, he wanted more.
Later that day
Lucien strolled through the palace garden, the sun warm, the courtiers wary. They could smell it on him. The magic. The sex. The hunger. He passed a duchess who blushed as he winked at her. A young nobleman bit his lip and didn't look away.
But none of them could touch what he'd tasted.
She appeared again like smoke—leaning against a marble statue of some forgotten saint. This time, dressed in sheer black, her breasts just hinted behind lace, her thighs bare save for a garter lined with runes.
"I didn't think you'd come back," he said.
"I didn't think you'd still be able to walk," she smirked.
Lucien stepped closer. "You left your mark."
"I left many," she whispered, dragging a finger down his chest, stopping just above his belt.
And then—without warning—she dropped to her knees.
There, in the open garden, hidden only by tall hedges and wards of silence, she unfastened his breeches, pulled him free, and took him in her mouth.
Lucien gasped—head thrown back, fingers tangled in her hair.
She sucked with slow, decadent precision. Her tongue danced over every ridge, every vein. She looked up at him as she worked, eyes full of wicked delight.
His knees buckled as heat surged from his spine to his cock.
"You're insatiable," he groaned.
She pulled back with a wet pop. "No, Lucien. We are."
And then she bent him to her will again—faster, rougher. His hips bucked, body trembling. She didn't stop until he spilled hot and heavy into her mouth, and even then, she licked every drop like it was the finest wine.
When it was over, she stood, wiped her lips, and whispered:
"There are those who will kill us for what we're becoming."
Then she vanished into the hedges.
Lucien stood there, heart pounding, his magic boiling under his skin.
And somewhere, deep in the palace, something ancient stirred.
Something hungry.