The low hum of laughter and soft music drifted through the air, mixing with the scent of wine, roses, and salt from the distant sea. Lucien Leorhart's private coastal villa was alive with candlelight and the shimmer of silk gowns as nobles and socialites wandered through the open-air halls, pretending they weren't all here just to be seen.
It was a perfect night for indulgence.
Lucien sat apart from the noise, lounging in a half-buttoned white shirt and dark trousers on the terrace of the upper floor. A crystal glass of amber liquor dangled from his fingers, catching the glow of the lanterns strung across the balustrade.
He looked every inch the prince the empire loved to whisper about: golden-haired, gray-eyed, too beautiful to trust—and entirely too aware of it.
The sea wind tousled his hair as he leaned back in his chair, jaw sharp against the starlight. Music swelled below—violins, low laughter, the occasional clink of glass. A private celebration for his closest... or, rather, least annoying acquaintances.
But Lucien wasn't interested in conversation. Not tonight.
His attention shifted only when a delicate figure appeared in the corner of his vision. A woman. Bare-shouldered and dangerously poised. Her deep violet dress clung to her like spilled ink, sheer enough to suggest scandal, slit high enough to guarantee it.
She sauntered toward him, hips swaying, eyes glinting beneath long lashes.
"Your Highness," she purred, stopping before him, lips stained wine red. "Enjoying your own party?"
"I'd enjoy it more if people stopped pretending they were here for me," he replied smoothly, swirling his drink.
She he dropped gracefully into the chair beside him, her thigh brushing his. She leaned in just enough to let her perfume invade his senses—roses laced with something spicier.
"You're a difficult man to reach," she murmured. "But I always find my way to what I want."
He didn't even look at her.
"And what is it you want?"
She leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "To see if the rumors are true."
Lucien sipped his drink without a flinch. "Which one? There are so many."
The woman laughed softly and let her fingers trace the inside of his thigh. Her touch was bold—too bold.
But Lucien caught her wrist before she could go any farther. His grip was firm. Cold.
"Not now," he said simply, setting her hand back in her lap like one might return a wineglass to a table.
The woman blinked, surprised—no one refused her. Certainly not princes with reputations like his.
Before she could reply, a footman arrived with a silver tray.
"A letter, Your Highness. Urgent. Sealed by the Imperial crest."
Cassian's entire mood shifted.
He took the letter without a word. The seal bore the sharp curve of a raven's wing—Empress Ravielle's symbol. He cracked it open, reading beneath the dim lantern glow.
_____________________
To His Highness, Prince Lucien Leorhart.
Since you've once again found it beneath you to attend a simple court gathering, we've decided to bring the court to you.
You are hereby named host of the upcoming Spring Banquet.
You'll be gracious. You'll be radiant.
You will make us proud, or you will at least look pretty doing it.
Do not disappoint me.
With all my affection,
Empress Ravielle
_____________________________
Lucien stared at the paper for a moment, then let out a quiet laugh—low and bitter. He set the letter down on the table, tilting his head back to look at the stars.
"Of course," he muttered. "Punish the son you pretend doesn't exist by putting him in the center of everything."
He drained the rest of his drink and stood. His jaw was tight now, the devil-may-care charm stripped from his face.
The woman in violet rose too, uncertain.
He turned to her, suddenly, and the temperature in the air changed.
"Well?" he said, voice like honey laced with venom. "Didn't you want to see if the rumors were true?"
Her breath hitched slightly at the shift in him. But she nodded, lips parting.
"Then follow me."
He didn't wait to see if she obeyed. He walked into the villa, up the curved staircase, and into his private chambers—high-ceilinged, dimly lit, with a wide bed draped in silver linens. The balcony doors were still open, the sea breeze kissing the curtains.
The woman closed the door behind her.
Lucien turned to face her, shirt still unbuttoned, hair windswept, eyes dark with something feral.
"You wanted a devil?" he asked. "You have one."
He moved toward her with slow precision, taking her chin in his hand and tilting it up. He then kissed her. His kiss wasn't gentle—it was deep, demanding, drawing a gasp from her throat as she clutched at him.
Her hands slid to his chest, nails grazing skin.
Lucien growled and caught her wrists again—harder this time.
"Don't," he said sharply.
She blinked, startled. "What?"
"No scratching. No biting. No marks."
His voice was steel wrapped in silk.
"I don't like to bleed," he added, releasing her hands. "And I don't like to be claimed."
Something flickered in her gaze. Respect maybe, or thrill. She nodded.
"Then tell me what you do like," she breathed.
Lucien's smirk returned. "Control."
He pushed her back toward the bed, kissing her again—harder this time, until her knees hit the mattress and she sat.
He stripped off his shirt, then reached for the straps of her dress, sliding them slowly down her arms. Her breasts spilled free as the silk pooled around her waist. He paused, eyes fixed on the sight of her, lips parting slightly as he took in the fullness of her chest.
He bent low, kissing the curve of one breast, then licking a path to her nipple—his tongue flicking over it until she whimpered.
She arched against him.
His mouth moved lower, then up again, teasing her chest, alternating between gentle licks and sharp nips. But when her nails once again touched his bare back—
He froze.
"Did I not just say—" he grabbed her wrists again, forcing them above her head.
"Yes," she whispered. "I'm sorry. Please…"
He kissed her again, rough and deep, as he pulled her fully onto the bed and settled between her thighs. His hand slipped beneath her, lifting one leg over his shoulder.
"I don't want you gentle," she breathed, eyes locked on his.
Lucien's grin was dangerous.
"Good," he said. "Because I don't do it gently."
With a single, strong thrust, he entered her—firm and deep. She cried out, head falling back, hands grasping at the sheets instead of him.
He fucked her like he wanted to forget—like he wanted to burn away the letter and the court and every lie sewn into his bloodline.
His mouth returned to her breasts. He sucked one of her nipples and squezzed the other. He continued,biting, sucking, worshiping.
She writhed beneath him, gasping his name in fragmented syllables.
He kept her wrists pinned above her head with one hand, the other gripping her thigh as he thrust into her over and over again. No hesitation. No mercy. Just control, dominance, and raw heat.
When she came, she screamed, and he didn't stop—driving her through it until her whole body trembled.
Only then did he release her wrists.
Afterward, they lay in silence, the room filled only with their breath and the slow crackle of a fire on the hearth.
Lucien sat on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his hair, watching the curtains flutter in the sea breeze.
The woman curled beneath the sheets, dazed and silent.
He stood eventually, walking to the balcony and sipping from the bottle he'd brought up earlier.
The moonlight gilded his skin, sweat still gleaming across his back and chest. But his expression was distant.
Emptier.
He stared out at the horizon.The Empire was quiet tonight.